Saturday at Ten

British English spelling and grammar.

***

Saturday at ten

Polly and I have been married nearly eight years. We live in a bungalow on a discreet development, on the edge of town. The living room, master bedroom, and garage all lead out onto the rear terrace. The garage has room for our two cars and my weekend motorbike; a very cool Aprilia. Our sex life is great, and has never waned. So I was dumbstruck when one Monday, right out of the blue, she said she was going out on a date. It would be the coming Friday night, when we would usually chill out in front of the tv. The date would be with a man who worked at her company, but in a satellite office on the other side of town. It was his birthday.

It turned out they'd got friendly during his Wednesday visits to head office. Starting with shared coffee breaks, they'd progressed to midweek lunches. And the previous Wednesday he had come into her office in the afternoon to say goodbye, and to thank her for lunching with him. She had walked him to the door, where he had suddenly kissed her. Then he asked her to go to dinner.

"And you just let him?" I asked.

"Well, he took me by surprise."

"We've always been honest with each other Polly. So tell me the truth. You encouraged him."

"I suppose I did a bit, but it was only a kiss."

"And you kissed him back?"

"Well, yes."

Polly and I discussed this date every evening. She was calm but insistent. No, it wasn't a birthday party; no-one else was invited. It was an actual date.The Thursday night before, we had our our most intense discussion yet; I was getting concerned and understandably angry.

"You're prepared to have sex with him, aren't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

She hadn't answered.

"You're flushed, and excited. The kiss thrilled you, and twice you've told me how handsome he is."

"I admit it; he is handsome and yes, I am excited. This is the first date I've been on since I met you. But I'm looking flushed because I came home early today and have been making him a birthday cake. It's in the oven now."

"A birthday cake? When was the last time you baked a cake for me?"

"Don't be so childish. I always treat you to birthday dinner at your favourite restaurant. He's divorced, lonely and wasn't going to celebrate at all. I felt sorry for him."

"Do you know why he's divorced?"

"No. We've never discussed it. But he's a very nice man and I don't want him to be alone."

"Great. I'll come too!"

"No. It's a date."

"Well you didn't answer the question. You're planning on having sex with him, aren't you?"

"I'm not planning any such thing."

That was a good answer. I'd need to rephrase it.

"But you know fine well that sex is what he's hoping for don't you? It's the reason he kissed you."

"Franco is a man Paul. Most men think about sex after a woman's agreed to go on a date. But it doesn't mean I will necessarily sleep with him."

"Franco now, is it? An Italian stallion? And you won't '

necessarily

' have sex. So there's always the possibility that you will."

"You're making too much of this. Franco Marino works for the same company as me. He is not married. And I've agreed to have dinner with him."

"You've agreed? I thought we were discussing this."

"It's only dinner with a colleague; I've been out with female colleagues in the past. But yes, I am going."

"It seems to me, he's more than just a colleague; he's a handsome man who has already kissed you - with your encouragement. And you still haven't really answered my question. So let me put it bluntly. Are you going to have sex with him?"

"It is not my plan to. But I can't say it's completely impossible, can I? It depends on the circumstances."

"What circumstances? He says he'll give you a lift home if you give him a blowjob in the carpark? Or maybe you'll refuse him, if his ex-wife and six bambinos turn up? How do you intend to get to this date; by car?"

"I'll get a taxi. It's booked for six thirty."

"I thought so. So you can have few glasses of wine; get you in the mood."

"You're being ridiculous. Of course I expect wine with my meal. Why would I take my car?"

The oven pinged.

"The cake is ready."

"Good. Maybe I'll have a slice!"

"Paul, we both know how petty you can be. Please promise me you will not touch this cake. It's only a light sponge anyway. You wouldn't even like it."

Calling me petty was below the belt. Because it was true.

"OK. I promise I will not touch the cake."

She put it on a cooling rack.

"I'll decorate it with fresh cream tomorrow, before I go."

I noticed she had a professional cake box ready to transport it to the restaurant.

"And promise you won't touch that box either. I know what you're like."

"I won't touch a thing."

We went back into the living room.

"Where are you supposed to be dining?"

"At The Marlborough Hotel."

"Of course, I should have guessed. He'll have booked a room. Or in this modern day and age perhaps you'll go halves. He pays for dinner and wine, and you pay for the bed. I hear they do good breakfasts."

"I'm getting tired of this bickering; it's beneath you Paul. Franco has not booked a room at The Marlborough; we're only going for dinner. If you persist with this ridiculous jealousy, you'll force me to have sex with him. So, you keep your promise and I'll keep this one. I promise to be home by eleven."

