Meanwhile...
This story was inspired by ConPulsion's story, the bungalow. I have kept to the same character names and built on the situation at the end of that story. I have informed ConPulsion about the story and sent him a copy. He told me that he has no objection.
The original story was told first person, but in any story narrated in that voice there is always another story, happening meanwhile, 'off stage'.
In the original story, Stanley was a successful professor, the lead actor in his own story. Meanwhile...his wife has her own very different story.
Chapter 1 -- Stanley's story
Those who know me are aware that I have a wild and sometimes deviant imagination. That's a good thing for my job as a professor. Along with that I have ridiculous luck that seems to bring me extremes of good or bad fortune.
Yesterday I appointed a new lecturer -- nothing odd about that, but he asked if he could start immediately. I told him that the formalities might take a few days, so we settled on the first of next month. I convinced him that a slight delay was no bad thing because he and his wife would need a little time to find a place to live.
His urgency was interesting -- why such a hurry? In academic circles it is no unusual for people to give three months notice. I was curious.
Academia is a small world. I talked to my contacts in his former university. People were cagey, discrete, cautious, almost defensive. That kind of attitude suggested a scandal, but was it sex or money? A few embarrassed looks made me mentally bet on sex, but was Timothy to blame or was it his wife?
The best information I could get was that some loss of face was involved.
"I guess they figured a move to a new place and a new start was the way out," my friend said. "You know how it is."
I did know how it was, only I didn't change job or move house. A month ago I gave my wife our holiday bungalow, along with divorce papers -- a preemptive strike in order to avoid the same situation as our new lecturer.
The only snag was that I was now regretting being so hasty. I missed Joyce. Should I classify that as bad judgement or bad luck?
I wanted to clarify the facts about Timothy and his wife, preferably before he started working for me. Not easy, because if my various sources were to be believed, there were enough so called facts to fill a gossip column for a month. Being a hard headed cynic I was sure that no one apart from Timothy and Ellen, knew the whole story. There's nothing like the old boy network for causing confusion. One thing was clear, the rumour mill had made his life impossible.
One version of events was that his wife had an affair, possibly more than one. The other was that she had threatened to throw him out unless they moved.
I did the obvious thing, I invited them to dinner. I enjoy cooking and I'm the head of department -- for a newcomer that invitation was impossible to resist. They were happy to come that week. Timothy, the new lecturer was slim, sandy haired and moved with an easy grace. Ellen, his wife was everything you could want in a date -- a flashing smile, a perfect figure and a quick mind. My first impression was that she could hold her own with any of my academic colleagues.
I started the evening being sociable and making small talk. I established that they didn't have kids to rush home to -- my research had told me that, but asking them made it sound like I cared.
I saw Ellen looking around the dining room. I'd made sure there were several flattering pictures of my wife, it was only a matter of time before she asked about her.
"We're divorcing."
"Sorry," she said. "I didn't know. You still have her pictures up, is it something you talk about."
I glanced at Timothy, there was a tiny hint of tension. Did she make a habit of embarrassing him, or was there more to it?
"That's not exactly a soup question," I said.
Timothy's face lit up. I grinned back at him. Ellen looked bemused.
"Finding Forrester," Timothy said. "Great movie. A soup question is one where the object of the question is to obtain information that matters only to the person asking."
"Well done," I said.
Ellen still looked puzzled.
"Sorry," I said. "It's an in joke. It's a Sean Connery movie. I'll lend you the DVD."
"It could be a soup question," she said.
Tim tensed.
"I can't imagine that someone as smart as you Prof, doesn't know something about what happened to us last year."
"Go on."
"I like your dining table," she said. "It's too big for Tim to kick me under it. What do you know about us?"
"I've heard several versions, they can't all be true. I'd rather have yours -- if that's alright with both of you."
"Tell us your story and we'll tell ours. Is that fair?"
Did I want to tell them about Joyce? Better they found out from me, especially as I was about to hear their story.
"I served papers on my wife, to prevent -- in the broadest sense -- what happened to you, happening to us."
Timothy cut in. "You just said you didn't know what happened to us."
"I said in the broadest sense. What happened to you was that for reasons that I don't yet know, the rumour mill smeared you and made your position feel intolerable. Joyce and I were at risk of the same thing happening, though Joyce couldn't see it."
"Why was that?"
"It's a long story. To summarise, when I became a professor, I made more money, but work took up more of my time. Joyce was at a loose end."
"Did she have an affair?"
