INTRODUCTION FROM CHAPTER 02
"You mean you'd like to come with us? Oh... that's brilliant, Patsy! There's just the three of us tonight and we'd love to have you along! Please say you'll come... we're meeting up at the Regency bar at seven and...."
I picked up the note my husband had left.
Underneath the bit about having a meal out tonight), I scribbled:
"I've made other arrangements. Don't wait up!"
CHEATING AT CARDS CH 03
"Where the hell have you been 'til now?" was the greeting I received on Sunday afternoon.
Geoffrey, I guessed, had probably been watching through the front room window for my arrival, and must have seen me paying the taxi driver. He was ready and waiting for me in the little hallway and the words were out of his mouth the moment I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
I didn't bother to reply as he carefully looked me over – obviously taking in the fact that I wasn't wearing a bra and my legs were bare. He may not have been the most observant husband in the world, but he knew me well enough to know that I'd never dream of going for an evening out without tights or bra. He also had enough time to notice that my make-up had been quickly and carelessly applied and that my long, blonde hair hadn't been brushed properly.
"Well?" he demanded as I kept my head down and brushed past him.
"I've been out!" I replied and, without looking back, headed for the bathroom, saying; "You can put the kettle on, if you like... I'm just going for a quick shower."
I'd no idea what the reaction was to that because I went in and locked the door. By the time I'd removed my watch and earrings and stripped off the only clothes I was wearing – my skirt and jumper – I could hear him knocking on the door.
"Patsy... we need to talk...."
But I'd turned the shower on to full power by then, so I just called out: "I can't hear you! I'll have a coffee... a large one! I won't be long." Then I stepped under the powerful spray of hot water and hoped it might help to ease the tension from my complaining limbs. A hot bath would have been better, but there simply wasn't room for one in our tiny bathroom.
When I'd finished and was drying off, my nerves were starting to get the better of me but, reasoning that there was no way of going back now, I took a deep breath and slipped into the dressing gown I'd left hanging on the back of the door the previous afternoon.
Geoffrey wasn't, as I'd expected, waiting outside; I could hear the sounds of him pottering around in the kitchen, so I went into the bedroom to use the drier and brush my hair properly. I'd just finished when I heard him ask where I wanted the coffee, so I called back: "In the front room," and conducted a final assessment of my appearance.
Was the underwear plain and boring? Check! Hair tied back in a severe-looking bun? Check! No make-up; shapeless and unflattering dressing gown, along with incredibly ugly, fluffy slippers with a raised image of Minnie Mouse on the toes? All present and correct.
Let the mind games begin, I thought.
The front room was warm and cosy with the curtains drawn and the lighting dimmed. Geoffrey was sat in an armchair, sipping what appeared to be a glass of his favourite tipple. He was also doing his damndest to appear relaxed, at ease and in charge – but his tension was palpable.
"Thank you, Dear," I trilled brightly as I picked up the mug of coffee he'd prepared for me and then, when I'd made myself comfortable in the armchair opposite his, I nodded in the direction of the blank TV screen and said: "No sport on tonight?"
It was so much like watching a dog's hackles rise that I almost expected him to bark but, taking a deep breath to control himself, he gritted his teeth and snapped: "I'm waiting for you to tell me where you were last night. And don't say your mum's house, because I called her!"
Now that, I thought, was like an unnecessary waste of a trump. No wonder he didn't win his whist games very often. I blew on my coffee as if it was scalding hot (it was little better than lukewarm by then), sipped at it and then, deliberately keeping my eyes lowered, answered:
"I went out. I had a night out with a few friends... okay?"
"And stayed out all fuckin' night!" he snapped angrily, "Where the fuck were you?"
"There's no need for that kind of language," I declared sweetly, then paused to take a deep swig of my drink before it cooled too much before saying, "We went to a few pubs and clubs... had a bit too much to drink... stayed out late and enjoyed ourselves. It was a lot of fun!"
"Fun? FUN?" he practically roared, "So where did your 'fun' end up? Where did you sleep?"
"That's none of your business," I declared coolly, then took another long swig of coffee.
"None of my... I'm your husband!" he bellowed. He was clearly getting close to breaking point, so I responded in a deliberately low and measured tone.
"You're my husband... really? Well... maybe we have different definitions about that? I mean, I would expect someone who claimed to be my husband to leap to my defence when I'm being groped by some absolute pig of a man! In fact, I'd expect my husband to intervene when I was clearly in danger of being raped. Is that too much, d'you think? Or do you think it's more reasonable for a husband to just smile and grab a beer... leaving the rapist to get on with it while he disappeared to nurse his hard-on?"
Okay, the 'hard-on' bit was just a guess, but the way he flushed with embarrassment was enough to tell me that I'd struck gold.
