I Married My Sister

Mal raised a hand.

"Wait a minute. How much did you say?"

"Actually it's slightly more. If you add the super-low-high-saver deposit account, and the dividends from the..."

As the manager rattled on, Mal grinned. So Gordon was a bit of a miser! Of course; it figured, counting the interest and the severance pay: Five years, two of them as a middle-manager at the same premium-paying finance house, never spending more than a tiny fraction of his income, probably... And now, here he was, no job, lots of money, no wife, no commitments!

Mal ambled out of the bank, having finally managed to withdraw ten thousand pounds of Gordon's savings in fifty pound notes, which he'd stuffed casually into various pockets of Gordon's Navy blue Parka. He stood in the sunshine.

Across the street, caffeinated office workers were pouring out of Silverman Brothers for their five-minute lunches of Pret a Manger sandwiches. Then Mal said something he hadn't said for years:

"Now. What shall I do today?"

________________________________________

It's amazing what a really good suit and haircut can do for a man. And Mal had spared no expense on either. Heads turned as he strolled blithely through Covent Garden. He noticed a gorgeous woman emerge from the Nicole Farhi store. He decided to follow her.

Outside the Ivy restaurant, the woman met two men and another attractive lady. Two businessmen with a couple of high-class escorts, Mal decided. They went inside.

The Ivy is one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. Nobody gets in without booking at least a month in advance. The stone-faced Maitre-de-table eyed Mal up and down, quickly, almost imperceptibly. He opened his mouth.

Mal pressed four fifty-pound notes in his hand.

He looked around the restaurant.

"Put me next to those four, would you, please?"

________________________________________

Mal eavesdropped on the four at the next table. The two men spoke in American accents. Perfect; he and they spoke the same language: Money.

He waited till one of the men went to wash his hands. Now was his chance.

In the lavatory, Mal spoke: "I'd like to make you a proposition."

The American eyed him warily. He'd been warned about English guys. But Mal went on: "I'm assuming that those ladies are on expense. Now, I'm very much taken with the dark-haired one. Here's two thousand pounds in cash for her."

When they got back to their tables, the American whispered something to the woman. She excused herself, and sat down at Mal's table, and gave him a questioning smile.

Four hours and four bottles later, he left with the woman. He took her to Claridges. At the front desk, he insisted on paying cash, up front. She watched him as he counted out the notes.

"Don't worry, there's still enough for you."

Her eyes widened. He brandished a sealed pack of fifties.

"A thousand. Is that enough?"

"If you want to be out of here in an hour, yes."

He produced two more packs. "Let's make it three."

________________________________________

"Shocking. Shocking. No fucking discipline." Mal stared disapprovingly at his naked body in the mirror. He didn't particularly mind that the swap had given him a worse deal than Gordon in the cock department; he knew that sex was about style, not size. And in any case, he'd be back to his well-endowed self in a couple of days. But he really didn't like the way Gordon had let himself go.

The hooker didn't care. He was just another pair of Prada's and a month's rent on her Mayfair flat to her.

He emerged from the bathroom and watched as she removed her coat. He had a tinge of regret at having been so impulsive earlier. Suppose she turned out to be...

...She was eyeing him. He guessed that she'd guessed his thoughts. She fixed her eyes on him while she unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. Quickly but unhurriedly she undid her bra. She stood in stockings and suspenders.

"Walk around me. Come on. Take a look."

She posed like a proud goddess. He circled her slowly, staring in awe at her perfect form.

"You've almost got your money's worth already, haven't you?" His cock answered her in the affirmative.

"Thank fuck my dick works, at any rate," he said as he pushed down her panties.

"Excuse me?"

He kneaded her arse. "Oh nothing. This is a new one, I just got it this morning. You're my test drive, as it happens."

She cupped his balls in her cool hand and ran a fingernail slowly down his chest. "Let's see how it handles the corners."

________________________________________

In the middle of the night the alarm clock whispered to Gordon.

"Psst. It's me. It's Skizzix."

He became fully awake. Camille lay nestled against him. She was naked. His cock stirred. Her hand was resting lightly on it. He froze. Had they been-

"-don't just lie there! Get up! Get dressed! Quick!"

Minutes later Gordon stood shivering in the cold night air outside, in urgent whispered conversation with a letter-box.

"What do you mean, another problem?"

