Peter, Prue Ch. 01

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A tragi-comedy of misunderstandings.
10.3k words
3.91
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Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 10/30/2015
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angiquesophie
angiquesophie
1,313 Followers

She didn't move.

She was the quiet eye of a swirling storm. The low afternoon sun diffused her slim silhouette, creating a halo around her hair. She wore a dark business jacket over a tight skirt that left her knees and calves free to run all the way down to her heeled pumps. The sun made elongated shadows run away from her feet; they seemed to extend her legs, making them look endless. One knee was locked, pushing her calf out; the other bent slightly forward.

Standing at the corner of two intersecting streets, she was like a statue. Traffic roared by, but it didn't affect her. She stood motionless, holding a cell phone, staring at its display while the world passed her by.

He didn't move either.

He stood at the center of a hallway, oblivious to the multitude of people streaming past and around him. Colleagues hurried by to get home, tugging at their coats, swinging their briefcases. They wished each other great weekends - and tried to avoid the frozen figure obstructing their way out.

The low afternoon sun slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hallway was deserted now, but he still stood there in his dark blue suit. A raincoat hung over his arm - his hand held a phone. One last girl hurried past, wishing him nice days.

He didn't respond; he just stared at the display.

Prue Gascoyne Hawkins was 24 years old. Her skin still had the glow of youth, like the fresh, blushing tan of a day at the beach. It was two years now since Prudence Felicity Gascoyne added the name Hawkins to her own. It happened in a small chapel. Family and friends watched her do it, a priest too, but most of all Peter Hawkins, 24 then.

He'd been her fiancé since college.

His vows happened to mirror hers. They were about 'forever' and 'death do us part.' But death was still too far away to have meaning for them. And forever was vague enough to live with. 'Forsaking others' seemed ridiculous: they were still so besotted with their new love that there wasn't even a concept of 'others' in their minds.

That was two years ago.

Now there were these few hastily typed words on her cellphone. "He cheats," they read. And they made her world come to a screeching halt.

Peter Hawkins was 25, almost 26. He had the dark, unruly hair women love to touch. He also had clear blue eyes under thick eyebrows, an eternal tan and the stubble of fashionable rebellion. Peter knew he was on his way to become a great architect; it was just a matter of time for the rest of the world to agree, he was sure - even his father in law.

Peter loved his wife Prue.

Most of all: he knew she loved him. She'd been The Prize at university - cute, clever and popular. Falling in love with her had been a thrilling rollercoaster of feelings he'd been too pre-occupied to analyze. Peter wasn't a great analyzer of feelings anyway, like most men. Assured of her love, he basked in a sense of certainty, a warm bath of comfort.

Peter never knew that love is the eternal antagonist of comfort.

And now there were these two little words on his cell phone's screen, clawing at the foundations of his cozy life: "She cheats."

***

Reality kicked in and Prue Gascoyne Hawkins returned to life.

First thing she moved was her head, shaking it left and right - like waking up. Her hand rose as she dropped the phone in her purse. Finally taking a step, she scattered the halo of diffuse sunlight around her.

She wasn't aware of anything, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

"He cheats," her brain said, copying the message. "He" was who - Peter? Who else? And about what did he cheat? What secret could he hide? Who sent the message anyway? And why?

Peter Hawkins started moving too.

He closed his phone and put it away. Looking around he noticed the empty hall. He walked to the exit, nodding at the security guard without really seeing him.

Stepping into the slanting sunlight he blinked his eyes.

"She cheats?" he thought. About what? What secret could she have? He had none, did she? He planned on surprising her on their anniversary; that was a secret of sorts, maybe. But it was still months away - he didn't even know yet what the surprise would be.

He shook his head and walked to the subway.

***

"Hi darling, how was your day?"

She hugged him as always - no, not like always. There was a hesitation, ever so tiny, he thought. She was an all-out hugger, always had been - arms and breasts and belly; warm, soft and intense. He loved her for that.

But now there was tension; not much, not obvious, but there was.

"Same old," he said. "Glad it's Friday."

The words sounded like always, didn't they? But it had taken him a conscious effort to make them sound that way. Why was that? And did she notice? Was that why she blinked and looked away? Her smile was there - her usual smile, causing dimples and showing off her white teeth.

