Conference Conception

They say pride comes before a fall. I can tell you it's true.

I had always hated my husband's conferences. I had always hated having to play the 'Little Woman' whose sole role in life was to support her big, strong husband in his glittering career.

It wasn't that William, my husband didn't have a glittering career; he most certainly did and if things went well at this particular conference, they would be even more glittering in years to come. It wasn't that I resented having to support him in his chosen path; after all, he had supported me in my own equally glittering career in a quite different field.

No, what I resented was being lumped together with the bimbos, trophy wives and teenage girlfriends of most of the other men in the middle and upper echelons of the IT business in which my husband had chosen to excel. As a Professor in a prestigious University in a nearby city, I considered myself to be in a different class to most of them; certainly I was in a different class both educationally and intellectually.

Nevertheless, for a whole weekend every six months I had to pretend I was just like them; that I knew and cared about what happened in the endless soap operas and reality TV programmes they talked about incessantly. I had to fake an interest in property prices; in private schools; in local dress shops.

For my husband, conferences were a necessary evil. For me they were hell!

Who would have guessed when we graduated together from University, me with a First Class Degree in English Literature, William with a Lower Second in Business Administration, that my principal reason for being with him at that conference would be to try and look like a trophy wife, smile simperingly at my husband's colleagues, laugh at their jokes however bad they were and ask as few demanding questions as possible.

It wasn't that I couldn't be glamorous and sexy when I need to. Far from it, at five feet nine inches – higher in my heels – I was as tall as many of the men at the conference. Thanks to frequent visits to the gym I was slim to the point of skinny too and had a figure most women envy. Okay, so my dark brown hair needed monthly attention to keep the grey away but you couldn't have everything.

We both earned good salaries too so I could indulge in the odd designer dress when I felt like it. Indeed, the tight fitting, short-but-not-quite-too-short-for-a-woman-of-my-age dark blue number with the pale blue front that I was wearing that evening had been bought on London's Regent Street to give me a style advantage over the other, more overtly sexual wives and girlfriends at this conference.

I might not be able to keep up with their small talk but I was damned if I was going to let myself be out-glammed by a bunch of bimbos.

I despised small talk. At my job in the University I talked about big issues; medieval literature, the effect of theatre on tumultuous twentieth century politics, the American novel. Chatting drivel about school fees and babysitters was as close to torture as I ever wanted to come.

What made things far worse was that so many of the other wives seemed to find all this so easy. The more bimbo the woman, the better she seemed to blend into the conference. It was if they had been born to it; they had no trouble making trivial conversation with each other and with their husbands' colleagues about nothing at all.

It didn't help that William and I had so far been unable to have children. If we had, then I might have had more in common with the other 'girls' as the retiring Senior Partner annoyingly called us. There wasn't a major problem; William had a low sperm count but it was really just that our busy lives hadn't made children a priority until recently – and even now the desire was mostly been on Will's part.

Still, we were trying now. We were only in our early forties so there was plenty of time. We had an active sex life – very active in fact and weren't using any form of birth control so, as the Doctor had said, 'if it's going to happen, it will happen'.

It could take its sweet time happening as far as I was concerned. I for one was in no hurry to swap my researching, writing, lecturing and travelling for nappies and baby vomit but I guessed eventually my body-clock would click in and the desire to be a mother would take over.

My husband however was ready to be a father now and until the last two weeks had taken every available opportunity to inseminate me. With the prospect of the ultimate promotion and the pressure on him this high, Will's testosterone levels were through the roof. Unfortunately for his plans, working late every night and schmoozing the other Partners for his promotion had prevented us making love for the last few weeks but those pressures would reduce sharply at the conference.

Had I been as excited at the prospect of parenthood as my husband, the timing could not have been better. As Will had explained many times, the stars were on our side; our sex life would resume with a vengeance immediately after the conference, exactly in line with my next ovulation and right in my most fertile period of the month.