"'Fraid so, kid. Management have found out. They've dispatched a cleanup agent. So whatever you do, for Chrissake don't arouse suspicion with anyone. Anyone. Get it?"

"Oh."

"Wait, there's worse: I've been fired. They found out I lied about my age on my job form. See I'm only thirty thousand years old. I figured that with my male pattern baldness, they'd assume I was older, see. Fuckin' minimum age rules. Anyhow. That's why it's going to take a little longer to swap you and your brother-in-law back."

"How much longer?"

"Just until you're both dead. Then we simply switch souls on the balance sheet. See, my firm only does Corporeal accounting. Free-floating souls don't have to be declared. Not like the Buddhists. If you were dealing with the Buddhists, then you'd really be fucked for all eternity, I can tell ya."

"..." said Gordon, and fainted.

________________________________________

Gordon opened the passenger door of his BMW for Mal.

"No you don't! Move over. I'll drive. It's my car."

Gordon shifted over to passenger seat and folded his arms. "Not any more," he muttered under his breath.

It was Skizzix who'd set up the meeting. He'd old them to try and be grownups about their new situation, and work on the finances and the details some place quiet. Then he told them he was leaving them, probably for ever.

They drove to Regent's Park, found an isolated bench, and sat down. Both had brought briefcases, which they now rested on their laps. They looked like a couple of spies about to exchange military secrets.

Mal yawned and stretched. "Shall we start, then?"

"Okay. I've made a list..."

So began the first of a series of clandestine briefing sessions, where Mal and Gordon would exchange information on their lives, from PIN numbers and lists of tangible assets, down to the most personal memories, allergies, idiosyncratic quirks.

The most pressing problem for Gordon was Camille. He'd managed to convince her that they should abstain from sex, on the pretext that this would somehow help rebuild their relationship.

"Well, I have to tell you mate, if she doesn't get a good poke once a week, she'll get suspicious pretty soon. Now here's what you need to do..."

Mal enjoyed watching Gordon squirm as he was exposed to the full details of Camille's sexual habits and proclivities. But if Mal had known how badly he was actually taunting him, he probably would have smashed his face in. For Malcolm, sexual morality was simple: Homosexuality, paedophilia, incest were all equally abhorrent and should all be capital offences. Adultery, well, that was another matter.

"..oh, yeah, twice a month, she expects it up the Mild and Bitter, the harder the better. Oh, and here's the key to the handcuffs. Don't lose it."

Gordon hung his head. "Oh God. There's only one thing for it. I've got to-"

"- divorce her, yes. And the quicker the better. Now. Onto the important stuff. I hope you've called the office and told them you've got flu or something."

"Yah. Stomach bug." Gordon clutched his stomach and winced involuntarily, though he felt fine.

"Well, next week, you're going back. But before that, tell them you're rehiring me. As of Monday. Believe me, you won't last a minute without me."

Gordon looked up at Mal mistrustfully, but Mal was watching a young woman pushing a baby on a swing in a nearby playground. She seemed familiar.

"And just how do I explain this sudden change of heart?"

Mal turned to Gordon, annoyed. "I dunno. Tell them you made a mistake. Jesus, no bloody initiative. No wonder you've not got a promotion in five years. And by the way, that reminds me, I'll need a raise."

________________________________________

The rest of the week went amazingly smoothly. Gordon and Mal would meet every day at the bench in Regent's Park, and go through a Q&A session. The nights were hard for Gordon; he didn't get much sleep, trying to resist acting on his feelings for Camille. He'd considered checking into a hotel, but Mal told him that would just make her suspicious. And he still hadn't plucked up the courage to discuss the divorce.

Meanwhile Gordon was finding that he was growing to respect his brother-in-law more each day. Gordon's relatively simple and trouble-free childhood was in stark contrast to Mal's tough upbringing in the East End. He began to understand that Mal's ruthlessness and determination, which he'd loathed and coveted at the same time, was simply a will to survive in a harsh world.

________________________________________

At eight AM on Monday, Malcolm Vernon Lessiter pecked his loving wife Camille on the cheek and headed off for work.

Only one other person in the world knew that he was not her husband, but her brother, Gordon Leon Crotchet.

Camille hummed as she put the breakfast dishes away. For the first time in ages she felt happy. And without the booze. She'd found a new respect for the man she'd married. He'd changed in so many ways: He was attentive, respectful and kind. He no longer grabbed the controls and switched channels in the middle of Big Brother. He noticed her new dress. He'd even remembered that her birthday was next week, without her having to drop any hints.