And yet...

"What about yours?" he asked as he let go of her.

"Nothing special," she said, already turning away.

He wanted to reach out and stop her, but he didn't.

***

The hot water fell like a curtain.

He put his head under it, feeling the stream hit his brow and run over his closed eyes. "She cheats." What the fuck did it mean? Did it mean anything? There was no name, no number, just the two words. Should he ask her? Yes, he should. But why had she been so nervous? Had she been nervous? Or had he?

Fuck.

Prue heard the shower go.

She might be naïve, spoilt or even shallow. But she wasn't stupid. She knew the cheating wouldn't be about mere little secrets from the past. Not things like old lovers, or a lie about his education or his career.

"He cheats," the message said and she knew it was cheating now and on her.

But Prue was brought up in a home where bad news wasn't welcome. Pretending everything was fine was the rule until reality left no way out anymore.

So she shook her curls and went looking for a smile.

***

He dried his hair and body.

Then he put on shorts and a t-shirt. Walking from their bedroom he saw her sit at the kitchen bar, sipping white wine. She still wore her blouse and skirt, but had kicked off her heels. Stocking-clad toes curled around the metal bar between the legs of her stool. There was a second glass on the counter, red wine - as usual. He approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her.

She stiffened, if only for a second - a fraction of a second.

He smelled the scent of her hair. Then he let go of her and lifted his glass, standing at the corner of the console. As he sipped he saw her watch him. When he looked back, her eyes escaped. He should ask. He should, but could he? "She cheats." What does it mean?

Ask her.

Seconds passed and she beat him to it.

"Kuric wants to have a talk with me, Monday," she said, finding safety in the banality of work. He tried to hold her fleeting eyes. Kuric? Her boss, almost forty, tall, dark, very successful - hero of quite a few of her stories.

"Oh, does he? What about?"

"Don't know. Maybe the new project. Maybe they want me to coordinate it?"

Look at me! he screamed in the privacy of his mind.

"Wow," he said instead. "That would be something."

"Nothing special," she'd said when he'd asked about her day. Wasn't this special? Peter's mind ran down the stairs of his memory, stopping at each moment he'd seen the two of them together, Kuric and she; their looks, their interaction - each word he recalled her saying about him. She admired the man, she laughed at his jokes.

He remembered her touching the man's forearm, once.

Stop this!

Prue let her slim finger run around the rim of her glass, finding another excuse to not look at her husband. The growing awkwardness seemed to strangle her throat, making her words sound forced.

"Yes, wouldn't it?" she said. "Just two years and already doing a project. Scary!"

She laughed - or tried to. Looking up she saw a smile touch his lips but it never reached his eyes - the clear blue eyes were dark now. "He cheats on me," she thought. He doesn't care. He stopped caring. He doesn't love me anymore.

Did he ever?

Stop this!

"Did you see Karen today?" she asked.

Karen Samuelson was tall, blond with blue eyes. She had great taste, great tits too. She was an award winning architect, and Pete's boss. Did his eyes shift at her question? Did hers?

"No, why?" he asked, and she knew her question had been silly - and obvious. Damn.

"Oh, nothing," she said, sliding off the stool. "Let's start dinner."

***

They ate.

Peter remembered the lasagna Prue made was special. It wasn't lasagna really, but a dish made of layered vegetables, sliced very, very thin, almost translucent - zucchini and tomatoes, onions, garlic and crumbled goat cheese, grilled in the oven. Lots of virgin oil. What did they call it again in Italy?

It tasted like cardboard.

"Mmmm," he said. "Delicious. What's it called again?"

She looked up, smiling.

"Tian," she said.

"Damn, those Italians know their food," he said.

"It's French, remember?" she corrected. "Provence."

He shrugged, taking another bite and chewing. The food had no taste to him; so did the wine.

Prue watched him eat while she sent her fork aimlessly through the delicious ingredients on her plate. Pete shoved it into his mouth by the forkful, she saw, but did he really even chew before swallowing?

Tian had been their fond discovery, like so many other exotic little dishes. Good food was important to them, just like traveling, finding new places together, exploring exotic things.