"Not exactly, plenty of guys offered, but she turned them down. She always told me about them. I asked her if we were safe. She insisted that we were -- and besides, she said, why should I give it away, I mean who do these guys think they are?"
I stopped, and my eyes met Ellen's across the table.
"I can see where this might go," she said.
"Ellen, don't."
"It's okay Timothy," I said.
"So she went into business?"
I nodded. "That's a polite way to put it. To be fair to Joyce, there was some academic justification for what she did. She has a PhD in Social Anthropology, along with an adventurous spirit. I imagine one day she might write a paper along the lines of 'Prostitution investigate by participant observation'.
It was kind of exciting, to begin with. She worked from our bungalow. It used to be my mother's. It's in a quiet area on the edge of town. Initially it was something she did to make her afternoons more interesting. After a while she got fed up with men that were only free in the daytime and wanted to work some evenings as well. I saw less and less of her."
Ellen chuckled. Timothy squirmed.
"So what happened?"
"We argued. She said things like; if I was into acting or singing, I'd be out at night, I might have to tour. What's the difference?"
"You mean whores are acting?" I said to her
"Well aren't they?" she said. "I mean I don't want to disparage actors, but surely hookers put on an act? They don't fall in love with client after client, do they?"
"She's smart," I said. "Did I mention that? She has too active a mind to be doing nothing. At first the game was entertaining and stimulating. Like a new research project. Sociology, behavioural psychology, all that stuff. We were in it together. She demanded a critical input from me, but I think that sucked me in and gave her the impression that I didn't mind."
"Did you mind?" Ellen had an admirable way of asking very sharp questions.
"No and yes. I guess I thought it was an interesting diversion. I didn't see myself being worked off my feet forever. When you start a new job there's always a steep learning curve... and there was. I thought my work would flatten out and we'd be back to our old life.
I never imagined what she was doing as a career for Joyce, not something that would eat up her time the way the university ate up mine. I got that wrong. You can imagine how it went. For a while she never slept the night with anyone, but there were times she was too tired in the evenings to want to drive over here just to sleep. I wasn't prepared for it becoming something that took over her life and left a great hole in mine. I ended feeling that I never saw her."
"Didn't she see that?"
"To some extent, yes, but her solution was escorting. Safer, better paid and more interesting. In theory, more predictable, or so she thought."
"But?"
"It didn't take long before someone wanted her for a whole week."
"A whole week?"
"And for a lot of money."
"And money talks."
"The social duties of university wives are not huge, but you don't have to skip many big occasions for someone to notice."
"What did she miss?"
"My inaugural lecture."
I saw a question in Ellen's face.
"When a new professor is appointed they are expected to give an inaugural lecture. It's a tradition going back hundreds of years -- supposedly it is to provide evidence of their worth as a professor. These days it is more of a ceremonial event. Tea with the dean beforehand and a few senior dignitaries attending, plus the vice-chancellor's wife. A big deal. People asked me where she was. San-Francisco, I said, as though that was an obvious reason to be away."
"Was that recent? You've been a professor for a while."
"Six weeks ago. The wheels grind slowly and there's a queue for the ceremonial lecture slots. As long as you give the thing within a year or two of being appointed it ticks the box."
"Surely," Ellen said, "she could have canceled?"
"It was a lot of money, a trip to the USA. The agency she worked for insisted -- you can imagine."
"You divorced over that?"
"Not just that. I could see where it was going. That was a big enough deal for me to be able to say that our lives were going in different directions. The paperwork calls it an amicable separation. It made sense to people at the university."
For a minute Tim and Ellen were silent. I could see them exchanging glances, unsure what to say next.
"But you still love her, right?"
I nodded, and waited. I didn't plan to say anything else.
Ellen's gaze met Timothy's.
"Me or you?" she said. There was a long pause.
"Our story's not the same, but in a way it is. I have difficulty satisfying Ellen," Timothy said.
"Only in one way," Ellen said. "But Tim feels bad about it. He persuaded me to try other men to fill the gap. Not on a regular basis, not a steady boyfriend, but now and then as a sort of treat."
"And was it a treat?"
Another long pause. "Yes and no," she said. "I worried that I might hurt Tim, and I couldn't get that thought out of my head."
"At first," Tim said. "We tried a different person each time, but some were not as good as we hoped and finding new ones all the time was stressful."
"Some were downright hopeless," Ellen said.
"I suggested that we should stick to one or two who were good."
"But?"
