Risk Management

In this story some people, all over the age of 18, have sex. It isn't graphic so if that's your bag you'd best move on. It's just a light bit of fantasy fluff, so please don't take it seriously. This isn't 'Loving Wives'.

I have tried to keep the background accurate but the places in the story may not be entirely as described. It is, after all, a work of fiction.

Hello. My name is Dennis and a while ago, I sat through the the most inane health and safety briefing you can imagine while the tutor spouted the self-apparent platitudes that litigious idiots made necessary in this modern world. It's not that I object to safety precautions; I managed a QC lab and I understand how dangerous some of our reagents are, it's just that I think that common sense should play its part too.

It was the thought that scissors might soon have to come with labels insisting that they were not to be run with, and drain cleaner packaging would need to have a prominent notice warning that it was not approved for treating eye infections that annoyed me. I sighed and tried to focus on the course content.

The presenter was showing a new slide about dealing with risk. There were three main options, he claimed: Remove the risk; remove the people from the risk or reduce the risk to manageable levels.

"No shit, Sherlock," I remember thinking, wondering what practical application this really had. If only I knew.

At the time I was 45, the same age as my wife Tracey. We both looked good for our age, and our daughter, Sue, then studying modern languages in Barcelona, thought that we were a perfect couple. I might have agreed once but, more recently, to be honest I wasn't so convinced. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that Tracey took me for granted. For example, Tracey had a difficult time when Sue was born and we had agreed that one child was enough. Why was it then that I was the one who'd had his tubes tied, and not the woman whose health was at risk?

Recently, Tracey seemed even more likely to find fault in everything I did: and I did a lot, trying to maintain the elderly detatched pre-WWII house that she'd just had to have. In fact, I had started to wonder if she actually saw me as a husband any more, rather than an unpaid, live-in handyman.

One Monday about three weeks after the briefing, I got home from work to hear voices from the living room as I came in to the kitchen via the connecting door from the garage.

"I'll wait until Friday morning to tell him." It was my wife's voice, carrying more than usual.

"I think you're making a big mistake. This is a massive risk," cautioned the second, quieter, voice. That was June, my wife's sister.

"No! He's just not making enough effort to meet my needs," Tracey announced, sounding oddly forced.

"He doesn't get the bloody chance, what with all the shit he has to do to keep this money pit from falling down!" June seemed genuinely defensive.

"Oh! I knew you'd stick up for him. But it isn't you having to let him have his way with you on a Friday night," Tracey sneered. Again her voice sounded... odd.

"I'm telling you that this is a stupid idea that has no chance of ending any way but badly for everyone; especially you," said June sounding increasingly desperate. "Anyway," June continued. "If sex is the problem, perhaps if you participated more, rather than just 'letting' your husband do you, you might not need to go out looking for sex with strangers."

"Leo isn't a stranger. He's a perfectly nice man," retorted Tracey.

Again, I thought that there was something 'off' in my wife's tone, though the implication that she was going to inform me on Friday that she intended to fuck her colleague Leo Parks had rather distracted me from pursuing that thought.

"Nice men don't have sex with married women!" June snapped. "I truly don't know what you think will happen but I'm convinced that you'll break Dennis's heart and end your marriage for, forgive my my French, Sweet Fuck All! Are you prepared to risk that?"

I didn't hear my wife's reply; I'd retreated from the kitchen back to the garage to process what I'd just been privy to. After a few minutes thought, I re-entered the kitchen, more noisily this time and went through into the living room to greet my wife and sister-in-law.

June seemed, quiet, sheepish but Tracey seemed strangely self-satisfied, almost smug. That's when I had my epiphany; Tracey had deliberately timed the conversation for my return from work. Her odd tone of voice that I'd noticed was that of an amateur actor delivering a bad script. I was supposed to 'overhear' their private discussion. She was fucking with my head; letting me spend the remainder of the week fretting over whether she would or would not inform me of her intent to have sex with Leo Parks. But why?

I excused myself and went to get showered and changed. When I came downstairs, June had left. Tracey had left a stew in the slow cooker that morning and she served it out as I entered the kitchen.

