Lock in

British English spelling and grammar.

***

Lock-in

Vicky came home excited.

"I've got some great news!"

I was watching tv when she threw herself onto me, nearly knocked me off the chair. I grabbed hold of her, copping a quick feel.

"Go away, I'm not interested." I said.

"What?"

She jumped to her feet.

"Only joking, Vick. God, you should see your face!"

"Right you bastard. I won't tell you!"

She flounced off to the kitchen. I grinned. She'd tell me soon enough. I followed her; the shepherd's pie I'd prepared earlier was ready and I opened the oven. We sat at the breakfast bar and I dished it up.

"Heartlands are running an important project," she announced, "and I've been seconded onto it!"

"Tell me everything."

"Leading it; is Stewart McGregor. I'm on the team, but as a designer, not a PA! There's another manager from Design department, Ted Eagles, and his PA will act as project secretary. I'm really one of the team!"

"Wow! Good for you. Who else is involved?"

Not that I'd know any of them.

"Martin from Design, and someone called Simon. He's an external consultant. We have our first project briefing on Thursday next week; I may be a little late home. Then Stewart's having a party at his house on Saturday. All the members of the project can meet socially. Spouses and significant others are invited. I know you're not keen on parties, but you'll come, won't you?"

"Rightio then!" I replied, with an exaggerated Somerset accent. Well I am from Taunton.

"I knew you'd say that!"

She did. Vicky's observational skills were nearly as good as mine. Long ago she remarked I always say "Rightio then!" when cornered into agreeing. I've never mentioned it, but she has her own little sayings too, especially if I'm in the mood for loving. She smiles, holds eye contact, and murmurs: 'Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?' And when we finish, she says 'That was nice!'

Not always of course. Sometimes the sex is simply too wild. We do roleplay; well everything really. The only thing we have not done is involve other people. We've discussed it, but neither of us like the idea as our current sex life is so fulfilling. I understand why many guys get off watching their wives with another man, but I'm damn sure it would not give me an erection.

Party Saturday arrived and we got ready. It's interesting the different reactions to 'casual' when suggested as a dress code. Men, who spend their working days in a suit, tend to dress down, polo shirts and so on. But women move away from office wear and dress up - LBDs, heels, and stockings - anything short of long evening gowns. Vicky came down in a short pleated dress.

"Stockings?"

She knows they turn me on, and never wears them to work; only when we socialise. I'm the only one who knows what's under her dress; others only get the occasional glimpse. She spun like a dancer, and the dress flared out; black hold-ups with lacy tops, and a tiny matching thong.

She looked down at my jeans. "You're not wearing those are you?"

"They're clean. We were told casual."

"At least put your cargo trousers on baby. You look sexier in them."

"Ok, but you realise the jeans cost more than the cargos."

"Pretty please? You can have your way with me later!"

I took the stairs two at a time.

The party was going well. We'd gone by taxi, so we could drink. I think everybody had the same idea, as they were all hitting the booze. I had to meet them of course, and a made an effort to remember which one was McGregor; I'm not great with names. I liked him well enough; a bit pretentious.

I particularly liked Marion, Ted Eagles' secretary. Her husband came from Devon, next door to Somerset, and confessed he preferred cider to beer; instant best friends. We were all in a large room and a few people were dancing. Vicky stood next to Stewart and started chatting animatedly. Amanda McGregor, our hostess, came and stood next to me.

"They look comfortable together don't they Colin?"

I liked the fact that she remembered my name, but thought her comment sounded a little sinister.

"Sure. They do say a boss / PA relationship is like a marriage, without the sex."

"They do indeed. Do you trust her?"

I thought about it.

"Well. I did up to the moment you said that. Do you trust Stewart?"

Inevitably, I kept a weather eye on them while she answered me. It turned out that in the past Stewart had strayed. And like many before him, had been caught. Amanda was the wealthy one and, after his last affair, had enforced a contract; a post-nuptial. If he played away from home again, he would be out on his ear. This big house, their holiday villa in Cala D'Or, even his car, would revert to her. Also she was a major shareholder at Heartlands. Stewart would be out of a job.

"He knows it's the end of the line next time." she said. "So, either he'll remain faithful as per our agreement, or he'll have an affair but be careful about it."