"I'll be clear Polly. I don't like it."

"Well this is how it's going to be. But as you're so wound up, I'll make you another promise."

"OK. Let's hear it."

"Let me have my own way in this, without any more discussion or argument. Between now and tomorrow when the taxi arrives, you must say no more about it. I'll be home at eleven and we will talk about it on Saturday at ten."

"Ten in the morning?"

"Yes. That gives you time to think about what happened. Time to assess just what little damage has been done to our marriage. And whatever you decide on Saturday at ten, tell me and I will abide by it."

"So, I say nothing between now and taxi time. And next morning it's my turn to have my own way. You agree to whatever I say. Even if I insist you never see him again."

"Correct."

"Then I'll make things easier for you. I'll eat out, before I get home tomorrow. That'll give you time to get ready for your hot date."

She winced at the word 'hot' but said "Thank you."

"I have two conditions though. First, I will sleep in the guest room, tonight and tomorrow, and I don't want to talk to you at all between now and Saturday at ten. Second, if you do have sex with him, our marriage might suffer."

"Agreed."

Polly got home before me again on Friday. She was putting the finishing touches to the cake when I arrived. 'Happy Birthday Franco' stood out in bold chocolate writing across the top. But what disturbed me was the scattering of pink icing hearts; around the sides. Not footballs or flowers, not stars or Ferraris; hearts. Polly said hello but I stuck to my guns and refused to reply. She shrugged and I went to the guest room to get changed. While she was still occupied, I slipped into our bedroom. In the en suite I noticed the expensive bath oil had been taken from the wall cabinet. She obviously planned to luxuriate in the tub, with my last birthday present to her.

Her clothes for this date were laid out on the bed. The dress she had chosen was her classic LBD. There was a pair of black hold-up stockings and a tiny black thong I'd never seen before. Also, a new velvet choker with a fake diamond on the front; but no bra. The shoes under the bed were her highest heels. She had already closed the curtains that led onto the patio. I checked that the door was locked and removed the key. I was watching tv when Polly emerged from the kitchen.

"I'll go and get ready now." she announced. "Look Paul. I know you're confused, but there's no need to be. I will not have sex with him, and tomorrow this will all be history."

I nodded. As soon as I heard the click as she locked the bedroom door, I was galvanised into action. I went to the garage, where I removed the dust sheet from the Aprilia. Then went out onto the rear terrace and took the sheet with me. I couldn't see into the en suite but could hear the taps running. I waited until they stopped and she got into the bath. Then I unlocked the door and slipped in. I lay the sheet on the floor and opened Polly's wardrobe. A couple of minutes later, there was a large pile of clothes on it. I took everything that was hanging up, the little black dress from the bed, and everything from her drawers. On top of the pile was her handbag. As I went back out and relocked, she was only left with the stockings and choker. And a choice of shoes. Well, I could hardly let my wife out onto the streets without shoes; that would be cruel. I found her mobile phone in the handbag.

In the garage I stuffed the bundle into the boot of my car; except for the handbag, which I checked. It contained the usual cash and cards, and another surprise: a packet of three Durex 'Thin Feel' hidden in a slit in the lining. We've never used condoms. I pocketed them, and locked the bag and the rest of her stuff in the car. Then, on her mobile, I found the taxi contact and phoned them. It was already six, and they confirmed her booking for six thirty.

"Sorry for the late notice, but we have to cancel. My wife has caught a chill."

('At least she'll catch one pretty damn quick, if she goes out in just her shoes!')

"No problem sir. Thanks for letting us know."

Polly would be getting out of the bath about now, and I wheeled the bike out and strapped the cake box on the back with bungee ropes. Then closed the garage doors and set off. I didn't want to be too early, so I stopped off at a small corner shop. There I selected a bland birthday card with pink hearts.

"I suppose you don't have a pen I could use?"

The girl grinned, reached below the counter, and pulled out a fistful.

"We get asked all the time."

"Which one is the thickest?"

She selected a stubby gel pen and passed it to me. I wrote 'Stay away from Polly amico - or this will be your last birthday!' Then I wrote 'Arsehole' across the envelope, which made the girl grin even more.

Back on the bike, I parked at The Marlborough, and was in the hotel about ten to seven. I had a quick peek in the dining room. Not many in yet, but there was a dark haired man sitting by himself, with a bottle of red on the table. There were two glasses in front of him; his had wine in. He was wearing a suit and a bright yellow tie. Who wears a yellow tie on a dinner date? Hotel reception's guard is down when they see a man in a crash helmet, carrying a cake box.