There was only one problem: he seemed to have become shy and diffident in bed. While she found this coyness sweet at first, she was beginning to worry a little how long this would continue. But right now, this small failing was easily outweighed by all the other improvements.

The doorbell rang. It was a young woman. Camille knew her, her name was Sally; she lived in the flats next door. She'd didn't like her, she was a busybody.

"Hello, there -- Camille, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. And you're Sally. What can I do for you?"

"Well, it's a bit awkward. You see, I take my little Benny to the playground over in Regent's Park in the mornings, see? Before the traffic starts. He's teething at the moment, and he's ever so grumpy. I think fresh air is important for a small-"

"-I'm sorry to be rude, but I've got a lot of clearing up to do..."

Sally peered past Camille into the immaculate lounge.

"Yes. Well. I just wanted to say that I've seen your husband there. He's been meeting someone there every day this week."

"God. I knew it. I fucking knew it. The bastard. Come in."

Sally entered, her eyes twinkling.

"What did she look like? The woman he was with? I bet it was that slut of a secretary of his."

"Oh, no! It wasn't a woman. It was a man, dear."

"A man?" Camille sat down on the arm of the settee, nearly missing.

"Why," Sally asked innocently. "Aren't things-- you know -- are you having problems?"

"We haven't had sex for over a month. We normally do it every week. On Thu-hu-hursdays..." She began bawling.

Sally shut the front door. She was in her element. She put the kettle on.

"You know, I know someone who had the same problem with their hubby. He went off with his hairdresser. You think you know someone..."

Camille stopped. "No. No it's too ridiculous. You don't know my husband."

"Well, perhaps it's all innocent. Have there been any other signs? Has he gone vegetarian, for instance?"

"Well he's started doing the dishes."

"There you are! Guilt. Guilt and neatness. Classic signs. Yes I'm afraid you 'no longer hold any attraction' for your husband, dear. Best have it out with him when he comes home."

"But -- but supposing I'm wrong? I'd look like an idiot. And he's been so nice the last few days."

"Well, if you want to be sure, give this man a call. He's very discreet. And he's reasonable." Sally handed Camille a business card: "V. Vickers, Private Investigator".

________________________________________

Gordon stood at the window of his office and watched the busy street below. He didn't hear the knock. He was startled when a woman spoke.

"Excuse me, Mal, Henson will be here in half an hour. I think we need to get started now."

He turned. He hadn't seen her before, but he recognized her from Mal's description: She was Linda Josephs, a bright and efficient, serious-looking woman in her late twenties. She was also, according to Mal, mercilessly ambitious. His exact words were a 'ball-buster'. She had latched onto Mal, seeing him as a fast-track to the higher echelons of the company.

"Get started. Yes."

She sat down and perched a leg over her knee. Gordon stared.

"They're Schiaparelli's." She stood and hoisted her skirt to show off her Schiaparelli's better.

She took out a pen and notebook, and gave him a quizzical stare.

"Well?"

Gordon tried to remember what Mal had told him about the Monday morning briefings, but he'd completely blanked. He was saved by another knock at door. It was Mal.

Good Morning, Gordon," said Gordon. "You're looking -- fitter."

"Good Morning, Mal", said Mal. "Thanks. I've started working out. I should have started years ago. Shocking the way people let themselves go."

"Er, Have you met my secretary, er..."

"Linda, isn't it?" Mal prompted him.

"Yes. Look," she said to Gordon, "unless this is really important, I think he'd better wait."

"It is important. It's about Henson."

Linda crossed her legs the other way.

Mal looked meaningfully at Gordon.

"Oh. Yes. Linda, You'd better wait outside. Maybe you can do some filing, or something."

Linda opened her mouth and shut it. She flounced out.

"Well done. You've just ruined your chances of licking hot melted chocolate off her tits. Did I tell you that's what she's into? Anyway. I just realized you don't know about Henson..."

Half an hour later Gordon walked into the biggest client meeting of his life. It went well.

Meanwhile at the coffee machine Linda wondered how come Mal seemed to be paying a lot of attention to this new guy, Gordon.

"He's not new. He used to work here. He's a rehire."

"Funny," said someone else, sipping her espresso. "Mal was the one who had him fired in the first place."