"Do you think it's the latter?"

"I honestly don't know. But it won't hurt to be vigilant; Vicky is certainly his type."

I studied my wife - short, slim, dark hair in a feathered bob, almost elfin like. Amanda was taller and blonde, probably from Scandinavian stock.

"Excuse me for stating the obvious, but she looks nothing like you."

"Quite."

"Oh, I get it."

"Take my mobile phone number, just in case."

I scrutinised Vicky and her boss. If Amanda had not aired her concerns, I wouldn't have bothered. But now I was on high alert, and did not like the way I was feeling. Still, forewarned is forearmed, so I watched. In the unlikely event of a more sexual relationship, I'd soon spot the signs.

Stewart McGregor had his back half-turned, and Vicky was facing me. At that moment, my brain had to deal with two things at once, and men aren't good at that. Amanda spoke to me, and Vicky spoke to Stewart at the same time.

Amanda said: "Listen for the warning bells. If he ever tells her she may be up for a promotion, that's the way it begins."

I'm not really a lip-reader, so whatever Vicky said was a mystery. But I did get my first niggle of concern; something about her smile? Maybe it was the eye contact, maybe nothing. Amanda spoke again.

"Well, I've told you what I would do if Stewart crosses the line again, what would you do with Vicky?"

"I've never really thought about it. Mt first reaction would be revenge I suppose, and humiliation."

"Understandable."

Vicky came and joined us.

"What a wonderful party, Amanda. You have a beautiful home."

"Thank you Vicky."

That was it really. The party wound down and we got a taxi home. Unfortunately my seminal suspicions came home with us. That night I was rather rough on her, as if punishing her for something she hadn't done. She didn't seem to mind. When I'd finished, I wiped my dick on her buttocks. We were too tired to shower, so slept like that all night. She only spoke once before sleep.

"Dirty bastard!" she said.

"It's your fault. You know what stockings do to me."

Have you ever had one of those sudden awakenings just as you're dropping off? Like a silent explosion? I did. My eyes shot open and I jolted hard. I stared up into the darkness, and replayed that scene of her and Stewart talking. Like a silent movie clip in slow motion.

She's touching his arm, smiling, and speaks that one line which I cannot hear. At the beginning of the sentence, her lips make an 'oo' shape twice. In the middle she closes her mouth twice. At the end, she makes two more 'oo's. So the sequence is 'w, w, m, b, w, w.' I know exactly what she said.

"Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

Not enough to present at a divorce hearing. But enough to tip me over into full-on suspicion. She could have been referring to anything. But for me, the context was clear. She was going to have sex with him.

Next day, Vicky was a little hung over, and didn't want to eat. She curled up on the sofa with a pot of coffee and the Sunday papers. I said I'd grab a pub lunch and went out of my way to visit the particular pub I had in mind.

"Colin, mate, let me buy you a pint. Are you still on the Dry Blackthorn?"

"Thanks Gordon. Just the one though."

"So what are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"I heard this place does a great Sunday roast. So I'm here to buy you lunch."

"No way - you're on my patch now, and I still owe you."

"No, let me buy this time. I need a favour."

A decade ago, Gordon had nailed contracts at the company I was then working for. As contracts manager, I had to oversee his work. He had several different crews on our huge premises relocation. There was nothing underhand, his crews were top notch, and he won all the bids fair and square.

But a few weeks later, he had come to me with a problem. It was near the end of the tax year and one of his staff had accidentally destroyed the work orders I'd issued. We had to sign them off, stamped as' Completed', before accounts paid his invoices. They were the biggest jobs he'd ever done, and he was facing bankruptcy if he didn't get paid.

I'd spent a long weekend recreating those work orders. I had to chop and change with different requisition pads, and make sure the serial numbers fitted chronologically. What I did was somewhat illegal, but I was only recreating something that had already been done legitimately.

We got away with it and Gordon's fledgling companies got paid. He remained convinced he would have gone under without my help and felt he still owed me. That was years ago, and today he runs several successful service firms. Most of them are contracted to Vicky's company. Ironically, he is now richer than me.

"I know you continue to think you owe me mate, so let's call this a chance to pay me back, once and for all."

I told him what I had in mind, and how discreet it would have to be. He was immediately enthusiastic.