"Birthday delivery for Mr Marino." I announced.

OK. I was winging it a bit. But luck had been with me so far, and it didn't desert me now.

"Mr and Mrs Marino are in room 108. But I think I saw him go through to the dining room."

"Yellow tie?"

"That's him."

"Thanks."

He looked surprised when I sat opposite him.

"Special delivery from Polly." I announced.

As if that wasn't confusing enough I took the table napkin from its ring, opened it with a flourish and placed it on my lap. Then I leaned forward and opened the box. There was his cake, in all its glory.

"But who ...?"

I raised my hand back above the table top. The napkin concealed both it, and what I was holding.

"This is a gun birthday boy. Say one word, and it will be your last. Nod if you understand."

He nodded and I put my hand back under the table.

"It's pointing straight at your dick now, and I'm going to ask you some questions. I warn you, I've already asked Polly the same questions; she's my wife by the way. So, one lie and little Franco gets splattered all over the dining room. Are we both on the same page?"

He nodded again. I've never seen a man go so white.

"How many times have you fucked her?"

"N-never." he said. "Honestly. We haven't done it."

"Never?"

"N-never." he stuttered.

"You've booked a room; so it was planned for tonight."

"I admit I hoped so. But it wasn't definite."

"Here's the important question then. Make sure your answer is the same as hers. Does Polly know that you have booked a room?"

"Yes."

I looked around. No-one was paying us any attention.

"You're Italian. You know very well how a man feels when his woman strays from the marriage bed. So I'll give you a choice. Either my hand gives a little squeeze - and don't think I won't do it - the love of my life has cheated on me; if only in her head. Or, if you prefer, you can shove your head down into this cake. Choose now."

He quickly dropped his face. Cream oozed around his ears, and ruined his lovely tie. As he did so, I removed the napkin and squeezed anyway. I couldn't see the icing bag of course. But I heard the contents hit his crotch. Lucky old Franco; he got his creampie after all, and exactly where he'd wanted it! I scrunched up what was left of it and put it on the table next to his birthday card; his face was still in the cake. Then I stood. A few people watched as I finished his glass of wine and poured the bottle over his head. Nobody said a word.

At home, Polly was sitting on the living room sofa, in her dressing gown and slippers; they must have been in the bathroom. Still, hardly suitable attire for The Marlborough.

"What have you done, Paul?" she shrieked.

I made the zip motion across my lips, whispered "Saturday at ten" and went to bed.

Saturday at ten.

I woke her at six, dumping the sheet full of clothes on her.

"How did you get in? I locked the door!"

I showed her the other key and replaced it in the patio door.

Then I went for a fast ride on the bike and had breakfast in the next town over. I was home by ten of course.

We sat across from each other at the dining room table. Polly frowned when I put the cake knife between us; it was large and very sharp. She was wearing a plain jogging outfit.

"You'd look better in the dress Polly; those clothes are boring. You should spice them up a bit with some stockings and a choker."

She ignored that and asked: "What did you do last night? Apart from steal my clothes?"

"I went to the hotel and informed Franco you wouldn't be coming. I gave him your cake though. He seemed to enjoy it; couldn't get enough. Here's your handbag and phone. By the way, I deleted your Italian contact. You'll have to wait till Wednesday to get it again."

"Maybe I'll do just that."

"During last week," I continued, "you told me several times that your date was only dinner. You stated categorically that you had no plan to have sex with him, and that he was not booking a room."

She remained silent.

"You also agreed that anything I say now, at ten o'clock, you will agree to."

She nodded.

"Well I checked at the hotel, and Marino

had

booked a room. And I had every reason to believe him when he told me you knew all about it. Today I get what I want. You start sleeping in the guest room. This week I will start divorce proceedings, and I want you out by the weekend. I don't care where you go; I hear Rome is nice this time of year."

Her jaw dropped as fast as Marino's head had.

"I'll sell the house and give you half, but there will be no maintenance payments. You're on your own."

"But I never ..."

"Yes you fucking did!" I shouted, tapping my head. "In here it was a done deal!"

"Paul, please!"

"No! You thought you could just go and fuck some greaseball and leave me watching tv?"

"But we never ..."

"It doesn't matter! Stockings, thong, no bra - that's what matters. Fortyfive minutes for dinner, would have made it about eight. That gave you well over two hours before you needed to call a taxi. I imagine you were hoping he would come three times before heading home. We'll probably fight over the furniture so let's make a few decisions now."

I stacked the three condoms in front of her, and pinned them to the table with the knife.

"You can keep this table!"