License to Kill

I sat at the table in the room, staring at the preplaced bottle of champagne in its ice bucket, and the plate of strawberries covered in chocolate, wondering what the hell was going on, and trying to decide on a course of action. I could go home, or stay here, waiting to hear from her, or... well, in fact, thinking about it, I didn't actually know she was going home. I assumed, because her phone was off, that she was on the tube. I mean, where else could she be going, dressed in a cocktail dress, on the spur of the moment?

I must have sat there, mindlessly refreshing the Find Your Phone app, with scenario after scenario going through my mind, trying to explain what I knew of the situation and her bizarre behavior, for almost three hours.

And then she suddenly popped up, at home. The phone placement suddenly jumped. And I knew then that she'd turned her phone off because I hadn't seen it earlier, as I would have as she was making her way home from the tube station. She'd deliberately turned the phone off, so she wouldn't have to talk to me. And I then couldn't be sure that she had actually gone home via the tube. After all, it was three hours. The tube takes three-quarters of an hour, with changes, and then a quarter of an hour walk at the other end.

No, it was likely she'd gone somewhere else first. But where? The office? That was local, but why? Why would you rush off to the office in a cocktail dress on a Sunday, when no one would be there anyway?

What. The. Hell. Was. Going. On?

Well, time to find out. So I called her, and she answered.

"So... home then?" I said, without preamble.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I needed some air. I needed to just sit outside somewhere, to clear my head."

Well, that explained the three hours. In a pig's ear, it did.

"So, you sat in a park, in your cocktail dress, for two hours, and then what, took the tube home?" I asked, flatly.

"Well, I know it sounds stupid when you put it like that," she started, "but yes. I just came over all wobbly and had to get out. The thing is, I knew what this was all about. I knew the topic of conversation you were going to get to. You were going to ask me to have a baby, weren't you?"

Now, I wasn't expecting this. I thought I was being all circumspect and mysterious, and was going to approach the subject slowly, but apparently, I'm easier to read than I thought I was. Which threw me off my game. She was being accusatory and I had to respond.

"That might have come up," I hedged. "The weekend wasn't just about that, but that probably would have been a topic at some point."

"Right. Some point. Sure," she replied, slowly. "Look, I'm not sure I'm ready for that. And I just knew this was where this was going. I had a light-headed moment, and I panicked. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I panicked. I didn't know how to respond. It's such a huge change to my -- our -- lives and I wasn't ready for that conversation. So, I left, to go sit in a park and watch families and think about what I wanted. I'm sorry. I turned my phone off, and I just sat, thinking about our future." She wasn't quite whining, but she wasn't far off it.

The thing is, it was entirely plausible. It was well within Clarissa behavior patterns. I could see this. Except for all the bullshit about wine, Miss Davies and Wednesday. Which, I realized, she had no clue about. She'd already left. Her story as presented was absent that knowledge.

For the first time ever, I started to contemplate that all might not be copacetic inside my marriage. Because either I was imagining things, and I'd just had the most amazing set of coincidences ever, or I was being lied to and gaslit by my wife in a truly epic way. In a way, I would have bought hook, line and sinker if I didn't have this other stuff going on that made me question it.

So, what did I do?

Well, in my occupation, when you don't have enough data for a conclusion, you get more data. I needed more data. And in this situation, it would be pretty easy to find. Wednesday. That was the key. Follow her around, see if she left her office, or if she called me, telling me she'd be late. If she did, and she went somewhere those guys were, or if they came to her, well... that would confirm there was an issue. Of course, if they didn't, or I didn't see them, then yeah, that wasn't proof that nothing was going on, but still, one thing at a time. This was one lead I could follow.

Listen to me. I'm sounding like a cheap nineteen-eighties American cop show. "A lead I could run down." How's that going for you, Mr. Rockford? All I needed was a Gran Torino in Mars Red, with a white stripe down the side, - which, by the way, is the stupidest car for undercover cops to be driving in LA. I mean, come on. Stick out much? -- and a partner with a perm, and I'd be all set.

