Blue Guitar

British English spelling and grammar.

Blue Guitar was on this site years ago and has been extensively reworked. All main characters have a mish-mash of names from Moody Bues performers, past and present. Also their management and record label. If you've never heard of the band (???) you won't notice a thing. If you have, the other sly references are not intrusive.

***

Blue Guitar

APERITIF

Justine breezed in as I was finishing my coffee, and posed in the doorway.

"You like?"

She was wearing a new blouse, a cross between pink and orange.

"Lovely."

"This is the first time I've worn it; it's called Autumn Rose; it's this winter's colour."

"I can see it now. It's exactly the colour of, well, that rose."

Her pale blonde hair was up in a bun, ready for work. Under the blouse was a white bra. The ensemble was completed with a grey business skirt, an inch above the knee, bare legs, and grey shoes. She looked fabulous as always.

Next afternoon I got a phonecall from Denis.

"John Edge."

"Johnny! What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Denis! When are you going to stop calling me Johnny?"

"Sorry, mon ami. I forgot."

"You're forgiven. The answer is I'm not doing much. Justine will be at the hairdresser all morning."

"Perfect. Please come and see me."

"Which restaurant will you be in?"

"I'll be at Blue Guitar."

*** *** ***

Denis has been my friend for decades. He's short, stocky, and French. So, the pronunciation is 'De nee' like the Blondie song. We met at secondary school and were both big fans of The Moody Blues. We still are.

Like many mild-mannered men, I have a vicious streak, usually under control. But one incident from our schooldays, tipped me over the edge. We were in class, waiting for our maths teacher and some kids were taking the piss out of Denis; chanting 'wee, wee' mocking his French accent. It turned into pushing and shoving. Then one of them punched him in the balls. Denis dropped to his knees clutching his groin. The bully returned to his desk, looking innocent, while the rest of the audience scrambled away. I walked up to the bastard, Graeme Laine as I recall, and opened his desk.

"Look."

As he looked down at his text books, I pushed his head into the open desk and slammed the lid down onto the back of his neck. The classroom went quiet. Then I did it twice more and returned to my own place.

He sat up, clutching his face, blood streaming from his nose. He rushed for the door, just as our maths teacher came in.

"What happened?" asked Mr Patrick.

For a while no-one answered, then one of Graeme's cronies replied: "He had a nose bleed sir."

"Really? His lip too?"

He never complained of course. Even arseholes must obey the unwritten school rules.

To this day, Denis Moraz thinks he owes me.

*** *** ***

Today, he has seven restaurants across the city. Sur La Mer was his first, mostly seafood, and Seventh Sojourn the most recent. They each have their own style. Justine has never cared for French cuisine, and doesn't like Denis much either. She reluctantly came with me when the first one opened; but not since. I've visited them all and my favourite is still the first; he works wonders with seafood. We were meeting in the one with a blue guitar on each wall; the only one not obviously French. If you didn't know, you wouldn't make a connection with the others. And those who are fans of his, like me, love pointing out that Blue Guitar was not exactly a Moodies track.

"I come straight to the point mon ami. Is this Justine?"

He passed me his phone, which was displaying a photo. She was wearing the new rose-coloured blouse, so it must have been taken two days ago. The man had a dark beard.

"Yes that's her."

"Maybe I am talking out of turn, but I think she is 'aving the affair."

We sat down and a waiter brought us coffee.

"What makes you think that?"

"You know me, I am a people watcher. I observe the small body languages. My waiters tell me these two lunch here each week. And they alternate between Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. The lack of pattern makes a pattern, oui?"

"Go on."

"He looks like her boss."

"He is, I met him once; Tom Hayward."

"Bon. He orders by phone twenty minutes before they arrive. Many do this when their lunchtime is so short."

He sneered. Denis had never hidden his disdain for uncivilised English lunch breaks. In France, they take hours.

"A boss has more time maybe, so he walks here and comes through the front door. Justine drives, parks behind us in the yard, and comes in through the back door. She goes to the toilettes pour dames. In there I think she removes her bra; maybe her petite culottes also. He passed his phone again. Sure enough, that day's bra was missing. I could just make out her nipples.

"They always choose a table away from the window, and she takes her shoes off. I believe she plays the footie under the tablecloth."

"Footsie."

"Yes. And his hand is always under there too. You can guess where he puts it."

"Yes."

"He pays in cash, and they leave through the back and get in her car. My waiters say they have five minutes of kissing and préliminaires.

"Foreplay?"

He shrugged. A Frenchman can say a lot with a shrug.

"She didn't recognise you?"

"No. She has seen me only a few times since your wedding, and now I lose the moustache."