How could it fail to work? Our baby would be conceived on the very day its father reached the pinnacle of his career. It had to work!

Will had talked excitedly for weeks about the Conference Conception he confidently expected to take place that weekend. I was by no means as certain that it would happen and was even less sure I wanted to get fat and spotty and gain stretch marks but I trusted in nature to bring my mind in line with my body if sperm finally met egg and motherhood became inevitable.

Meanwhile we had our careers and however I felt about it, I couldn't afford to fail in my task that weekend.

William was one of only a handful of candidates for the role of Senior Partner that was about to become vacant following the retirement of its current occupant. All the candidates had been manoeuvring for positon for months and this conference was the last networking event before the Board Meeting and vote. Any influence William could exert on the other partners this weekend could have the decisive effect on who was to get the Top Job.

Had the positions been reversed, I knew William would have done everything in his power to support me – indeed he had already done so when I was appointed my current position in the University. However I felt about it, it was my duty to whatever I could to support him now, however difficult it felt.

And I had done so for the whole, interminable duration of the weekend. As I looked at my watch I saw it was ten thirty in the evening on the very last night. Things had gone well; the final dinner was over; the speeches had been made and the awards given out.

My husband had performed superbly throughout and I was proud of him. The speech he had made in tribute to the retiring Senior Partner had been just the right blend of humour, flattery and genuine admiration. No-one else's words had come close; if we could play our cards right and gain the last handful of votes from the few remaining undecided partners, the top job would be his.

With the financial security that would follow, perhaps then having a family wouldn't feel such an abandonment of my career and independence. If nothing else we would be able to afford an au pair or full time nanny for the more distasteful parts. Until then, I had to remain on duty and perform that duty to the best of my ability.

As I stood at the edge of the busy, messy dining room I felt satisfied with my own performance too. I had chatted, smiled and flirted with the Partners, laughed at their bad jokes, let them buy me drinks to flatter their male egos... Perhaps a few too many drinks if I was honest.

I had gossiped with their wives and girlfriends too, buying them drinks in return and joining them in some of the most outrageously sweet and alcoholically strong concoctions I had ever tasted while the gossip grew more and more scandalous.

I had even talked to that loathsome individual, Phil Gibson, the firm's smug, self-obsessed top salesman and the curse of the office juniors.

***

Every large company has a Phil Gibson. In his early thirties, young, fit, very good looking and without a trace of morality in his whole body, Phil had wreaked havoc throughout the firm's female staff for years. Blessed with a pair of penetrating green come-to-bed eyes that could dent even the strongest female resistance, he simply loved a challenge.

In his quest for seduction, boyfriends, fiancées and even husbands meant little to him, as long as they didn't threaten his physical safety. Even then, he was so fit and his body so well trained that only a martial arts expert or insanely jealous jilted partner would think of taking him on.

One night stands were the norm for Phil; any relationship lasting more than three months was very rare but that didn't prevent even hardened girls falling for his charms. As a result he had left a trail of broken dreams, hearts, marriages and hymens behind him.

My husband hated him. No matter how good his performance, William would have Phil Gibson out of the door once the business became his.

I had met Phil several times before that night and experienced his charm at first hand. Fortunately I had been warned about his reputation in advance so was prepared but even so, with his easy, relaxed manner, soft voice, incredible eyes and an uncanny ability to remember about you only the things you wanted to be remembered, I could feel the power of his personality and its overt sexual attraction.

It wasn't hard to see how younger, less experienced girls could be enticed into his trap. Few emerged unscathed and none without leaving their names on his trophy belt. He was rumoured to be very well endowed and well-skilled in bed too. From the scandalous stories that had reached me via my friend Maggie, those rumours seemed to be true.

"He's got a row of cards in a frame on his office wall," she had told me two years earlier at a company drinks evening in their smart offices. "All diamonds from the Ace to the nine."

"Why? What do they mean?"

