We have a good life, Gillian and I. We have a nice, large, detached house in the outskirts of the city where it's quiet and the air is clear. We get time and have the money to engage in a variety of interests. And Gillian is still, at thirty-three, drop-dead gorgeous. I often think that, whatever other successes I've had in life, marrying Gillian eclipses them all. Se has a great personality and a brilliant sense of humour. She also has a fantastic body: five feet nine inches tall with long, straight raven black hair and dark brown eyes; a toned body (I love that we can afford gym membership) with a beautifully curved arse and firm, round 36C breasts. You can tell, can't you, that I love to buy her sexy lingerie for Christmas.
About the only thing missing in our lives is children. This nice house and our holidays to exotic places come at a cost and we have both been working very hard at our careers to pay for them. Gillian left university and, not long after we married, joined a rapidly-growing new legal firm. She's worked really hard for them for the last eight years and there's been talk of her being made a partner. I left university with a degree in electrical engineering and set up what is now a fairly successful business selling hobby electronics and doing bespoke design work on home and business security - that sort of thing. We both work really hard but we have always had one clear rule: when we come home to this house - and especially when we go to bed - we close the door on our work lives and we make time for each other.
Six weeks ago - it was a Saturday - we were both at home for the weekend. I was planning a nice meal for us and Gillian decided we needed a nice, expensive, red wine to go with it. On the spur of the moment she took the car and drove off to the wine merchant to get it. As she didn't expect to be more than fifteen minutes she left her phone on the kitchen table. It was just beside me as I was poring over a recipe book. Suddenly it buzzed and a text flashed up on the screen. It disappeared after a moment or two, but not before I could read it: "4th May 1:00pm Imperial Hotel Room 607 Dress appropriately". I knew the Imperial. It was a big, flashy hotel in Docklands. What the appointment was about, though, I had no idea. No doubt Gillian would tell me about it.
She didn't. Days passed - a week then two weeks. I'm not a suspicious man by nature but I'd never found her to be a secretive woman. And there was something off about her - a nervousness and an evasiveness. I asked her if everything was OK and she just talked about her prospects of being a partner. As I say, we generally don't talk about work much at home. Still, there was a part of my brain that would not let this go, that niggled at me and nagged at the back of my mind. At last I did something which was, when I think about it, quite stupid. I told Gillian that I had to go away for a couple of days - the third and fourth of May. I made up some nonsense about having to see some new kit in Edinburgh. What I actually did was book Room 607 at the Imperial hotel for the third of May and a room at another, nearby, hotel for the fourth of May.
So, on the third of May I found myself in Room 607. The Imperial is an expensive, modern hotel and the room reflected that. It was a large, bright and airy room. One wall, looking out over the river, was all glass that could be covered with silky light-grey curtains. The floor seemed to be white marble and the bed was large and extremely comfortable. The furnishings were in shades of pale ivory and the en-suite facilities were of the finest quality. I'd like to say I had great night's sleep in that really expensive and comfortable room, but I didn't. My stomach was knotted. I got up early the next morning, but before I went down for breakfast, I installed a tiny video camera and microphone along with a short-range radio transmitter. Whatever happened in that room later that day, I would be able to watch.
At twelve-thirty I was sitting in another hotel room: one that was by no means as plush as the one in which I had spent the night. I opened up my laptop and connected the radio receiver to it. I could bore you with the technical details but I won't. Google it if you want. Fifteen minutes later I had a clear image on the display of the room in which I had spent the previous night. There was one person in the room and I recognised him as George Winterson, the senior partner in the law firm Gillian works for. I say 'senior partner': in many ways he is the company. He founded it and he has been the driving force behind it ever since. There are two other partners - Grant Marshall and Stuart Michelson - but they are very much under George's authority. He is a big, powerful man of forty-five with short, black hair with few traces of grey. That day, in that room, he was wearing a white shirt and black business suit trousers. His jacket was hung on the back of a chair and his tie was draped over it.
At one o'clock precisely there was a knock at the door in Room 607. George answered it and, opening the door wide, invited my wife into the room. She was wearing a black, belted double-breasted raincoat that came down to her mid-calfs and black high-heel shoes. Closing the door behind her, George asked, "Have you come appropriately dressed?" By way of answer Gillian unfastened the belt of her raincoat, slowly, hesitantly unbuttoned it, then held it open. Beneath she was naked. Her lovely round breasts stood proud and her soft pale skin shone in stark contrast to the black of her clothing. My wife's beautiful body was open to George's gaze and I noticed that the patch of trim black hair between her thighs was absent.
"I see you were able to accommodate this morning's last minute request," said George, his voice a soft rumble as he slid my wife's coat from her shoulders allowing it to tumble to the floor at her ankles.