"Interesting day dear?" She asked once we had sat down to eat, glancing to see my reaction.

i sighed. "There's talk of outsourcing our quality control to an external contract laboratory. There may be some chance to relocate staff but a lot of the analysts are concerned about job losses."

"Could you be affected?" Tracey asked.

"Don't see why not," I replied. "I wear a white coat and I'm expensive to run. I seem to be on top of everybody's discard pile."

Tracey flinched at this deliberate dig, but I gave no sign that I was talking about anything but work.

We finished the remainder of the meal in silence and then Tracey cleared the table while I went to price up new radiators to replace the originals that Tracey once thought charming but now considered to be "ugly lumps of cast iron".

As I worked, I thought more about the conversation that I'd been allowed to overhear. Was I supposed to have run in and begged her not to do it? Why did she announce that she was going to wait until Friday to tell me? June was right though. Tracey was taking a big risk and she hadn't factored in all the shit getting to me at work. I'm normally an easy going person but I expect my wife to support me when I need her. Got to say; I was feeling a lack of love right then!

Thinking about risk took me back to that stupid course. Tracey seemed to be wilfully prepared to risk our marriage. Even if this was some nonsensical mind-game and she had no intention of screwing Leo, the threat alone was hurtful. I was getting more and more pissed off as I considered what she'd said. So much so that I couldn't concentrate on the task that I, more accurately Tracey, had planned for that evening. Why was I even fucking wasting my evening planning on yet more expensive and time consuming work for that miserable, manipulative bitch?

The stress, the anger, the worry, all built up, my mind was in turmoil, head began to spin, I couldn't focus and I slumped forward, unconscious, at my desk. I finally came to about a quarter of an hour later and sat for a while, trying to clear my head. I remembered how my vision had clouded, as if I was looking through a ground glass screen or a misted window, and then nothing. Shit! That was freaky. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I decided there and then: Fuck the woman! A loyal wife wouldn't play stupid games. A loyal wife would have shown more concern about my worries at work. Tracey though? No, nothing.

I stuck my head round the living room door to find her watching some drama on TV. I rarely had time for TV so I had no idea what it was: to be honest I was past caring. "I've had a lot on my mind today," I told her. "I think I'm getting a migraine so I'm having an early night." The smirk on her face at the thought that she'd planted the vision of her and Leo Parks in my head killed any residual vestiges of any affection I once had for her.

"Goodnight dear. Sleep well. Love you," she called as I made my way upstairs. I didn't dignify the obvious dishonesty of her words with a reply.

In bed, I considered my options. June's references to risk continued to strike a chord in my mind, taking me back to that pointless course. What were that guy's responses?

Remove the risk: Mmm. Tempting as it was at that moment, I couldn't kill Tracey. I'm not that man. Anyway, I'm too good looking for prison and Sue would be upset, probably.

Mitigate the risk: How? I could perhaps drug the obnoxious cow, or try slapping her into submission but I could still end up face down biting my pillow while my cell-mate, Knuckles, showed me how much he loved me.

Remove the people from the risk: That could work. Tracey, over there, being a bitch. Dennis over there, not giving a shit, and something between us to stop her raining on my parade.

"Well, that's the broad outline sorted," I thought. "Just the details to refine." And that was how I spent the next two hours waiting for Tracey to come to bed. To be honest, ignoring her when she did join me was probably about as satisfying as sex would have been anyway. Did she actually think that emasculating a man is the ideal way to inspire sexual performance? If she was expecting me to fuck her she was going to be disappointed. Or was I supposed to try so that she could deny me and make me feel even worse? I didn't care enough to find out so I turned over, farted, grunted and went to sleep.

The next morning, I was at work early. I sent an email to Bob, my immediate line manager, asking if we could discuss a personal issue as a matter of urgency. Then I spoke to my solicitor to make an appointment for lunchtime the following day. Lastly, I made an appointment to see one of the doctors at the General Practice retained by the company to ensure prompt treatment for employees and, not incidentally, reduce time lost to sickness.

