From the day that I threw my wife naked into the street because of my mistaken belief that she had starred in a porn movie, my life started on a a downward trend. I got a criminal record for assaulting her and I was forced to review the situation at work so that the business paid. It had taken a few years but I had turned things around. It was now four years since my divorce or four years AD as I had taken to calling it and things were looking up.
Business-wise things were really on a roll. So much so that Clare was pressing me to talk to a tax expert to ensure I didn't pay more than I had to. I gave up my flat and bought a three bedroomed house so the girls could come and stay with me. Things took a new turn. I was collecting some brake pads and discs when Eric called, asking me to drop in to our tyre supplier to get a pair of Pirelli Cinturato P7s . I picked up the tyres and headed back to the workshop. When I got there I was somewhat surprised to find a silver Aston Martin DB5 parked outside. Eric came out for the tyres and saw me looking at the car.
"Straight out of James Bond, innit?" he said.
"This is a great car," I said.
"Yeah," he said, "pity the driver's such an arsehole."
"You're jealous," I said.
"Jealous of what?" he asked. "Him having this car or him being an arsehole?"
I have to admit to being a bit surprised at the way Eric was talking about our customer. He had always been a bit blunt, but I'd never known him be offensive about a customer before. I went into the office to start getting all my invoices ready for Clare. I heard the Aston roar into the workshop and Eric started work on changing the tyres. Eric had just brought in the invoice for the Aston's tyres when a car pulled into the car park.
"Oh god, here comes the arsehole for the Aston," he said.
"I must have a chat to him. It must be great to drive a car like that," I said.
"You don't want to talk to him, he's an arsehole," he said and walked out the door.
I got up and walked to the door only to find it wouldn't open. Eric had locked the door. I watched him as he walked out into the car park. The guy got out of the passenger side of the car. He was about forty, five foot ten, slight of build with short blonde hair. He leaned back into the car and gave the driver a kiss. That was when I recognised her. The driver was Julie. I sat down with a thud and put my head in my hands. I knew it would happen sometime, but seeing her kissing another man in the car park of my own workshop was more than I could take. I just sat there, sobbing. It was half an hour before Eric opened the door. He passed me the receipt stub for the job.
"Sorry, guv," he said. "I was hoping you wouldn't be here when he came back."
"It's OK, Eric. It had to happen some day," I told him.
"No, it didn't," he said. "Not with an arsehole like him."
"Eric," I called out. "How long have we been charging five hundred pounds for a pair of Pirelli Cints?"
"Ever since the bastard that buys them comes in here boasting that I can take as long as I like because he intends to spend the time in bed with his girlfriend, and that girlfriend turns out to be my bosses ex-wife. I've always had great respect for your Julie. I thought she had better taste than that."
"He thought I was you, and he was trying to rub your nose in it. So now it's cost him an extra hundred quid for gloating. I hope he thinks it was worth it."
When I went to pick up the girls the following weekend I never mentioned it to Julie. I did notice our wedding photo was missing. When I asked about it she just said she must have put it away when cleaning.
"If you don't want it any more, I'd like it," I said. "I could do with a few things to put around the house."
"I see you've taken your rings off as well," I said.
She covered her left hand with her right. "Well, I haven't been married for four years, Greg."
"Oh, so it has nothing to do with Uncle Miles that the girls keep talking about?" I said.
Julie chose not to answer and instead rounded up the girls for me to take them out.
By this time we were entering our fifth year AD. It looked like I was losing Julie to the man Eric simply referred to as "The Arsehole". He and his wife had taken to doing their shopping on Thursday nights so they could avoid Julie. I decided I was going to cheer myself up. My birthday was coming up and I was going to buy myself a particularly extravagant present. On the day itself I went in to work as usual and found all the doors strewn with happy birthday banners. I got a couple of rude cards from Tom and Eric and a promise of a damn good piss up after work.
"It's not every day you turn 40," Eric said. "Me and the lads wanted to make it special." That evening we shut up shop dead on the dot of five thirty and set off for the pub. They had gone to a lot of trouble. The bar had my favourite Hobgoblin on draft as a "guest ale" and as the evening progressed even some of our regular customers and suppliers put in an appearance. I hadn't had such a good boy's night out since I left the service. Everything was going fine until about eight thirty when the police put in an appearance. One WPC (woman police constable) and a male officer entered the bar. The WPC walked into the middle of the bar and turned to address us.
Reading from her notebook, she said, "Do we have a Mr Greg Maitland in the bar?"
My heart was in my mouth as I came forward. After all, there was no reason for the police to call me out unless something bad had happened.
"Are you the owner of a vehicle registered with the number FG02FXB?" she asked.
"I am," I said, still puzzled as to what was going on.
"Our records show you have no insurance on that vehicle, sir. I'm afraid I must impound the vehicle and issue a fixed penalty notice."
I was mystified, until Eric called out, "Ahh, you can't do that to him on his birthday."
The WPC stopped writing the ticket.
"Is it your birthday today?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "Forty today."
"Well, in that case I'm duty bound to tear up this ticket and dance for you."
She pointed at the other cop who produced a large boom box from behind him and pressed play. As the music filled the bar I realised that what looked like a normal police uniform was actually all held together with velcro. The blokes in the bar were all laughing and cheering as she danced in front of me, first removing her stab vest, then her blouse. Her hat she placed on my head as she continued to gyrate in front of me. Her black skirt was also fixed with velcro and she was able to just rip it off. The lads in the bar were calling out for her to "get your tits out". She turned around to face them and slipped one strap down her arm and pulled one cup down to show her breast. She pulled that one up again and did the same think to the other breast. She turned back to me and putting her hands behind her back released the Bra catch and let the garment fall to the floor revealing a perfect pair of breasts. She pulled my head up and placed it between her tits rubbing them against the side of my face. When she moved down to the panties they came down a little bit at a time. She was still wearing her black stockings and suspenders. The panties hit the floor and she bent over to pick them up pushing her arse into my face as she did so. She picked up the panties and spun them round on her extended finger as she high stepped around the bar, pulling me behind by my tie. Then the music changed and we got The Police (who else?) singing "Don't Stand So Close To Me". The boys in the bar were joining in with the chorus and every time it came on she would put an arm around my waist and pull me to her forcing her breasts into my chest and grinding her pubic mound against my straining dick. When the music stopped she picked up the small pile of clothes her colleague had placed on the table and skipped off to the ladies. She came out looking once more like a WPC. Coming over to me, she took her hat from my head. I felt her put something into my shirt pocket as she leaned in to kiss me on the cheek and whisper.
"Call me," she said.
As she left Eric started calling for people to drink up. I looked at him a bit curious and he said, "This isn't over yet. We're all joining the ladies for a ruby." In cockney rhyming slang "Ruby Murray" means "curry".
We made our way out of the pub and across the street to The Star of India. Inside, the wives and girlfriends were already waiting for us. Each of the blokes paired up with their other halves and I suddenly felt acutely alone. Just as we were all finding our seats, Clare walked in. I was conscious of feeling shock. She looked amazing. Here she was, a woman in her mid fifties, and she didn't look a day over forty.