Linda spoke. "They were really pally. Mal complemented him on his physique, for God's sake. D'you think Mal might be a swinger?"

"This guy Gordon's got something on him, that's for sure."

Later that morning, Linda walked into Gordon's office without knocking. Gordon was staring out of the window again.

"Busy?"

He wheeled round. "Er, not really. Look, sorry about earlier."

"I want to know what's going on. Between you and Gordon Crotchet."

"I don't see that it's any of your business." Gordon was pleased with himself. A week ago, he would have been intimidated.

"Mal, tell me: Are you gay?"

"Not that I know of. Ah. I know what you're thinking. Well, Gordon's my brother-in-law."

Linda looked at him. "That hasn't answered my question."

"No, I'm not gay. We're just good friends."

As he said it, he realized it was true.

"Oh. Okay then. It's just that I was sort of hoping that was the reason- the reason that- well you know what I'm talking about, obviously."

"Obviously. But pretend I don't for a minute."

"Well, I know I can be a bit- a bit wild during sex, and I know some men can get a bit..."

"Terrified?"

"I was going to say 'a bit put off', but-"

"Look. You have to realise something. Mal's someone who likes to be in control. He's like a lot of men. But you know, some men actually like women who are a bit more..."

He trailed off, ogling her shapely legs, wistfully.

Linda was a little perturbed at her boss describing himself in the third person, but she decided to play along.

"Well," she said slowly, "if Mal treated Linda with a little more respect, maybe Linda could change a little bit for him..."

Suddenly Gordon felt a pang of jealousy for his adulterous brother-in-law.

"Linda, I have to tell you. Mal's not your type. He'll never change. You're more -- you're more Gordon's type."

As soon as he said it, he felt ridiculous. As if this lovely, smart woman would go for-

"Well. I guess that's made it pretty clear. To be honest, I'm a bit relieved. Between you and me, I never really fancied you. I was only doing it for my career, you know."

Gordon didn't believe her. She was softer than she acted. He felt he somehow knew her true character pretty well. Certainly better than Mal did.

She left the room. He took momentary pleasure in daydreaming that Linda would take a fancy to his brother-in-law, Gordon. Until he remembered that he was Gordon, and he'd just succeeded in putting her off him.

"Oh, fuck it."

________________________________________

Gordon and Mal sat in the garden behind St Bride's church, eating sandwiches and discussing their first half day at their new jobs. Aside from Gordon's little chat with Linda, things were going pretty smoothly so far, as far as work was concerned.

Mal stretched. "I tell you, I could have done with another day like last Thursday."

"You would have run out of my money in another two days."

Mal chuckled. "Probably. But I have to tell you, there's something to be said for just chilling for a bit. Taking a holiday. Like that guy over there, the tourist."

Mal pointed at a man with a camera round his neck and a London guide. Gordon looked.

The tourist noticed them. He walked away. So what, he thought. He'd done his job, anyway.

The tourist found a phone box. Inside, he opened a notebook and located a phone number. "Mrs Lessiter? It's me, Mr. Vickers. I've got the name of the man your husband is seeing. His name is Crotchet. Gordon Crotchet. Yes, Madam, I know. It's your brother."

Vic Vickers put the phone down. A little old woman tapped on the glass of the booth, and signalled to him. She needed change.

He stepped outside.

"It's okay, madam, I've finished. How much do you need?"

The woman smiled at him. She held out a hand to show him a few coins. They dropped to ground.

"Oh, silly me, I'm so sorry!"

Vic Vickers stooped to pick them up for her. He never got up. The lady picked up the notebook from the ledge and made a call.

"Hello, yes, Agent Maddox here. We may have another personality swap on our hands. Sector 488. Yes. Check it out. At a guess I'd say it could be Skizzix' work."

On the pavement by the phone box, Agent Maddox noticed a slug crawling along slowly. She quickly squished it with a sensible shoe.

"Sorry about that, Mr Vickers. I just don't like slugs."

________________________________________

Camille was in the bedroom when Gordon arrived home. She was wearing her bathrobe.

It was going to be a rocky evening, he expected: This was the night he was going to tell her about the divorce.

She beamed at him.

"Hello, you!"

"Hello, Camille! Having a bath?"

She shook her head, suppressing a giggle. "Nope."

Gordon threw his coat onto the bed. "God, I'm knackered."