The meeting with Bob went well. I was quite frank. Tracey was being a manipulative and possibly adulterous bitch. I was worried about her behaviour and redundancy too and my mental health was being affected. I laid out the plan I'd come up with for Bob, explaining how it could benefit both parties (though not Tracey) and Bob agreed in principle. Step one complete.

That evening, I again retreated to my study, ostensibly to continue my search for radiators that were aesthetically compatible with a 1930s house while being efficient and affordable. Of course, I did no such thing; instead, I vacuumed virtually all of the money out of our accounts and placed it into a new account exclusively in my name, having the requisite new charge cards sent to my brother's address.

Again, I went to bed early and again, if Tracey had expected her disclosure to spur her husband to new heights of passion, then for a second evening she would be sorely disappointed.

The following day, I met my solicitor and began divorce proceedings. I could have done it myself on-line but, well, I just couldn't be arsed. I also signed over any interest in our house into my wife's sole ownership. "Serve the bitch right too. Let her replace the fucking radiators," I thought to myself. I must admit that the thought made me smile. Another early night where I surprised myself how well I slept now that I had decided on a course of action.

On Thursday, I saw the company GP and complained of depression caused by stress in both my personal and professional life. I described, quite honestly, how I had blacked out at home and asked the doctor to provide me with a sick-note to allow me to take some time out, for as long as it took, to recover my mental equilibrium. The doctor agreed, but pointed out that my full salary would only be paid for a couple of months and would then reduce in stages. I didn't care; my strategy just needed me to remain on the books as an employee.

On Thursday night, I thought, "Fuck it!" and went straight to the pub after work and ate there. I watched an excellent international football match on the pub's big screen and had a few beers, getting home about ten fifteen, more content with life than I'd been for years. With no sense of irony at all, Tracey was incandescent with anger at my lack of consideration. Really? Coming in late is unforgivable but fucking Leo is okay? I just couldn't be bothered with her insanity so I said, "Well you're obviously really annoyed with me, so I think I'll just fuck off to bed out of your way then." She just stood in bemused silence as I sauntered away without a care.

That night, I slept in the spare bedroom, alone, and like a log.

The next morning, I decided to have a long lie in, partly because I was only going into work long enough to hand in my sick-note, and partly just to disrupt whatever delusional narrative Tracey had planned to dump on me had I got up at my usual time.

By the time I had showered and descended to the kitchen in search of tea and toast, Tracey only had a few minutes before she'd be late setting off for her job as a clerical assistant at the local university.

"What the Hell has taken you so long this morning?" She stormed. "Now I'm going to be late!"

I deliberately took my time replying, instead calmly feeding two slices of bread into the toaster and checking that there was enough water in the kettle for my morning brew. "How am I holding you up?" I eventually asked, innocently. "You have your own car and we travel in opposite directions."

"We need to talk," she said, waiting for me to react to those four dreaded words.

"Fair enough," I replied, as placidly as I could. "Tomorrow morning we'll have a damn good chat after breakfast. Maybe figure out how to get that stick out of your arse." I had to smile as she bristled at my studied casual indifference.

"I may not be here for breakfast tomorrow," she snapped. "A gentleman has invited me out on a date this evening. I may even stay over." Again she waited for me to respond.

"No! You can't do that."

Tracey smirked. She must have thought that she was back in control.

"No," I said in a firm voice. "If you're out on the town on Friday night you might not feel too chipper on Saturday; especially if you stay over for sex. We'll have our chat on Sunday. Do you want to give me an idea what we need to discuss?"

Tracey was at a loss. I imagined that in none of the scenarios that she'd rehearsed had I reacted with, well, complete fucking indifference. I had assumed that she'd expect I might have been angry, jealous or grief stricken: she'd be prepared for that. Perhaps I might have threatened, pleaded or collapsed in tears; she'd have responses prepared for those reactions too. She could not, in any iteration I can think of, imagine me calmly looking in the larder for some farmers' market marmalade for my toast.

"Well... Well... Fuck you!" Was the best she could manage as she stormed out of the house, possibly now determined to spend an evening in the company of Leo Parks, colleague and, though I didn't know it at the time, reputedly a competent lover; though the reference admittedly came from Gloria who was a plain looking woman, not noted for her breadth of sexual experience.