"I have pretty much every service contract at Heartlands, all under different names, but all won fair and square. I've always ensured everything is above board as you know. I now run their maintenance, security, and office cleaning. If I could rustle up some decent cooks, I'd do their catering too!"

"What I'm asking for starts really low-key; an observation exercise really." I said. "It could go on for months, and may be nothing at all. In fact, I hope that's the case."

"I understand."

"But if it pans out badly, I might want to get involved in the action myself."

"Let's deal with that if it arises."

Two weeks later, Vicky had more news.

"I'm going to have to work late every Thursday night; we all are. But it shouldn't be later than around seven, so I'll be home before eight. Plus, there's an upside."

"Oh good!"

"Can you split your flex days in half?"

I worked core hours and flex time. A nominal working day was eight and a half hours. If I clocked up an additional twenty hours in a month, my company gave me two days off, to be taken the following month. Good maths for them, and convenient for me.

"I'll check with the boss. Why?"

"Because we'll have our project de-brief every Thursday night. They won't pay overtime, but we'll be allowed to knock off at three on Fridays. If you could take four afternoons, instead of two days, we could do something with our long weekends. Get away before the rush."

"Sounds like a plan."

It did; very reasonable too. My suspicions subsided.

Vicky got home at seven fifty on Thursday as promised. And there were no unusual stains in her undies. OK, I did check; it might not be a red alert yet, but you know what they say: Trust but verify. We beat the traffic Friday and found a nice hotel in Stow in the Wold, in the Cotswolds.

On Monday I phoned Gordon for Heartlands info. He said most employees were gone by five thirty, and the cleaning crew started at six. They had little to do. Just tidy up, dust, and empty the bins. Their major clean was Friday nights. On the third floor, McGregor's office was their first port of call. Gordon reported there were several people meeting there, and McGregor had told the cleaners not to bother. Security confirmed the attendees were out of the building by seven. At seven fifteen, all the lights were flashed off and on, to warn stragglers it was time to go home. Security then made a final inspection, and locked every office door. Then they activated the cameras in the corridors.

We had another long weekend away, this time in a bigger town. After dinner on the Friday, I asked the girl on Reception if there was any entertainment nearby. She suggested a few places we should visit during the day.

"But you should stay in here tomorrow night. Have dinner somewhere else if you must, but we have a live band after eight, and they're really good!"

The band was excellent and soon had people up dancing. Vicky and I strutted our stuff for a few numbers then returned to our table and started to get drunk. A young lad loomed over us and asked her to dance. He must have been fifteen years younger than us. She looked at me and said 'Colin?' and I nodded.

A slow one came on and Vicky started back towards our table. But the lad pulled her in close and manoeuvered her to the centre of the floor. Halfway through the number, his hands slipped down to her buttocks and gave them a squeeze. Vicky reached round, gripped both wrists and brought one back to her waist. She placed the other up high and made him slap his own face. It wasn't hard but showed him who was in control. She returned grinning. He shuffled back to his mates, looking glum.

"Your arse is not up for grabs then!" I said.

"Not for the likes of him, it's not!" she replied.

I thought that was an interesting answer.

"You've allowed more than that in the past; our Christmas party for a start."

"True, but there's flirting and there's blatant groping. He'll be telling all his mates what he did by now. Probably claiming he could tell I've got no knickers on!"

"Have you?"

There was another approach; this time it was a chap in his fifties. He was more subtle, and addressed me.

"Would you mind if I asked your lady for a dance?"

That's about as polite as it gets. He's not asking me if he can with her; that implies I own her. She can still turn him down.

"I would not mind at all." I said, smiling.

Vicky accepted and he escorted her to the floor. He was the perfect gentleman. He brought her back and thanked her, then me. He offered to buy us drinks, but we declined.

Later we made spectacular love. Lying in the afterglow, we talked in the dark. I started:

"You were turned on tonight, weren't you?" I said.

"I think you were as well."

"Who turned you on? The young kid or the older gent?"

"Not the kid, though it could be argued, he got closer to the target. I preferred the older chap; more sophisticated."

"Would you ever have an affair?"

"No! What brought that on? You said yourself I've got up to more at Christmas parties. So have you; walking around with mistletoe in your hair!"

