My name is Linda Prince. At the time of writing I am forty one years of age but the events I shall relate to you began their course six years ago. I am, or was, the wife of Jeff Prince, CEO of a government department and, as I was to discover, philanderer extraordinary.
I have a daughter, Lisa, who was aged fourteen when the events began. After her birth Jeff announced that we didn’t need “any more bloody kids”, and marched off to join the vasectomy brigade without any discussion between us. I thought it really was so we didn’t have any more kids, but really it was to assist with his extramarital love life as I later discovered.
At the point where my story begins I had recently learned of Jeff’s sexual activities, and this started the trail that led to us being two people leading separate lives but living in the same house.
I had worked in the same government department as Jeff when he was, as people said, “An up and coming young chap.” I was what they called “The Com Girl.” That meant that I worked in a room on my own filled with electronic gadgetry such as computers, fax machines and other equipment that the rest of the department didn’t know how to use in those days.
I don’t wish to sound big-headed, but a lot of the young and not so young men in the department seemed to find reasons for visiting the Com.Dept., and quite a few surreptitious gropings took place, and were repelled by me. I had a particular goal in mind, namely, Jeff.
We both found reasons for working late one night and he took my virginity on the Com.Dept. floor. It was a rather bloody event and we had a hell of a job to clean the carpet. It may have been that time, or one of the following occasions in the back of his car, when I got pregnant.
Jeff could not leave me alone at that time, and I admit I wanted him pretty badly, so the pregnancy led to marriage.
I continued working to within a month of giving birth, and from then until the proper start of my story I was a stay at home mother.
It was at the point when I learned of Jeff’s “bits on the side,” and the growing aggression of my teenage daughter, that I took up another job. It was nothing spectacular, just a three day a week part time job receiving classified ads for our city newspaper. It was not for the money I went back to work, Jeff was at least generous in that respect, but to get out of an environment in which I found no great satisfaction.
We have a path that runs beside the river that flows from the hills, through our city and its suburbs, to empty itself eventually into the sea. It was my custom to walk my dog Arnold along part of the path every morning, starting about seven o’clock. It is here that you meet with many other people jogging, pounding along in a bath of sweat and deodorant and, others strolling or walking their dogs.
It is the dog walkers, more leisurely in their strolls that stop and talk, comparing breeds, commenting about the weather, and so on. Over time the conversation can become more personal when family news and such like, are exchanged.
One couple I got to know quite well were Ken and his wife Delia. They were in their late sixties when I first got to know them, and it was Ken whom I saw most of. This was because we were amongst the most ardent dog walkers, and when everyone else seemed to have taken cover, because the temperature had risen to around forty degrees Celsius, or it was pouring with rain, we would still be out there.
These two had experienced the tragic death from cancer of their daughter. She had left behind a son, twelve years of age at the time of her death. The boy was in the care of the man she had married eighteen months prior to her death, and now lived about sixty kilometres from the city in a small country town.
Ken and Delia were both troubled by the way the boy was being treated, but as they pointed out, they felt that at their age they could not cope with a teenager, and in any case the stepfather had full legal rights in the matter.
The grandson, Stephen, came to spend a weekend with Ken and Delia once a month to keep him in touch with the rest of the family. This was how I came to meet him. He was fourteen at that time.
I saw Ken coming along the path with his beloved Dalmatian. Ken is tall, well over six feet, and walking with him was a boy who promised to match Ken’s height in later years. Coming up to them Ken introduced the boy as his grandson Stephen. We said hello and shook hands.
A brief conversation followed during which Stephen and I surreptitiously looked each other over as newly introduced people do, not wanting to appear as if they are weighing each other up.
Not until some years later did I discover what Stephen had seen when he looked at me, but I do recall something of what I saw as I examined Stephen. He had clearly inherited some of his grandfather’s features, especially the soft brown eyes and the not especially large mouth that had well moulded lips turning up at the corners and always seem ready to smile.
I had seen photographs of the dead mother, and she had been very beautiful indeed, and Stephen seemed to have some of her characteristics including the well shaped nose and golden-brown hair. I also noted that he was not suffering from that teenage plague, the pimple.
The boy, like many teenagers of his age, tended to be rather lanky, but unlike many of them he moved with a sort of flexible grace and stood very upright. I could see he had the making of very handsome man.
He said very little during our conversation, but I could almost feel his eyes on me when he thought I was not looking in his direction. It came across as a very intense examination of my person.
I felt a mixture of amusement and embarrassment at this inspection and if I looked directly at Stephen, his eyes would turn away from me. It was only after we had parted and I was on my way home that I considered his interest more carefully.
My thought was, that many boys like him, in the early stages of puberty, are trying to fathom the female psyche. Often their mothers are the model for them, but Stephen had no mother. Perhaps he was assessing me as a potential model, or perhaps even at fourteen his interest was earthier. I smiled inwardly and let the matter drop from my mind.
Two days later I met with Ken again on my walk. His first words were: You made a big impression the other day, Linda. As soon as we left you Stephen said, “She’s a beautiful lady, grandpa.”
I laughed and made the rather limp response, “That’s very flattering, especially coming from a boy more than half my age. I must say though, he has all the making of a very nice looking man. The girls will be after him.”
“I don’t know, Linda. He doesn’t seem to be very apt socially; he doesn’t make friends easily. One of the problems is, he’s very intelligent and the other kids at school call him a “swot,” and tend to avoid him. His stepfather keeps a tight rein on him, and he has little opportunity for socialising outside school. Delia and I are fairly concerned about him.”
“It’s a difficult time for kids his age,” I commented, trying to be sympathetic.
“Yes, Delia and I have him down here as often as we can, you know, the odd weekends and during the school holidays, but there’s no one around here he can relate to, except a couple of oldies like Delia and me.”
He gave a rueful smile and said he had to be going.
Weeks and months went by and I saw Stephen along the path walking with Ken or Delia, and sometimes walking the dog by himself. When we spotted each other we always stopped for a talk. I would ask the usual boring adult type questions about school, friends, hobbies and so forth. Stephen would respond by asking me about my family and work. I avoided family matters as much as possible not wishing to reveal the wretched state of the home front.