In which case, I decided to just not mention the wine or Miss Davies, or Wednesday, and just made noises on the phone that sounded like I bought her story. That I totally understood. That I was just worried about her. That I'd pack up the room and come home.

And if it all turned out that it was true, that I was imagining things, then this was definitely the smarter move anyway. And as it was, I must have reassured some other people too, because if I hadn't, I doubt things would have gone the way they did.

She was very apologetic, about how I'd spent time setting this up, spent the money, and she'd mucked it all up with her reaction, and how she promised we would have that conversation, when she got her head around it, but in the meantime, if I hurried home, she'd make it up to me. If she was bullshitting me, she was doing one hell of a job. But then, as I reflected, if she was, then she was one slick liar and totally not above using sex to smooth things over. Which, if true, totally redefined our relationship as far as I was concerned.

So I packed up the room, taking the bottle of Champagne with me, along with the strawberries, hoping the chocolate wouldn't melt while I sat on the tube train, and went home.

And, as promised, when I got there, I was suitably entertained by a contrite wife who was all set on making me as happy and as sexually satisfied as she possibly could.

The next few days went slowly. I had no one to talk to about all this; it was so weird and stupid that I just didn't want to put it out there for anyone to comment on, and I didn't want anyone to just tell me I was being stupid. I felt that enough already. But at some level, I also knew that something wasn't right. Well, knew is a strong word. Felt is a better one. I just felt it in my bones. Something wasn't on the up and up, and I needed to just look into this one thing, so I could restore some equilibrium in my life.

As a result, what preparations I did make, I made alone. I suspect this is what allowed me to get as far as I ended up. You'll understand what I mean in a bit.

The one thing I did know was to not take my phone with me. As much as I could track Clarissa's personal phone, she could track mine. It wouldn't do to have me show up outside her office building. In the end, I bought a throwaway clamshell phone and redirected my number from my iPhone to the burner phone, so if she called me, it would still get me.

I took the day off by calling that morning from the burner, and then bought myself some clothes I would never normally wear. I actually bought bike messenger clothes plus one of those bags that goes around the torso that couriers use, and grabbed one of my mountain bikes. Then I bought a children's set of walkie-talkies and mounted it on a reflective vest, and then left early on Wednesday, before Clarissa got up. I took the bike downtown in a cab, much to the amusement of the black cab driver, and then, after dropping my phone off at my office, biked to her office, taking up residence in the coffee shop opposite. In my skintight suit, big helmet, bike bag and reflective vest with walkie-talkie and my big old sun glasses, I looked nothing like the man I usually did. No one would clock me and I was hoping Clarissa wouldn't when she showed up.

I did get a phone call from her while I was waiting. She was concerned. I had left without saying good morning or goodbye, and she was wondering what I was up to. I explained I had an early meeting with an investor in Japan and she just said she understood. And then my blood went cold when she mentioned she may have to stay late, there was a meeting she had herself that may run over. Could I get some Chinese in that evening, and she'd call as soon as she could.

I saw her enter the building about twenty minutes later. And then her phone position went dead, as it always did when she went to work.

I came and went from the coffee shop, to make it look to any observer like I was actually doing something. But all I really did was move around, from one shop to another, and then back again. If I was going to catch her leaving or that group of guys arriving, then I needed to keep my eyes on the place, so I made it quick when I moved around.

I didn't see that dark-skinned group show up, but I did see her leave, at around four PM. And she was not wearing the same clothes she had been when she had arrived. She'd been wearing her standard Work Wear when she showed up at the office, - tailored cream blouse, matching jacket and pencil skirt, heels, plus purse and briefcase. Now, she was in a short leather skirt, what looked like stockings or hose, heels, and a multicolored coat. And her hair was different too. Before it was her standard hair in a somewhat small bun. Now it was down, and she had long dangling earrings that I'd never seen before. In fact, I'd never seen this outfit at all. It was not at all what she'd wear, at least in our lives.

And she wasn't alone, either. There was a man with her, in a shiny suit, like the ones made famous by Ben Elton back in the eighties. He was carrying a briefcase, and had a very impressive head of slightly grey hair. He was tall, at least six foot, and had large imposing shoulders. They were conversing together as I saw them hail a cab and climb in.