"Oh don't get me wrong; we'll change the subject."

"It's all right. I don't mind talking about this. No. I would not have an affair. Would you?"

"No." I answered.

"I'll ask a different question then." Vicky continued. "What would you do if I did?"

Interesting she should ask that.

"That would depend."

"Depend on what?"

"OK. Take tonight for example. Imagine we had a row and I stormed off. You had another drink at the bar, and then discovered I'd checked out, leaving you to make your own way home. That older chap comforts you, and you end up in his bed for the night. I'm not saying I'd deserve it, having sex with another man is still too extreme a reaction. But at least that would be understandable. There's a chance we might recover from it."

"OK."

"But if you just fancied him and, say, got me drunk, that would be different. You help me to our room, where I pass out on the bed. Then go back and meet him. Later, you check I'm still out of it and go to his room and fuck him. It doesn't matter what your reasons are; it's the pre-meditation that makes it worse. Do you see?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Of course, I might still want a divorce in either scenario. But one is worse than the other. Affairs are more than the sex act. They're also about intentions."

We left it at that.

The next Tuesday Vicky had some more news. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"Stewart says I'm doing really well on the project, holding my own with more experienced team members. And if this job is a success, he's going to speak to my line manager and recommend me for a promotion to Project Manager.

"Well done you!"

"I'd be a full manager - a payrise of nearly fifty percent, and a seat by a window!"

"A seat by a window?"

"Take Stewart for example, he's a full manager. His office is at the end of the corridor, and his secretary's office is the next nearest one." she explained. "His office is twice as long, and goes all the way back to the windows. Nobody can get to him without going past her, though her door is usually open. Behind her is a wall."

"Got it, so what's behind the wall?"

"His executive bathroom. Hence, secretaries and PAs get no natural daylight. But if I get made up to project manager, I'll get a window!"

"It seems a bit unfair to give the best view to a bathroom."

"That's the reason silly! The window may need opening."

I recalled what McGregor's wife had said about offering a promotion. Yet I had no doubt Vicky was doing well in her temporary role, so it was still quite feasible. Anyway, Gordon was keeping tabs on things at Heartlands, so there was no need to concern Amanda yet.

Life followed the same pattern the next week or so, and then there was a change. One Thursday, Gordon's cleaner reported only two people attended the meeting; she wasn't sure who.

The following Thursday, I fancied a pizza. I thought I'd buy one for each of us and keep them warm in the oven. Waiting in the queue in front of me was a face I recalled.

"Marion isn't it - from Stewart's party?"

"Hi Colin. You two couldn't be bothered cooking either?"

"That's right. Not at the meeting tonight?"

"No, I only need to be there once a month. Now, they have their update in that new wine bar."

"Oh yes, I forgot."

"I kept my cool and waited for my pizzas. Then stopped outside said wine bar on the way home. There were some familiar faces in there. My blood ran cold as I stayed outside and took a ten second movie with my phone. Just as I finished, it rang.

"Colin?"

"Yes Gordon?"

"We'd better meet up."

"Can you make it to the Malt Shovel? Say, nine?"

"Sure, see you there."

This can't be good.

I called Amanda.

"Any news?" I asked.

"Not really. Just tonight's meeting as usual. I'm spotting other signs, but nothing concrete. I called Ted, Martin, and Simon, you know, just a little discreet fishing. But they all confirm the meetings are taking place till seven as usual."

"Hang up a moment. I'm sending you a movie."

Soon she rang back.

"OK. They're the project team." she confirmed.

"I thought I recognised them."

"Stewart told me Marion wasn't needed at all the meetings, but where the hell was this taken? It doesn't look like a Heartlands office to me. And where are our two?"

"It's taking place in a local wine bar. And I strongly suspect that 'our two' are back in the office. Possibly having a more intimate meeting"

"If he's primed the others to lie for him, I almost admire him. I warned you he'd be clever. Do you have a plan?"

"I do. Leave it with me. Act normally for now."

And Vicky was absolutely normal when she got in. Seven fortyfive, no flushed appearance, no rushing to the shower. While she was devouring her pepperoni pizza, I asked how her project progressing. She was very upbeat. I decided to give her one last chance to come clean.