Contents: British English spelling and grammar.
It ends exactly where I want it to.
A seasonal exercise in how the husband finds out.
***
Under the stairs
When finances allowed us to move upmarket, Janice and I (I'm Neville) gravitated to Blueberry Way; a cul-de-sac of ten houses. The numbering was traditionally English; odds on the left, evens on the right. So our number 9 was the last one on the left.
Its back garden dropped slightly towards the river, ending at a little fence and not much of a river bank. Not really suitable for families with small kids. Which was fine by us, we had none. Across the road, number 10 was also for sale, and a little cheaper than ours - smaller back garden. But it had to be this one because 9 is my lucky number.
It needed a little work doing, but at least the most expensive job, new electrical wiring, had been completed. I'd just landed two new contracts and the commissions were in the bank. Apart from the occasional mid-week trip, I mostly work from home. So I had plenty of time to redecorate.
Winter arrived, and slowly we got the place together; going for underfloor heating. I could do most of the DIY tasks, except plumbing. And Janice was a dab-hand at painting. She did a mural on one living room wall that was so beautiful, we joked it was more entertaining than the tv.
One December morning there was a frost, and Janice was running a bit late for work. So I grabbed her Renault keys and took out a kettle of warm water, not too hot. I sloshed it over the windscreen first, followed by the rest of the glass. Then turned the engine on, heater at full blast, and wiped the windscreen clear with a squeegee.
It amused me to note it was exactly 9 miles to Janice's office. And that day, the odometer showed 9,018 miles. Not important of course, it just caught my eye. It wasn't often it would hit a number divisible by 9, as she also used the car for shopping, and at weekends, it might not line up like this till the new year. Tonight, it should be 9,036, and I'd feel obliged to check. That's the kind of pedant I am.
"Thanks for warming my car, sweetie. What's the house job for today?" she asked.
"Last one, I've been putting it off. The cupboard under the stairs. Though I'm not sure what we should do with it. Maybe I'll just paint the inside white."
"Well good luck. See if you can get a tree if you have time. We'll decorate it this weekend. Now, I've gotta go!"
I poured another mug of coffee, and opened the stairs door. It was just a plain cupboard, getting lower towards the rear of course. There was panelling fixed to the underside of the stairs, so it was a smooth 45-degree slope, dropping towards the floor until it reached the third step up. That last part was blocked off; too small to be of any use. We had finished unpacking long ago, and I couldn't think what we'd use this for. We already had a coat cupboard near the front door. I suppose it could have housed a fake Christmas tree. But Janice had set her heart on a real one. We'd probably have a go at planting it in the garden after Christmas; sometimes they survive.
The whole cupboard interior looked odd somehow. Hanging just inside the door was a hook. We had reopened the fireplace, more for the ambience of a real fire than its warmth, and there was a fire tong set in the hearth. This hook under the stairs had a handle, and looked just like the poker, but with a bent-over end. I had no idea what it could be for, yet was reluctant to throw it out. You know, just in case.
Then there was the floor. It was smooth pine boards which was strange; the rest of the hallway was granite tiles. Covering part of the floor was an old 'Welcome' mat which had probably been at the front door for years. Someone had decided to keep it. But who needs a mat inside a walk-in cupboard? It didn't make sense. Finally, there was a round metal stud at the top of the sloping panelling. It was the size of a fifty pence piece. What on earth was that for?
Time for action. I stood up and lifted the hook off the wall, and accidentally kicked my coffee over. I jumped back and let go of the hook.
"Shit!"
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a cloth, but when I got back, the coffee was mostly gone! Just my Homer Simpson mug lying on its side. I wiped the wet patch but it only made the cloth damp. And there was no sign of the hook. Come to think of it, I hadn't heard it hit the floor. I looked up, then lifted the wet mat, and all became clear.
There was a small hole in the floor. Next to it was a second metal stud. My hook was directly above my head, hanging from the top stud. So, it must be magnetic, and these floorboards were just resting on some kind of frame. The hook was to insert into this hole, and lift it. So I tried it. Up came the entire floor and, sure enough, the magnetic studs clicked together and it stayed in place. Revealed was a concrete stairway; the top steps had coffee dripping down them. I wiped them and took the cloth back to the kitchen, where I found a torch.
At the bottom of the steps was an old warped door. It was locked, but the key was hanging on a nail beside it. With a frisson of anticipation, I ventured in. It was a basement of course. Empty, and with no no signs of vermin. It was situated directly under our long kitchen diner, a third of the house area.
Janice was excited at our discovery, especially at the increase in the value of number 9. The previous owner had probably stuffed junk in the understairs cupboard, and never discovered the false floor. It certainly hadn't been mentioned when we viewed. While we debated what to do with it, I got a quote for extending our underfloor heating, and putting lighting down there. That evening, when I popped out to the pub, I checked her Renault's mileage; 9,036 of course. Sometimes I irritate myself.
