Gazumped

"Do you still live at 42 Belmont, no, sorry, I forgot. You moved a few months ago, didn't you? 58 Grevillea now, isn't it?"

If I wasn't sitting down I would have fallen over. He knew! Dave knew. Not only that, known for at least four months.

When? How? We've been so careful.

Like a montage from a movie the previous year flits through my mind. Vignettes of dinners, sex, gifts, date nights, birthdays, our anniversary. Mornings. Nights. Days. Time with our children. Nowhere. In not one scene could I detect a change in Dave.

I look at Dave as if seeing him for the first time. This is the man I have spent my entire adult life with. The man who held my hand and encouraged me while I gave birth to our children. The man who I nursed through influenza. The real one. The one where you can't lift your head off the pillow. Who nursed me through morning sickness and an emergency appendectomy.

The man I should know as well as the back of my hand. The man I should be in tune with. Notice any change in.

None. There's been none. I'm sure of it.

I stare at him, marvelling. A stranger. My husband of twenty-eight years is a stranger to me.

I've been thinking myself so clever. So careful. Not giving anything away. Such a good actress. Oscar worthy in my performance.

But Dave is better.

So much better. He's Anthony Hopkins to my Debra Messing.

He knew and hid his knowledge from me.

How could he? How could he hide it so well?

If he truly loves me he shouldn't have been able to. The thought triggers heat. It rises up my neck and suffuses my cheeks. I don't want to explore the logic of it. Had I truly loved him would I have been able to hide it so well?

But, clearly, I didn't hide it so well.

Dave knew. Had known for months.

I look at him, but it's not him from the here and now, it's him from a mere two weeks ago. I see him undressing me. Tracing his fingers over my flesh. Gentle. Loving. Cherishing. A lie. He knew.

I think about how hard I'd worked to respond. To hide my guilt. How careful I'd been to ensure my expression was loving and responsive. I think about the tears I suppressed. How I silently apologised to John while I reciprocated, touching and kissing, pretending I wanted to make love. I think of the stress. How I had to fight the urge to flee. To recoil. The shame when my body betrayed my heart and I climaxed. How I had to resist leaping from the bed as soon as we were done, wanting to wash Dave's scent off me. I think about how I lay beside him following the act. Sleepless while he slept. Apologetic to both men. I have lied to both. Betrayed both.

I think about all the other days and nights where similar scenes had played out. Scenes where my heart had pounded not from love or lust, not from excitement and anticipation, but from fear of being caught out. From anxiety over the lies. From stress over my performance. From terror at the thought of having my deception, my betrayal, exposed.

All for nothing. Dave had known.

For months I've been scared. Editing my every word. Conscious of my every facial expression. My nerves stretched to their limit. Exhausted from everything it's taken to hide my betrayal and shield Dave from hurt. To keep track of my lies. Sleepless. A mental wreck.

All for nothing.

Did he love me at all? Ever? How long has he been pretending? A month? Four? Fifteen? Twenty-eight years?

All those things he said to John. All those awful things. What he really thinks of me.

I look at him and want to hit him. Rip out his tongue.

And cry. I want to cry. He's dry-eyed. It's me fighting tears. Me, nauseous from rage and rejection. I reach for the glass of chardonnay, wanting to douse the flames and rinse the bitterness from my mouth. It tastes sour.

Dave removes the glass of wine from my hand. His other hand is holding John's half-finished glass. He turns and walks toward our kitchen. No, not ours. His. His kitchen now.

Over his shoulder, casually, as if speaking to a neighbour about the weather, he says, "Come on, get a wriggle on, Chelsea. John's already at his car."

I'm being dismissed. I turn my head. John has indeed left the room. He didn't even wait for me so we could walk out together.

FOUR YEARS LATER

I turn the last page of the magazine, closing it and realise I can't remember one article or advert from the entire thing. Probably no loss. The articles are more than likely out of date. I turn to the cover and check the dates. There's no satisfaction in being right - the magazine is three years old.

'Surely a doctor's practice as large and well patronised as this one can afford to buy current magazines?' I think as I return it to the stack and select another one. 'And why do they always run so far behind scheduled appointment times?'

I begin my next round of bored flicking, waiting for my name to be called.

I look around the room even as I turn a page. Bland, tastefulness at its best. A forgettable sage green colour scheme, probably meant to calm. Is bored calm? Unmemorable prints of flowers and fields. Matching sage green upholstery on the chairs that line the walls.

And, of course, the usual range of illnesses. Anything from patients looking normal and well to those who look like they haven't slept in a month and should definitely not be out of their beds.

"Mrs. Smith."

I hear the name but don't react at first. Not until they repeat it, and then I startle, feeling stupid. Even after four years I'm still not used to being called Mrs. Smith instead of Mrs. Brown.

I rise, hefting my bag onto my shoulder and make my way down the corridor to my doctor's room.

"Hello, Mrs. Smith. What can I do for you today?"

"I've come to have my Implanon replaced. It's been five years."

"Oh, of course. Silly of me. It's in your appointment notes. So, still needing contraception then? You should talk to your husband about shouldering some of the responsibility and getting the snip." He smiles.