"They're supposed to represent the big clients he's landed since he's been here," she gave a few examples of Phil's biggest triumphs.

"That's good isn't it?" I asked naively.

Maggie looked left and right before replying.

"Rumour is that they really represent the wives of the Partners that he's slept with."

"What?" I demanded, aghast.

"There are twelve Partners, right? Twelve cards and one for Phil himself. He's supposed to be the Ace."

"Conceited little turd," I hissed. "Why diamonds?"

"He thinks diamonds look most like..." she pointed towards her own groin then towards mine.

"Disgusting," I snorted, unimpressed.

"Right," Maggie agreed. "But the implication is that he's had eight of the Partners' wives already. He's trying for the set so only has four to go."

"Has he tried it on with you?" I asked, horrified.

"He tries it on with everyone," Maggie laughed. "It seems light hearted but he's actually serious. If he sees a weakness he pushes his luck hard. It wouldn't surprise me if it had worked a few times. He's a very attractive man."

There was something in her voice that made me do a double-take.

"Have you and he..." I began to ask.

"No of course not," Maggie grinned then changed the subject abruptly as our husbands approached the table.

Later on in the evening I surreptitiously checked Phil's office. There was indeed a long, narrow frame containing playing cards, numbered from the Ace to the Nine – and with space for the remaining four to fit alongside.

Eight Partners' wives? Surely that was just an office joke!

***

Six months later I dropped a package off at my husband's desk. As I passed by Phil's empty office I couldn't help noticing that the ten and Jack of diamonds had been added.

If Maggie's story was to be believed, this meant Phil had added two more Partner's wives to the notches on his bedpost since I had last been there. That meant there were only two more to go.

One of them was me; I assumed but did not know for sure that the other unconquered wife was Maggie.

But this was all silly macho nonsense, surely!

***

Before I go on, a quick word about Maggie.

If every business has a Phil, every Partner's wife needs a Maggie. Margaret Jackson was the wife of one of my husband's opposite numbers, Brian. We had met at the first social event after Will had joined the business and to my surprise, had become good friends.

Although a Partner like Will, Maggie's husband Brian was ten years older and had clearly reached the peak of his career whereas Will had much further to go. Brian recognised both these facts and had clearly decided his best course of action was to help the rising star on his way.

The fact that they were friends too made this easier. It also made it easier for me to relax in the company of his wife.

Though older than me, Maggie and I were the same height, very similar in build and both had shoulder length straight blonde hair. But although it was striking, the similarity between us stopped at the physical. We were not on the same intellectual level at all. Maggie had left school at sixteen and had been a beauty therapist for some years before meeting, bedding and finally marrying her older husband Brian. She was pretty, sexy, pleasant, friendly, very good company and the greatest source of company gossip I had ever met.

With a highly inquisitive nature and ten years as a company wife under her belt, Maggie's connections within the business were second to none. She knew everything that was worth knowing and, perhaps taking a lead from her husband, had taken me under her wing from the start. Her good advice over the years had been invaluable in helping my husband deal with career enhancing or threatening opportunities and had helped me avoid many of the pitfalls an unsuspecting spouse might suffer too.

I wasn't foolish enough to believe she only gossiped with me so was careful not to let her know anything that I did not want broadcast. And anything that I did want the world to know I told her - in the strictest confidence of course!

At a conference as important to my husband's career as this, a friend like Maggie was vital so I had spent a great deal of time with her and her other friends, pretending to have watched the TV programmes they loved and the movies they had seen but most of all talking, laughing and unfortunately drinking much more than I was used to.

The result was that, as midnight passed, I felt uncharacteristically unsteady on my feet. Having literally no idea what was inside the many cocktails I had felt obliged to consume, I had been unable to pace my drinking as strictly as I would usually have done and was feeling as tipsy as I could remember being in a long time.

"How are you?" Will asked as he sidled up to me in a quiet moment.

"I'm drunk," I confessed.

