British English spelling and grammar.
***
Seat up, seat down
I'm James, my wife is Shelly, and our story starts when our son left home. Carter was keen on Asian studies, and won a place at the National University of Singapore. He'd be gone for years, and we already planned a trip there over Christmas. His departure freed up his bedroom and the main bathroom.
"You prefer baths to showers don't you?" I asked.
"When I'm not in a rush, yes." she agreed. "Why, do fancy sharing one?"
"No. I mean yes; maybe later. I've had an idea. Why don't you move your washing stuff - and I mean all of it - into the bathroom? It's got a shower over the bath if you need one, but our en suite has no bath."
"Brilliant!" she said. "No more arguments about seat up, seat down, and I can get away from your obsessive tidiness!"
Guys usually see the clues, even they don't register. More attractive work clothes, sexy undies. Shelly had shown both those, especially Fridays. At first, I was uneasy. Then one Friday I got home early, bursting for a piss; and the seat was down. OK, I am obsessively tidy, but that does not include the toilet seat. My bathroom: my rules. The seat stays up; my statement about male territory.
"Did you use the en suite this morning?" I asked Shelly.
"Good grief, no! There's nothing I need in there. Anyway I wouldn't dare, you being so tidy!"
And I believed her. A man had been in there. And he was probably a married man. He had to deal with the seat argument with his own wife. He'd pissed in my toilet and closed it automatically. I could just picture her screwing him on our bed, and going to 'her' bathroom to clean up. She probably hadn't even realised he'd used mine. I wondered if this always occurred on Fridays. But mostly I wondered how I was staying so calm. I was furious.
I took the following Friday off work and left the house early. I dropped my Audi off at a car rental, and hired a Renault for the day. I got back in time to see her leave home. I followed and it was soon apparent she was going to work. She parked her VW in the adjacent public car park; then walked into work. I parked in there too, where I could observe her car, and went for a coffee.
I considered my options in a café across the street. I should be prepared for the unexpected. I drove to a nearby gent's outfitters and bought a lightweight anorak and a baseball cap. And two shops down I bought a craft knife; one with a retractable blade. Then I drove back to the car park, and even got my old space back. In the coffee shop, I got another cup to go, and took it to my hire car.
At eleven thirty some guy came out and went to his Mercedes. I was interested because he was parked next to Shelly. Two minutes later she came out, got in and unlocked the passenger door. The guy slipped in with her.
They headed to a big pub, known for its lunchtime food. I followed them, wearing my disguise, and they picked a table near the back. They had plenty of choice; the place was half empty. I observed them from the bar. Then I approached the waiter and told him what I wanted. He was reluctant.
"Come on, it'll only take a second. Here's twenty pounds."
It was a wonderful piece of choreography. I went to the Gents, voided my beer and coffee, and opened the door to re-enter the dining section. Their table was between me and the exit. The waiter nodded and walked past them. Then he dropped a spoon at Shelly's feet and muttered 'Shit! Now I'll have to wash it!' While she pulled her legs away, and they both stared at him, I walked behind her chair and took her handbag that was hanging on the back. It disappeared under my anorak and I left. Outside I fished out Shelly's keys, got into her VW and drove off. The hire car could wait.
The plan only seemed to be arriving in bits and pieces. Without really knowing why, I drove to the airport and parked it in long-term stay. I wiped the steering wheel and gearstick clean. I didn't need to do a particularly good job. A few of my fingerprints were to be expected.
In the taxi back to the pub, my mobile phone started. Caller id showed an unknown number.
"Hello, is that Mr James Marshall?"
"Who's this?"
"This is the Red Lion pub, and I have a lady here who..."
"You have the wrong number."
I hung up. The rest of the journey, it rang again. I cancelled every call. They couldn't be sure whether this was me not answering, or them getting my number wrong. There was no sign of either of them when I got back to the pub.
I returned to my rental car and checked Shelly's bag for the first time. A tiny pair of panties was in there; they smelled like they'd been worn today. Unless she had the opportunity to buy more, she would be undie-less for the rest of the day. It wasn't like she could get in the house for another pair. As well as her keys there was her purse, complete with cash, cards, her mobile phone, and half a dozen condoms. We don't use them. A quick check on her messages revealed she was having lunch with Graham today, and not for the first time. The thought of his Mercedes triggered the next event.
I took the Renault back to the car hire place and handed it in. Then I drove my Audi to her workplace. The car park had no cameras anywhere. The craft knife made short work ofvthe Merc's valves; just the two nearest to where Shelly's VW had been. It did a good job of scratching the bodywork on that same side: 'STOP FUCKING SHELY'. I needed to cover both doors in to fit it all in. I thought that was neat; it could have been a jealous colleague; one who couldn't spell. Then I went home.
*** *** ***
It was twenty minutes after the dropped spoon incident, before Shelly realised her bag had gone. There was no reason to make a connection between the events. She and Graham told the waiter, and a search of the dining area was carried out; no luck. The barman confirmed nothing had been handed in.
"Perhaps you left it in your car." said Graham.
"No, I definitely put it over the back of the chair."
"Let's check anyway."
"Shit!" she cried, "The bloody car's gone too."
She rushed back into the pub and asked them to call the police; then would they call her husband? They tried but seemed to keep getting the wrong number.
The police arrived and were told the whole sorry tale. Her keys had been in her bag. Clearly the thief had intended to steal her car. And could they give her a lift home please? She needed to get there quickly as he might rob the house. No, she couldn't remember if there was anything in her handbag identifying her address. At that stage, Shelly and Graham wanted to go their separate ways but the police said they would check on the house first. Then they had to go to the station to provide written statements. An officer would keep an eye on the house.
At the police station, they called James' work place but
he'd taken the day off. They tried his mobile, but Shelly was now convinced she was misremembering the number. At last, they were allowed to leave. Shelly had no money and the police had suddenly got very busy and might not be able to provide a ride home for an hour. Graham called them a taxi and they went back to work. On the way, they got their stories straight and went in. They were colleagues, just having an innocent lunch when everythimg went wrong. It was nearly time to go home anyway, and they got their final surprise when they got to Graham's Merc. He had to pay for another taxi to take Shelly home.
*** *** ***
"You came in a taxi, problem with the car?"
"Where the fuck have you been?" she shouted.
I sat on the sofa. The wait drew out, until she exploded.
"Well?"
I waited again. Then:
"You came in a taxi, problem with the car?" I repeated.
Shelly deflated.
"Sorry. Yes, my car's been stolen, so has my bag."