ENTREE

I start a thorough search; all the usual places. But there's no sign of stockings or new undies. I suppose that's a long shot if she usually takes them off. I check the laundry basket. Half way down, the familiar whiite briefs and bra. No male deposits, just a slight fold in the gusset. And then I spot it; a tiny black hair. Justine's pubes are darker than her head hair, but far from black. I close my eyes and picture a scene. She's lying on a desk, (somewhere at work?) and he's removing those white panties. He holds them to his face and sniffs them. Perhaps he's just trimmed his beard. Or maybe he leaves a stray one in her pubes, while he 'drinks from the furry cup'. When they're done, she pulls the panties back on, unaware of what's inside them.

Justine has a high-powered job. Not long back, her firm was sued by a disgruntled employee, who'd had an accident at work. Now they've gone to town on Health and Safety, and Justine heads H & S Department.

The following Monday, she announces she's been selected to go on a Health and Safety update course. She'll be away in Leeds, Tuesday and Wednesday night, returning straight to work around Thursday lunchtime. Tom is also attending and will drive them in his company car. I'm secretly elated; my chance to get better evidence. If she's playing away from home; she's going to burn. So is he.

"I'm expected to take notes so I can brief the department when I return."

"Which hotel are you in?"

"They haven't told us yet. You know Browning Industries; everything left to the last minute. You can always reach me on my mobile phone."

"Sure. No problem."

I knew that was crap. Since the court case, her company is extremely well organised.

A call to Browning Industries' Human Resources:

"Sorry to trouble you, but some of my staff are confused about the H & S course. What's the venue again?"

There's a pause.

"Sorry, we have no H & S course on the books. Did you mean the Sales Seminar in Leeds?"

"Of course, my mistake! Thanks for your help."

I know they won't attend a sales course, so there's no need for them to travel as far as Leeds. Where will they go?

"Denis, I need a favour. Have Hayward and my wife lunched at Blue Guitar this week?"

"Not yet. My people watch out for them. You need more photos?"

"Not really. Tell me, how difficult would this be?"

I told him what I wanted and he laughed out loud.

"Mon ami, you have no idea how easy this is. I will get in touch when I have what you want."

I met him down The Beehive two nights later.

"They are staying Tuesday and Wednesday night at Threshold Lodge, north of Gloucester. It's got poor security; CCTV at reception and in the corridors, but nothing in the carpark. Here are his keys."

"Denis, this is awesome! I know you must keep trade secrets, but how did you manage to get these?"

"No secrets from you, my friend. My restaurants have a new customer service. A gentleman puts his jacket on the back of his chair; a lady puts her handbag. My waiting staff put a fitted cover, with my logo, over it. It stops food from spilling on them."

"Nice touch."

"It is easy to take his wallet and keys from his jacket for twenty minutes. The wallet reveals the 'otel booking, credit card, driving licence and car registration. The keys are copied, and then everything is replaced.

"You're a star!"

"I have contacts in Threshold Lodge, who will ensure they are allocated room 108; and will set up surveillance this weekend. Images will be relayed to your laptop."

"Brilliant! Now I definitely owe you one!"

"Ray, one of my guys, will be nearby. And you do not owe me one, John. This is the best fun I have in ages!"

I bought him another beer and he handed me another car key.

"Ford Focus, red, in the Blue Guitar carpark. Return when you finish,"

Justine came back from shopping on Saturday, with a new case; roll-along, dusty pink, with an extending handle.

"I thought I'd use this for my Leeds trip. We keep saying we need a new one."

That night we had sex. It might be my last opportunity. Usually, she stays in the shower a long time after we finish.

Tom picked her up that morning; they'd be in Gloucester Tuesday afternoon. I made sure I stayed away from the door so he wouldn't see me. He probably wouldn't recognise me, but better safe than sorry. At work, I checked their hotel arrival on the laptop. They had sex once, as soon as they got to the room. Justine gave him a blowjob to get him hard, and then they got down to the main event. Straightforward missionary position, though she was wearing new red stockings. I don't know where they went in the afternoon; I mean, what is there to do in Gloucester?

I retrieved the anonymous Focus after work, drove down to Threshold Lodge, and parked where I could see Tom's car. It was getting dark. On the laptop, I watched them on the bed again. Same red stockings, but they only kissed and groped, then presumably went to dinner. I waited about an hour, put on gloves and raised the hood on my jacket. Then went to his BMW, unlocked the driver's door and left it wide open.