I return the smile. "Maybe next time."

I keep my face friendly and neutral but inside I feel smug. My arguments with John about him having a vasectomy has been a battle of wills for months. Why should I continue to chemically poison my body when he can just undergo a simple procedure? It's not even an operation done in a hospital. The good doctor here could perform it unlike the non-chemical option for me which would be to have my tubes tied. Something I've pointed out to John more than once.

During our last argument over the issue, I remembered he'd said he'd had the mumps as a child. I asked him to get his sperm tested, thinking I could still have a win in our stand-off and go off birth control if the test came up as John having a low sperm count. The stubborn bastard refused to get tested.

But I'm also stubborn so while internally still churning over his harsh words, I secretly salvaged some of his semen from a titty-fuck and sent it off for testing. Oh yes, I stored it correctly. Ironic, really. Turns out John doesn't just have a low sperm count; he's sterile. No sperm in his semen at all, none. Azoospermia if you have to know the technical speak.

At first, flush with victory, I intended to confront him with the results, but then common sense prevailed. I wanted a happy husband again and not a sparring partner. I wanted lovemaking, not merely the release of sexual tension. Cutting him off at the knees with the results would not have returned my sensitive artist lover back to me. And somewhere in that epiphany I remembered the inconvenience of monthly bleeds. I like not having to deal with tampons and all the other issues that come with menstruation so a replacement implant it is. After all, it won't be forever.

Dr. Jones is saying something and I totally miss it.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?"

"I said, how about we swap your Implanon for the new type of contraceptive implant. It's rather fantastic if I do say so myself. It not only offers contraception, it also takes a recording of your pulse at regular intervals during the day and has built in a whole host of other recording tools we use for diagnostic purposes so if you come in feeling unwell all you have to do is pause by one of our scanners and it downloads information and we can see what's been happening with you internally since your last visit. Real space-age stuff."

"Wow," I laugh. "It sounds like something off Star Trek. What about side effects? I'm not going to end up the size of a barn am I? Or grow whiskers or something? And is it like Implanon in that most women stop bleeding altogether?"

"No, nothing like that. Less disruptive than Implanon but with all its benefits such as stopping or at least lessening the heaviness of blood flow."

"Okay. Sounds good."

While Doctor Jones turns to his monitor and clicks on one of the icons on his home screen I begin unbuttoning my blouse.

"Oh, what?" he murmurs, rubbing his neck. "What the...?"

I look at him and then the screen, wondering at his confused tone. Was he like me and a klutz with technology?

"How long did you say you've had your implant in?" he asks, turning toward me.

"Five years."

"How can that be? Are you sure? It looks like you already have a VanGuardian implanted. All your medical information has downloaded."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"You must have been in within the last eighteen months. That's how long they've been approved and available."

"But I haven't. I haven't been to a doctor in two years or more."

He turns back to the screen and even in profile I can see he's gone pale.

"There's information here going back four years. How can that be? And what's all this other information? Why would there be WAV files? They're audio files. There has to be a glitch somewhere. Someone else's VanGuardian must have been accidentally linked to your patient card. But four years? That can't be. And I don't understand why I'm seeing a Google map with a flag showing the clinic. Let's take a look at your Implanon and see if we can't sort this mix-up out."

My head is spinning as I move to the examination bench and lay down. I turn my head away as I'm a little squeamish about needles and the like.

"It's definitely a VanGuardian," he says and I can hear the confusion in his voice. "It's the same as the ones we implant except for being a smidge longer and wider. Hmm."

I swivel my head and look at the doctor comparing my implant with an image on the screen. My eyes are drawn to the top of the page, VanGuardian. Seeing it written jogs a memory. I know that name. That was Dave's pseudonym on the amateur writing site where he wrote about cheating wives. A coincidence?

The rest of my appointment passes in a blur.

"We'll sort this out, Mrs. Smith. There has to be some sort of crossed signal or something in your old implant. Or maybe you were part of some test group or something. I'll get our tech guys on to VanGuardian and we'll be in touch."

I nod and walk back to the reception area on autopilot. I pay my bill and head to my car. With my hands on the wheel, snatches of conversations from the past spill into my already overloaded head.

Bummer. They have a clause in my contract about owning all of my research work and inventions so even if I work on something at home on my own time I wouldn't be able to patent it for at least twelve months after I resign.

Research and innovation was Dave's favourite part of his work. His forté.

As if he were sitting before me, I see Dave seated on the couch facing me and John. I picture his faded jeans and casual polo shirt. I remember the shock of how little was in our saving account when it came time to divvy up our assets and his insistence on keeping the framed photo from the Caribbean cruise we'd taken together three months into my affair with John.

Stunned, my hands drop to my lap. Suddenly, like a jigsaw, all the pieces come together.

I'd had my Implanon put in a matter of weeks before that cruise... at Dave's suggestion so there would be no inconvenient monthly visitors to spoil our vacation. I remembered feeling touched I had such a considerate husband.

I look back at the clinic. Different clinic to one I used go to. Different doctor. I changed doctors and clinics after Dave's and my separation because our old doctor, the one I'd shared with Dave, was an old friend of his father and the person who had actually inspired Dave to enter the medical research field. It would have been too awkward and uncomfortable to continue with Dr. Black.