Now while London is a metropolitan city, - right up there with any other city in the world in terms of important things going on, - London is also old. It was designed for a horse, and then horse and cart, and not two-way roads with buses and all that on them. Sure, the congestion charge means that lots of the larger or more frivolous traffic stays out of central London, but that doesn't mean there isn't a lot of traffic anyway.

And this is where being on a bike helps. That's why there is such a large bike messenger contingent in the central London area. Simply put, London is mostly flat, and bikes never get stopped in traffic. They are constantly moving and can often be places before cars and cabs can, unless you are going right across the city.

In which case, it wasn't that hard to follow them. They didn't go that far, in fact. To some private club in Belgravia in fact. One I'd never heard of, but then, that wasn't surprising since London is dotted with these kinds of places that have been around since the dawn of time, but don't advertise themselves.

There was clearly some event going on, since I took up station across the road, going back and forth, and watched as several large limo-type cars disgorged well-dressed individuals and groups, among them, that group of guys from The Dorchester.

When they arrived, I honestly didn't know what to do. The fact was that it was clear that whatever suspicions I had were confirmed, although what those suspicions actually were in detail was less clear.

Clarissa was clearly involved in something that I had no clue about, and that she hadn't shared with me. She'd lied to me, very convincingly, about what had happened, - probably even tinged with a little truth to make it really believable. She'd used all that she knew about me and our relationship to manipulate me, and she'd done it with amazing skill and, apparently, lack of remorse.

She was going to meet people she didn't want me to know about, for reasons she didn't want to share, and I had caught it. Now, who they were, what they were meeting for, what it was all about, I had no clue. But, our entire relationship was now in question, because quite obviously, she had no problem lying to my face, with great skill. Almost as if she were... trained?

So, what did I do? Do I confront her when I see her at home? Do I go inside, and try and find out what is going on? How far am I really going to get? Was she having an affair? Or was this work related? Or... was it both? Sexual favors for, what, a contract? Who was the other dude? So many questions to be answered.

As I walked my bike along the pavement, I realized a few things. She lied to me with such aplomb and poise the other day that giving her time to come up with a plausible story was a bad move, tactically. I needed to not give her time to come up with something. I needed surprise and if I was going to do it anytime soon, I needed to do it right then, because I had no clue how long she was going to be in there, with them. If I could catch them together, that would confirm whatever was going on, and she'd have no recourse to lie to me, not with everyone else there too. I might stand a chance of getting the truth, and even if I didn't, I'd at least see what was going on, and be able to draw some conclusions from that. If I waited till later, then she'd probably just leave and go figure out some story to tell me that I'd be hard-pressed to disprove, just like she did the weekend before. There were implications to that train of thought I didn't want to think about right then, but they were there, nonetheless.

Okay. Problem. This was obviously a black tie, invite only event and I was dressed like a bike messenger. Not getting in that way then.

But. I was dressed like a bike messenger. The light clicked on.

I hurried to the nearest office building and asked at the desk if there was a pickup for me. It was a calculated thing; since bike messengers were everywhere, it was likely that at least one building around would have a pickup waiting. All I needed was one package, and then I could use that to possibly gain entry to the building where whatever it was that was going on inside was happening. Enough to at least get into where she was, perhaps? It was worth a try.

As it was, it took four buildings before I found a bored woman manning the desk who wordlessly handed me three packages when I asked, barely even looking up from the iPad she was staring at.

I pocketed the packages in my carrier and exited, and then biked back to the building where the event was happening. There were two entrances, one on the side and one in the front. The one on the street had security on it, checking invites. I went to the side, opened the door and was immediately stopped by security. I tapped the bag and just said, "Where's the mail room? Got something for the managing director here. I think he's waiting on it, for the shindig upstairs?"

The man looked me over and then just nodded towards a door in the rear of the atrium where I was currently standing.

"Thanks," I murmured to him, walking briskly past and through the door, which auto unlocked. The little people are always considered furniture.