The next day, an expert came and looked at the basement. It was declared dry, free from rot or damp, and very cold. But no mobile phone reception. A check on the 1960s blueprints showed every house in Blueberry Way, was supposed to have one, but side notes on the documentation suggested they had been too expensive. Ours, up in the corner, had been the first house built, and was the only one with a basement.
"Will the existing boiler cope with extra load?" I asked the contractor.
"No problem. Your heating system is zoned. I'll put another thermostat and timer down there. Just stick to the discipline of only heating the rooms you're using. Your timer should shut off the upstairs at, say, seven a.m. Close the doors of any rooms not being used. You'll only have a boiler problem if you set maximum temperature, twentyfour seven, throughout the whole house."
I left him to work up a quote and said I'd get back to him in a day or so. He guaranteed he could have all the work done before the holidays. The following Tuesday, I had to go away on business.
"Where to this time?" Janice enquired.
"That company up in Liverpool. There's a train tomorrow morning; I'll go straight to the hotel. The meeting is at their offices on Wednesday morning. I'll be back that night."
"OK. Will you drive to the station?"
"Yes."
"Good, then I can put my car in the garage."
"You should. While I'm away, give some thought to what you fancy doing with our extra room, babe."
"I'll think about it, but I'm not going down there, it's too damn cold!"
Tuesday morning was icy again, so I did the warm water routine. Her mileage was now 9,124. I got an extra affectionate kiss at the door.
"Make sure you call me when you get to the hotel sweetie, so I know you've arrived safely."
"Of course."
She drove off to work.
I have a small holdall for overnight trips, put it on the passenger seat of my Audi and rolled out onto the drive. I closed the garage door behind me with a remote. Janice has the other one.
Home on Wednessday night, I got a warm welcome.
"How did the meeting go?"
"Better than expected. They've signed up for another two years, without asking for a discount. We can afford one of those holidays we discussed, next summer. You wanted Seychelles, and I fancy Prague followed by the Dalmatian Coast. I'll get some brochures tomorrow."
She squealed with delight. I hoped she'd settle for Prague.
It was freezing again Thursday morning when I took the kettle out to her car. I noticed number 10 across the road had put Christmas lights all over the front of the house. I suppose if there is a moment, that moment when the worms of suspicion start to wriggle, it was right then. The odometer should have added four 9-mile trips, and read 9,160. Even more if she'd stopped off anywhere for dinner or shopping, but it shouldn't be less. Yet it displayed 9,142. Two trips; one to work, and one home. Had she got a lift yesterday? I had called her on her office phone, so she'd certainly gone in.
"Any problems with car while I was away?"
"No."
"Yesterday, or Wednesday? It got you to work both days?"
"Sure. Why do you ask?"
"I thought I heard a bit of knocking noise as you pulled away. Perhaps it's just the cold."
"No, it's been fine all week."
"Probably my imagination then."
But it wasn't my imagination was it? I sat at the computer in my study, and thought about it. Had my wife spent a night away from home? Was she being unfaithful? I soon found what I was looking for. An app that would spy on her phone.
That night I 'borrowed' it and plugged it into my computer. A few minutes later, I returned it to where it had been charging. From now on I could view all her messages, monitor calls, even check the phone's location. And I could access that info from my computer or from my phone. After she'd gone to bed, I started with the location history. She had gone to work on the Tuesday, but not come home. That evening her phone had gone to another part of the city, and stayed there all night, while her car remained at work. It only returned the following night. Hence only 18 clocked miles.
Logically, she must have gone to the home of a work colleague, and slept over. And that would have to be premeditated, as she hadn't returned here for a change of clothes. There must have been some in her car when she left. Could be a woman friend of course, but why lie about the car? She knew I'd be away all night so, if it was an affair, why not do it here? Could there be some innocent explanation?
While she was occupied on Sunday, I checked her phone messages. It showed activities that were far from innocent. She was having an affair with her boss, and she'd spent the night at his house. I'd met him a couple of times and, being overweight and balding, he made unlikely competition. But the messages mentioned he was expecting a promotion to director level in the new year. Then he would be entitled to a PA. He could interview for a new one, or promote Janice. I guessed spending the night with him must improve her chances.
Yet the messages also showed she was reluctant to have sex in our house, especially in the marital bed; concerned I might come back early. If I did, she reckoned her absence could be explained; she'd simply stayed with some girlfriend. But for me to arrive and dig her out from under her boss, would take more explaining. Suddenly she got a call - I listened.
"I won't be in tomorrow, Janice. I think I've got the flu."
"Well, I hope you haven't passed it on to me!"
"Always possible I suppose. I start having the sniffles on Tuesday night."
"We need to be more careful."
"Why? Catching the flu is hardly a sign of an affair!"
"No, not that. This morning, Neville was asking about my car for some reason. It's probably just my imagination."
"But you have drive-in garage. The neighbours aren't going to be telling him your car wasn't home for one night."