Dave had known about John. He had to have. My heart is pounding. He must have known from the beginning. Somehow he talked Dr. Black into putting in an implant Dave had developed. A VanGuardian. But more. Mine contained a GPS locator and the ability to record voice files. That has to be illegal. I didn't consent. At least I don't think I did. I did have to sign something... What was it? I don't know. I can't remember. Regardless, I should sue Dr. Black, anyway. I sure as hell didn't know what I was signing. He's retired and living in Brazil. I know that much. Apparently its where his much younger wife hales from. Can he be extradited from Brazil? Isn't that where all the German war criminals from World War II fled to because they don't have extradition treaties?

Why develop an implant with a GPS and recording abilities? Surely not just to track me. My mind mulled that over. And then it hit me. Military. Yes, military. Something like that would be of use to them. I know Dave was involved in the development of something for diabetic soldiers that was implanted and regulated their sugar without the need for daily injections or medication. So, was a GPS locator and recorder that much more of a leap?

My mind is swirling with possibilities. Sometime around the time of our cruise or shortly after Dave must have quit his job. No wonder we had so little in our savings account. He had us living off it. I never checked. I used my credit card and Dave paid it off each month and gave me cash for tips and markets and things. There'd been no need to go to ATM's or pay bills online. Dave had always taken care of all those things.

Was the photo from the cruise a memento of his resignation? Dave had organised the framing himself. I picture the frame - chunky and somewhat ugly. Could it have been the scanner for the implant? Surely not. Deep inside I know that's exactly what it was. That's why he'd suggested we hang it in the hall by the coat rack. And why he didn't want me to have it. He knew I would have had it reframed or given it to one of the kids who might have stumbled on its real purpose.

The sheer scope of how I've been duped floors me. It all seems so fantastical. Something from a Jason Bourne or James Bond movie, but my gut is telling me it's true. All true. It feels like there's a vice around my chest and I can barely draw breath. No wonder he didn't try and exact revenge in the divorce. He'd already done it, financially, at least.

And I can't do a thing about it. Dr. Black is probably out of reach. And knowing Dave he would have somehow secured my signature on a consent form. To top it off, it's been nearly four years since Dave and I finalised our divorce. Sure, I will receive a portion of his retirement funds but I'm guessing he's got the squillions he's earning from VanGuardian going through corporations and I won't see a cent of it. I touch my arm where the new implant lies. I can't even tell John. Things are shaky enough at home without me confessing to just how well my ex-husband fooled me.

And now Dave lives in the Algarve. The kids rave about his villa overlooking the beach. Well, they do in the rare times we actually speak.

I'm in a daze as I pull into the driveway of the small, rundown cottage I share with John. I can't remember the trip home. I hope I didn't run any red lights. All I need on top of today's revelations is a traffic infringement notice.

On autopilot I unlock the door and walk into the lounge. John is sitting on the couch.

"Um, Chelsea, we have to talk."

Only then do I see he's holding hands with a girl who looks no older than thirty but who is most definitely pregnant. Not long to go, either. It looks like someone shoved a basketball under her tight pink T-shirt.

There are two glasses of chardonnay on the table in front of them.

NOW, TO EASE YOUR JOURNEY FROM FICTION BACK TO COLD, HARD REALITY...

Vandemonium1's joke

A husband and wife go to a counsellor after 15 years of marriage. The counsellor asks them what the problem is and the wife goes into a tirade, listing every problem they have ever had in the 15 years they've been married. She goes on and on and on. Finally, the counsellor gets up, goes around the desk, embraces the woman, and kisses her passionately. The woman shuts up and sits quietly in a daze.

The counsellor turns to the husband and says "That is what your wife needs at least three times a week. Can you do that?"

The husband says, "I can bring her in on Monday and Wednesday, but on Friday I play golf."

CreativityTakesCourage

A gecko lizard is walking through the Australian bush, heading toward the river for a drink.

On his walk he comes across a koala sitting in a gum tree, smoking a joint and stops for a chat.

"Gidday, mate. What are you doing?"

The koala replies, "Smoking a joint, come up and join me. It's bloody good gear!"

So the gecko climbs up and sits next to the koala and they share a joint. After a while the gecko says his mouth is now very dry and that he's going to get a drink from the river.

At the riverbank, the gecko is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls in. The current is quite strong and he starts to float away. A crocodile sees this and swims over to the stoned gecko and helps him back to the shore.

He then asks the lizard, "What's the matter with you?"

The gecko explains to the crocodile that he was sitting in the tree, smoking a joint with his new koala friend. He then explained how his mouth got dry, and that he was so wasted that, when he went to get a drink from the river, he fell in!

The inquisitive crocodile says he has to check out the stoned koala for himself. He walks into the bush and finds the tree where the koala is sitting in the fork of a gum tree, finishing a joint.

The crocodile looks up and says "Hey, Koala, you got any more of that grass?"

The koala looks down and says "FUUUUUCK, DUDE....... how much water did you drink?"