He is lying, she thought, finishing her third glass of wine. She never drank more than two. He lies about finding it delicious. Has he always been lying?

About everything?

Stop this!

She reached for the bottle. His hand checked hers. She felt a sting of irritation.

"What's wrong, Prue?" he asked.

Of course that was the question. It had been simmering inside him all evening. It had blocked his throat, obsessing his mind. Not necessarily in these exact words - there had been terms like damn and fuck in earlier versions - but watching her reach for a fourth drink had pushed it out.

What was wrong with her, with them?

She cheats.

Her eyes blinked. She blushed. Then she pushed away his hand and got hold of the bottle.

"Nothing," she said, spilling wine as she poured.

***

He left the table, his plate half-empty.

Their apartment wasn't big, but he did have his own room. It held his computer, his books and some knick-knacks - photographs, souvenirs, trophies. And his collection of car-models. They were all of British cars and none older than 1970. It was his dream to have one for real - a convertible Austin Healy.

But right now he didn't dream. Or did he? It was a nightmare, more likely - a daymare.

He sat down, rubbing his temples.

Prue had not tried to stop him when he left the table. Why did she drink so much? She's nervous. Of course she is; she cheats on you. But why nervous now - all of a sudden? She sure must have been cheating for a while. Of course she must have. So why act different now? Or didn't he look - didn't he notice before?

He shook his head to clear it.

Think! So she cheats. Who says so? The phone says so. Who's the phone? Damn phone. Could be anyone - any crazy asshole. The name Kuric crept in. Fuck off, Kuric.

Why can't she just say what's wrong?

He rose and took a narrow carton box from a shelf. "Laphroaig" it said. There was an oval, etch-like picture on it and the number 10. The bottle he pulled from it was half empty - half full? He found a glass and blew the dust out off it before pouring a finger width of the amber fluid.

The whisky smelled of burning peat. It tasted like medicine.

***

Prue pressed her empty glass against her brow.

Through the buzz of four glasses of wine she tried to think. What was happening to them? What happened anyway? Three hours ago everything was fine; and all that happened in between was this one silly anonymous message.

He cheats.

No name, no proof, no specification, and yet: everything seemed different. Peter acted weird, didn't he? Shushpicioush - not a word to say out loud after four wines.

He'd asked her what was wrong, goddammit. He cheated and then he asked her?

What was wrong with him?

She put down the glass and rose, grabbing the edge of the table - their lovely, lovely blond oak table, handmade by this sweet, sweet old man. "A table to last a lifetime," he'd said. "And of your children and grandchildren."

Ah, well.

Her legs felt weak as she rose. She stumbled. Then her head cleared. Walking over to the closed door of his room she felt her bare feet sink in the thick Berber rug that covered part of their shining parquet floor. Grey oak planks; God had they been expensive.

She rested her hot face against the door's panel, her hand in a fist, ready to knock.

"Peter," she said. "Pete, please."

***

The whisky wasn't medicine.

It burned his throat, but it was as tasteless as the food and the wine. It didn't clear his mind or cloud it, it did nothing; not even make his knotted muscles relax.

"Pete."

He heard her voice, her cheating voice. Please, it said.

Was he a fool? He must be, either way. It was a lose-lose situation, wasn't it? Either he was a clueless cuckold, or he was played like a puppet by an anonymous liar.

Point was: how could he be sure?

Then it dawned on Peter Hawkins. He had to choose and the choice was easy, really, wasn't it? The choice was either to believe a total and anonymous stranger, or the love of his life - the woman he'd shared the last four years with, made plans with, slept with, laughed and cried with. The woman he loved more than himself.

Even acting like she did: strangely - suspiciously.

He rose and walked to the door. Opening it he caught the body that leaned into it, falling into his arms when the door gave in - the soft familiar body that fit so well in his embrace. He kissed her crying face, tasting the salty tears.

"Ssssh," he said. "Shhhhhh," as much to himself as to her.

***

"I'm drunk," she said.

"So am I," he admitted.

They swayed in each other's embrace, not quite knowing what to do after her flood of tears stopped.

"You asked what was wrong with me," she went on.

"Yes, I did," he agreed.

Her eyes were on him now - steady but bloodshot. Her nose looked pink, as did the rims of her eyes. It made her seem very young.

