The Brief-Case Affair

Chapter One - The Final Straw

It was a cold and rather unpleasant evening. There was a hint of rain in the air, and low, black clouds drifted slowly across the sun, blocking it's warm rays from the earth below. A rumble of thunder shook the house and I waited patiently in bed for the first streaks of lightning to dart across the sky outside. But the lightning never came.

As I stared from my bed, out at the impending and dark gloom, my mind whirled with a thousand thoughts. My heart pounded in my chest with such ferocity that I could feel my blood rushing through my skull.

My Marjorie.

My dear, sweet Marjorie.

How could she do this to me?

I should have noticed it before.

She had been distracted lately, always excitedly rushing to her phone whenever it buzzed and giggling incessantly as she read whatever message she'd received. I hadn't thought anything of it; Marjorie passed it off as a message from a new friend. Even then, I never suspected what I was almost certain was true now.

Then came the late nights. Frequently she wouldn't return home from work until gone nine o'clock in the evening. I thought this rather odd as Marjorie had become somewhat bored of her job lately. On more than one occasion she had confided in me that she was considering returning to nursing profession. I had - as the supportive husband I am - encouraged her to do so, and yet she seemed reluctant. I had hoped these late nights indicated a renewed interest in the world of window cleaning, if such a thing is possible. I guess I just wanted Marjorie to enjoy her career, like I do.

I suppose I only really started to suspect something was amiss when I phoned her office one night when she was working particularly late. Despite her claims of working hard into the night, the phone at her office went straight to the answerphone. Marjorie's clear and proper voice announced:

'I'm afraid our office is closed at the moment. Please leave your name and number and we will get back to you as soon as we can.'

Even then, I could never have imagined the worst. I convinced myself that Marjorie had put the answerphone on to prevent outside distractions from interfering with whatever administrative work she was undertaking. It was only two weeks later that the thought occurred to me that there was surely very little administrative work for a window cleaning company that could keep an assistant working late into the night so often, especially on Sundays when the office wasn't even open at all.

That was when I risked a glance at her phone.

There were the usual texts from Marjorie's mother:

'When are you going to chuck in that bore and find a proper man?'

The 'bore' - I suppose - is me, and what exactly is improper about me I'll never know. I use all the correct grammar and, despite the temptation of some of my more uncouth colleagues, I don't attempt to use the word 'of' inappropriately. If I had a pound for every time Mr Morris uses the phrase 'of an evening' or 'of a Sunday', I would be a rich man today. If you learn nothing else from this story, know this: the word 'of' implies a part of something. You cannot go for a drive of an evening - that would imply the evening is divided into drives. That phrase is reserved for uneducated louts who wish to be seen as educated louts but only manage to portray themselves as absolute prats.

Note that in your exercise books, please.

Next came the messages from my own mother:

'When are you going to chuck in Kevin and find a proper man?'

Needless to say, I was a little put out by this.

But that was the least of my concerns.

The final text was one that sent the largest shiver down my spine. It was addressed simply from 'Peter', and it confirmed what really should have been obvious all along.

Marjorie was not working late.

'It was great to see you tonight,' the message said. 'See you tomorrow night - you might want to save your energy.'

There was no doubt left in my mind.

Marjorie was definitely not working late.

That was the previous night. I had spent all day pondering this curious text message. The more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect that there was only one possible reason why a man named Peter would want my Marjorie to save her energy.

My wife was having an affair.

Had I come to this realisation sooner, I might have confronted her about it before she went to 'work'. Unfortunately, my wife was long gone before I came to my conclusion. I was left with no choice but to lie in bed, fighting the terrible thoughts that resided in my head as the thunder rumbled in the distance. The only comfort I had in those long, drawn-out and throbbing moments was the grey tabby-cat, who lay purring on my chest. Occasionally flexing his claws, he gently massaged my sweater. I reached out a grabbed my bedside clock, and watched the minutes tick by until my wife might finally return home to me. As the rain began to patter lightly against the open window, I felt my eyes close and I gently fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

The bedside clock struck Four.

I'm not sure how it happened, but Four seemed somewhat put out about it. He was never a cat that enjoyed being struck by a heavy object and, quite naturally, decided to strike it back. I woke with a sudden jolt as both clock and Four leapt a foot into the air before barreling on to the floor in a horrific squeal of ticking. I sat bolt upright. The rain had subsided, but the sky was still dark and grey. I scooped down and picked up the clock.

Half-past nine.

This was later than she'd been before.

I thought for a moment about grabbing my mobile to give her a call, when the bedroom door clicked and swung open. My wife stood silently in the doorway as Four bolted past her and sped down the stairs. Marjorie and I stared into each other's eyes, both acknowledging the suspicious tension that bunged up the air between us.

'Sorry,' she muttered - an admission guilt if ever there was one. 'I didn't mean to wake you.'

I sat up a little and watched as she crossed the room and began removing her clothes. 'I wasn't asleep,' I replied. 'I thought I'd wait up for you.'

She smiled sweetly as she lowered her skirt, removed her leggings and blouse and flicked her long, brown hair back across her shoulders. There she was - stood practically naked at the end of my bed. Her figure was perfect - not too thin, not so curvy that it would present any serious hazards to her health.

I waited until she'd climbed into bed next to me. She pressed her semi-clothed body up against mine - suspicious - and planted a delicate, yet possibly insincere, kiss on my cheek - definitely suspicious.

'How was your evening?' she asked.

'Fine,' I lied. 'Yours?'

I swear she sighed in satisfaction. 'It was good,' she said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. 'I had a great time.'

I was sure she had.

I considered asking her about Peter. I thought about questioning her about what she'd been up to. My logical mind wanted nothing more than to discover the truth, but I knew the result would be a blazing row from which we could not come back from.

And what if I was wrong?

I couldn't confront her until I had proof. A single text from a man I didn't know hardly constituted undeniable evidence of her misdemeanours. Besides - this could be precisely the type of paranoia that could give Marjorie's mother (and mine) the excuse they needed to drive her away from me.

No - I would need something more concrete first.

As we fell into an uneasy sleep, I came to the biggest decision of my life.

I was going to hire a private investigator.