"Carole!" he sounded genuinely shocked.

"Sorry! I've been trying to keep up with the WAGs."

The term WAGs had been coined during a football World Cup some years ago. It stood for the 'Wives And Girlfriends' of the team players and, to my snobbish friends as well as me, was now used in a highly derogatory way.

"You should know better," Will grinned, holding my hand firmly. "What do you want to do now?"

"Go to bed," I said, leaning a little more heavily against him than either of us expected and almost toppling the pair of us over.

"Jesus, Carole! You're not kidding are you?" Will whispered.

"Nope!" I replied.

"Well I can take you to the room soon but right now I'm still on duty," he said quietly. "I'm on my way to see Cliff and Richard in the bar. If I get their support, I'm home and dry."

"Better go then," I slurred.

"And you'd better have a sit down," he said, directing me to a soft padded bench against the wall. "I'll get Monica to look after you."

He waved and a familiar young woman answered his call. A surge of drunken anger rose within me.

Monica had been my husband's PA for the past year. She was intelligent, professional, efficient, tall, dark-haired and stunningly attractive. Even my normally calm, professional husband had been unable to fully conceal his attraction to her.

What was worse was that she made no secret of the fact that she found Will very attractive too.

It wasn't anything she said, but as a woman myself I could read another woman's body language like a book. The casual touching, the way she mentioned his name a little too frequently, the look in her eyes when they talked, the way she stood slightly too close to him.

At first I had suspected my husband of lusting after her and her of trying to take him away from me. I told myself that I was being childish; that feelings of jealousy were beneath me both in class and in intelligence. Of course they would find each other attractive; they were both attractive people. But that didn't mean my husband was going to try and get her into bed any more than I would let the equally attractive Phil Gibson do the same with me.

Nevertheless and to my continued self-disgust, I remained jealous. This feeling wasn't helped by alcohol, the amount of time they had spent together that very evening or the way he steered her round towards me now with his hand on the small of her back.

"My wife's feeling a little... unwell," Will was saying. "Would you mind keeping an eye on her for a moment?"

"Of course," she agreed, perching on the bench next to me, revealing altogether too much thigh and placing one of her hands on mine.

There was an awkward pause as we both tried to work out just how drunk I was. From the inside it felt like I was about to topple over but I tried as hard as I could to maintain a bit of composure in front of a woman who might just be a rival for my husband's affection.

I suspect Monica had enjoyed a few drinks too because her voice wasn't quite as cut-glass as usual.

"Would you like some water," she asked concerned.

"I'm fine thank you," I replied frostily.

There was another awkward pause.

"I do enjoy working for William," she said. "You must be very proud of him."

I nodded to avoid having to slur my speech.

"They say he'll get promoted to Senior Partner soon."

She was becoming more animated by the sentence.

"I'm really lucky to be part of his team. To work so closely with him."

She seemed even more proud of my husband than I was. Working with him every day, perhaps she saw him more clearly. Perhaps she was right.

"I mean..."

She continued her speech of admiration but I wasn't listening. As Monica launched into another enthusiastic praise of my husband, several things came into my mind in quick succession.

The first was that her top was far too tight and her skirt was far too short.

The second was that she wasn't wearing a bra despite her fairly impressive boobs.

The third was that the more she talked about my husband, the more erect her nipples were becoming.

The fourth was that if I didn't give him what he needed there was someone here who would do so in my place.

The fifth was that if I didn't lie down soon I would be sick.

".. and I'll be with him all weekend at the US conference too."

"What?"

My drink-fuddled attention was suddenly roused. Had I heard correctly? Was this gorgeous girl about to spend a whole weekend in an American hotel with my husband?

Had I been sober this would have given me only the slightest twinge of jealousy. After all, Will had been to many conferences with many Personal Assistants over the years without incident. But I was not sober and none of these other PAs had looked like Monica or talked about my husband with the same starry-eyed adoration that she had just done.