"I wonder what's wrong with you," she said. Her lips closed into a thin line after she delivered the words.

"Nothing," he said, not realizing it was what she'd said to him after exactly the same question.

The tears obviously hadn't washed away the checkmate - nor had the embrace helped much. She stepped back.

"Look at us, Peter," she then said. "Is this nothing? What's happening to us?"

"Let's go to bed," he offered. "Or I'll say stupid things, do stupid things. I'm upset and drunk; so are you."

***

"Where are you going?"

Peter had taken his pillow and a blanket.

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said. He stood in the doorway of their bedroom.

"No!"

Prue took three steps forward, her hand reaching out for the pillow. Her eyes were wide with panic.

"Don't," she went on, almost whispering. Her fingers touched his hand that held the blanket. "We vowed we would never do this. Never sleep apart!"

He shrugged. She pulled at his shoulders.

***

They lay in the dark. A faint light seeped past the curtains, washing the ceiling with a ghostly gray.

Prue's thoughts ran in perfect circles.

He cheats - I should tell him I know, but I can't - he acts weird, but I have no proof - should I confront him? - no, I can't, he'll deny it - he'll laugh and make me feel silly - what can I say if he denies?

I should tell him, but I can't...

Peter's thoughts were an equal mess.

There was no sequence to them, no logic. They just ran around and around, making him dizzy. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the mattress press against his back. Should he accuse her? Throw it all into the open? Would she admit? What if she denied? What if she was innocent? She'd be hurt. Could he hurt her? She might throw him out.

Everything would be lost - for nothing.

Prue's fingers crawled over the cool, empty space between them. They found his arm. He didn't withdraw.

"Pete?"

He gave no response. She rose to rest on her elbow, peering into the darkness.

"Peter?"

He groaned as if half asleep.

"This afternoon I had this, this text message," she said. "On my cellphone."

More silence, a distant dog barked.

"It said that you are cheating."

"Me?" he exclaimed, sliding away from her as he sat up. "Me cheating? But this is..."

An entirely new set of thoughts invaded his brain, deepening his confusion even more. Then a pinpoint of light plowed its way through the murky mess. A rusty camera seemed to slowly pan from a claustrophobic certainty to a new, panoramic view of kaleidoscopic possibilities. He'd thought she cheated on him and all the while she supposed...

It might explain her weird actions. But was it true?

The Peter Hawkins of old would not have doubted the truth of what his wife said. Now he did, and it didn't even startle him that he did. If she cheated on him and suspected he knew, wouldn't it be very effective to turn things around and accuse him, confusing the issue?

But how would she know about the message he got?

And anyway, could she be doing a sly thing like that? His Prue?

He looked down on her gray silhouette, trying to discern the expression on her face. Grabbing behind him, he lit the small bed lamp. The pupils of her eyes retracted with the light.

She looked pale.

"And you believe it," he said. "You believe that message." There was no question mark. She winced.

"I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I am Peter you know," he said. "Your husband, remember?" She just blinked. A quiet fury started to build at the back of his mind.

"This hurts me," he went on, hating the whine in his voice. "Someone, anyone texts you, and you believe it." He turned away from her. "Who sent the text?" he asked.

She kept silent until he looked at her again.

"I don't know," she said. "It was anonymous." Her hand was on his knee. "And I didn't believe it."

Didn't, she said, he thought. Didn't, not don't.

So Prue got the same message - a text about him cheating, while he got a message about her cheating. Only half a day ago he might have seen the oddity of it, and suspected the whole thing to be some sort of manipulation, a sick joke or whatever. Right now he still saw the manipulation, but too many weird things had happened for him to not suspect Prue's hand in it - or at least her knowledge.

She was trying to turn the tables.

The fingers on his bare skin brought him back to reality. He pushed them away, ignoring her gasp. He slid off the bed, grabbing his pillow.

"Please, Pete, don't."

He walked to the door, opened and closed it. The couch was cold and narrow.

***

Lying alone on a dark, abandoned bed is a guaranteed shortcut to troubled thoughts - especially when you have no idea what's happening, and haven't had for the last five hours.

angiquesophie
angiquesophie
1,313 Followers