I returned to my own car and checked on them again. They'd come back to the room and Tom had stripped and lay on the bed naked, playing with his dick. Justine turned her back on him and bent over, stretching her thighs apart. He sat up and stuck his face in there. I couldn't see properly, but there was no doubt where his tongue was.

The scene did not turn me on, it made me angry. But there was a certain element of pleasure, imagining his tongue, wriggling around where my dick had been unloading less than twentyfour hours ago. When he'd had his fill, he pulled her on top of him.

Justine leaned forward for a kiss and he appeared to slide a finger up her anus. She'd always discouraged anal play with me. If she let him fuck her arse, I'd kill her! But he left it at that. It wasn't long before they finished. What's she getting out of this? He's no bigger than me, and doesn't last as long and it wasn't especially rough. As expected, she headed for the bathroom; that'll take a while. Game on!

Gloves on, hood up again, I ran up to room 108 and rapped on the door. He was wearing very little.

"What is it?"

"Mr Hayward, come quick! Someone's breaking into your car! The police are on their way."

He rushed out in his hotel robe and slippers. I slipped into the room and superglued the bathroom door shut. Then I stuffed all their clothes into their cases. A final look round but there was nothing of theirs left in the room. When I got to the BMW, Tom was coughing, and lying half way through the driver's door. The shadowy figure of Ray, one of Denis' special friends, stood there holding a can of Mace.

We manhandled Tom's groaning body so he was kneeling by the side of the car. He drooled all over the seat.

Ray disappeared towards the hotel, to remove the hidden cameras. Meanwhile Tom was trying to stand. I checked no-one was around, and held him on his knees with his head just inside the car door, then slammed it. There was a satisfying crunch and he went quiet. I had a good look; he was unconscious. There was blood oozing from one ear. I slammed it twice more.

"You want to fuck another man's wife? In your wildest dreams!"

I took their cases back to the Ford, and checked my haul. I removed all her cash, and his. I didn't really need it but their luggage may turn up one day. Better if this looks like a robbery. Everything else was returned and I drove off.

I hadn't gone far, when I found a quiet spot near a river, probably a tributary of the Severn. I threw Justine's case in, and watched it float a short way before it sank. Just outside Hereford, an unlocked builder's skip swallowed Tom's bag.

When I got back, I parked the Ford behind Blue Guitar. The hoodie and gloves stayed in there; Denis would find a use for them. Then I slipped the car keys into an envelope, and posted them through the restaurant front door, as agreed.

It was getting late by the time I got home, but there were still a few things to be done. First off, I sent a phone message to Justine:

'Hi baby. Not heard from you all day. Are you ok? How is Leeds? Is your training going well? Love you.'

I watched the World Championship Snooker, which I'd videoed while I was out. So it was even later by the time that was over. Then I wiped the tape clean, put it back in the player, and set it to record the late movie.

DESSERT

The story made the papers, but not the tv: The police were mystified. Hotel CCTV showed a hooded figure luring Mr Hayward out of his room. That same person then entered and stole two bags. Meanwhile someone severely assaulted Mr Hayward in the carpark. The newspaper implied, though didn't state, that an extra marital affair might have been involved. The door of 108 was left open and an accomplice, also hooded, was seen entering. But it was not clear what he did, as he appeared to leave the Lodge empty-handed. Some time later, an unnamed naked woman was discovered in the bathroom. The door had been glued shut. The papers hinted she may have been sexually assaulted, but withheld her name. They did report however, that she was not Mr Hayward's wife. He was in a critical condition in a Gloucester hospital. He had a brain bleed and had been put in an induced coma. He had lost one ear and there was concern he may not fully recover. Later I heard his wife had not bothered to visit him.

The police called me to say the naked lady in Gloucester was my wife. When she got home, I made a great play of being shocked at her affair; and angry. She packed her belongings and moved out. I think she went to her mother's. I figured it would be better if I got rid of her without using the footage of her infidelity. I told her about it before she went, but I don't think she grasped how difficult it would be for me to explain it in a divorce court.

The police suspected me of course, the wronged husband is always a person of interest. But I claimed I was watching the snooker all night; yes of course I could describe it - and the following movie. My phone message to Justine spoke of my innocence; well, of my ignorance anyway. And three of my neighbours confirmed my living room light was on until late, and my Volvo never left the driveway. I know they're out there somewhere; but, the bags were never found.

Later, my divorce came through around the same time as Mrs Hayward's. It would not have been ethical for us to use the same solicitor, but we seemed to bump into each other a few times. She's gorgeous. I called her when the decrees absolute came through, and asked if she fancied dinner. Perhaps we could ease some of our disappointment with a meal and a couple of bottles of wine?

We went to Blue Guitar. Isn't life strange?