I finished my breakfast and left the pots in the sink, partly because I felt like it, but mainly because I knew it would annoy Tracey even more. After a brief trip to the office where I presented my sick-note to HR and had a short chat with Bob, I returned home well before lunchtime. I packed my rucksack and a shoulder bag with essential clothing and made sure that I had my passport, driving licence and other documents to hand. Those I didn't need immediate access to, I sealed in a sturdy envelope to give to my brother for safe keeping.

My bags and tablet were securely locked in the boot of my car by mid afternoon. Still having an hour or so before Tracey left work, I had another thought and took myself off to the local police station and spoke to the officer at the front desk. Showing my passport and driving licence, both with an appalling photograph that was still obviously me, I explained that I was leaving my cheating wife and that any attempt by her to report me as a missing person would be misleading at best. The officer offered his condolences and made a note in the log. I wasn't due home for a while yet so I wandered around the town centre browsing in the shops that I'd rarely had time to visit.

I searched, unsuccessfully, for a greetings card with a message along the lines of 'Fuck you, you adulterous cow. I'm off', perhaps that was a gap in the market I mused as I moved on. In a camping shop I did find a compact belly bag that I could use to keep my passport and wallet safe from pickpockets. I bought it and moved on again.

Eventually, noticing that it was time to set off if I wanted to get home at my usual time, I made my way back to the car and drove, for what was possibly the last time, back to the house Tracey and I had bought together and shared for twenty two years. I realised with a pang of emotion that I'd really come to fucking hate that house and everything it represented.

I parked in my usual spot and wandered into the kitchen, ready for the confrontation that I had deferred and probably exacerbated earlier that morning. One thing was certain, whatever twisted, self-serving, delusional script my wife had envisaged on my return, this conversation was going to be on my terms. Disruption was my plan from now on.

"Well, have you come to your senses yet?" She snapped. I pondered. Was that really the best she could do for her opening salvo?

"You were the one who stormed out, slamming the door and shouting, 'Fuck you'," I observed. "I thought that I was remarkably understanding for a man who'd just found out that his wife was a slut intending to spread her legs for a workmate's dick and make a cuckold of him. Not judging, you understand. Just pointing out the obvious implications of your own admission this morning."

She winced but gamely carried on. "Well?" She stood expectantly. "What do you have to say now?"

I paused, giving the matter some serious thought. "I know that you think I ought to beg you not to go," I admitted. "But I'm not going to. I refuse to give you the satisfaction. A better man might tell you to have a good time, but that wouldn't be honest. And you've been honest with me: haven't you, Tracey? So..."

I paused again. "In truth, I hope he has herpes and he gives it to you. I certainly won't touch you again until I've seen your negative test results for STIs, and probably not even after that. The fact is." I stopped and sighed. "The sad fact is that I don't give a shit any more. Even beginning this stupid game was a step too far, regardless of whatever you choose to do from here on, I just don't fucking care any more."

Tracey stood in stunned silence as she tried to reconcile my words with her imagined dialogue, presumably in which I either begged for her forgiveness for not treating with the adoration she deserved or agreed that she could take a lover or, better still, both. Not caring at all played into neither narrative. She just gaped at me.

I leaned against the wall as I realised that I wasn't putting on an act now. "Tracey, you've demonstrated, in ways too many to number, just how little you respect me. Now, in return I can say this in all sincerity. Do whatever you want, wherever you want, with whoever you want. I'm over it. I just don't give a shit any more. You've made it very clear that you're not happy being my wife, so go do whatever makes you happy. But I won't let you make me unhappy any more. So that's what this stupid fucking game of yours has achieved. You've set me free."

I gave her one last big genuine smile and went upstairs to get changed.

She followed me, protesting that she didn't mean it; she was just testing our love. My observation that, such being the case, we'd both failed miserably, did not go down well. I locked the bathroom door to get showered and changed and Tracey, apparently having actually agreed to meet Leo at the restaurant that evening, did the same using the other bathroom.