Once inside I saw some stairs and a corridor leading outback. I figured the corridor led to the mail room, and the stairs to... well, who knows. The party, hopefully. At least I was inside. I went up the stairs, praying there weren't cameras and if there were, no one was watching at that precise moment.

On the first landing, the door was locked, but on the second landing, it was not, so I went through it. I was still dressed as a bike messenger, but I figured I would say I was picking up from some fictional office if challenged, and then try and leave as fast as I could.

I walked through the door and instantly heard the noises of some kind of party going on. Rounding the corner, I stopped, since there was a large man standing in front of the corner to the stairs. Thankfully he was turned inward, watching the crowd of people, rather than facing out, where he would have seen me. I carefully edged to the side, so I could see into the mass of people, -- about twenty to thirty or so, large guys in suits at each exit. A mix of women and men, all well dressed, tables around the edges with nibbles on them and a bar in the corner, plus waiters wandering around with trays of champagne and other, less identifiable things on.

Looking carefully, I saw Clarissa. She was standing with the group of men from The Dorchester, and one of them had his arm around her, clutching at her waist. He was at least six feet plus, since Clarissa is five nine, and this man was taller. The man who had accompanied her when she had left the office was talking with a different group of people, across the room. No briefcase.

Clarissa though, she was laughing and looking up at the man who had his hands on her. Her arm was around him and she was feeding him a strawberry, not chocolate coated, I noticed. He ate the strawberry and then leaned down to kiss her, and share it with her. They made out in a very obvious manner, oblivious to the men standing with them, and when they were done, she wiped his chin in an incredibly intimate manner. And then he cupped her ass, and with his other hand, tweaked a protruding nipple, to which she giggled in a girlish fashion.

And it was that moment when the rage that had been slowly building over days just finally broke through and I lost it. Fuck security, fuck whatever was going on. THAT WAS MY WIFE AND I'D BE DAMNED IF I WAS GOING TO LET THIS CONTINUE.

I stepped around the large man and walked purposely forward, straight to the group, taking off my bike helmet and glasses as I did so.

Clarissa was the first to notice me since she was facing in my direction and her eyes just bulged out in alarm.

"What the FUCK is going on here? Who the fuck are you?" I challenged the man with his hands on her. "Clarissa, you have exactly one second to explain what the hell is going on here?" I said, standing legs apart, hands on my hips.

"Clarissa?" said the tall man, looking inquisitively and uncomprehendingly at my wife. "Who is...?"

At that point, security arrived behind me and hands grabbed my shoulders.

"That's my fucking WIFE, you asshole. Who the fuck do you think you are?" I screamed, everyone in the vicinity now taking notice.

"Sir, you are gonna have to..." I heard from behind me.

"Rich, what are you...?" Clarissa mumbled clearly lost for words, not even taking her hands off the man she was clinging to.

At that moment, all hell broke loose. The man she was holding looked down at her, some kind of comprehension dawning in his eyes. He pushed her away and yelled, "Amhed!" and then things happened really quickly. There was a man with a headdress running at me, then an incredibly loud bang, and he fell back. Then another loud bang, followed by two more, and then a massive sharp pain in my leg. I fell to my knees, then Clarissa was helping me up, with the other man in the shiny suit. He had a gun in his hand, I noticed.

There was smoke and acrid smells and people screaming and everyone pushing and rushing everywhere. I tried to stand and my leg buckled, and I looked down and put my hand on it and it came away with blood. I'd been... hit? Shot? What the hell was going on?

"Come on, we've got to find..." Clarissa said, looping an arm around under my shoulders, getting me vertical again.

"Over there," gestured the man in the suit towards a door in the opposite wall, with his gun hand. There was another bang, and he spun around, went down on a knee and aimed his gun at a security guard across the room, who held a long gun in his hand. He shot and the security guard fell back. I was still amazed at how loud guns going off were. You never got that impression when you saw this happen in the movies. Clarissa's friend with the gun was spinning around, pointing the gun forward, then back, then to the sides, trying to cover every direction at once. More people screamed, but by now the room was emptying rapidly. Most were running for the main entrance, where there were stairs down to the lobby, and some going the way I'd come in.