Risk Management

As she came downstairs, possibly still hoping that I would see how good she could look and fall into line in order to regain her favours, I was just leaving. I raised my hand in farewell as I walked out. I think that I heard her faint protestation that it wasn't too late to talk things through. Somehow though, I hoped that deep down, she realised that it probably was.

It was surprising how easy it was to walk away that evening. While Tracey was getting dressed for her lover, I'd texted my brother, Alan, and asked him if it would be okay with him and his wife if I crashed there for the weekend. I'd added that if he felt that he couldn't lie to Tracey to say he'd no idea where I was, then I wouldn't put him in that position and I'd go elsewhere.

"You're my bro," was his response. "I'll say owt you want." I smiled to myself, blocked Tracey's number and made one last check round for anything I'd forgotten. I left as she came downstairs, waving one last goodbye to my attractive wife who had dressed for her lover as she had never dressed for me in years.

So that was Friday and Saturday nights sorted. I left Alan's on Sunday afternoon as I didn't want to be in the way of his family all piling out to school, college and work, leaving me kicking around alone in their home on Monday morning. On Saturday night, Alan had showed me a text from Tracey in which she discretely tried to find out when he'd last spoken to me, though without admitting that she'd effectively been abandoned after her slut's walk of shame returning home.

From Alan's I drove south to Kent, to visit my Dad. He'd taken it hard when he lost Mum a few years ago but he seemed to be rebuilding a new life for himself. A bit like me, I supposed. Anyway, I asked to stay on the same terms as I did with Alan - don't admit to seeing me, if that's a problem I can go elsewhere. He gave me a huge smile and stepped back to welcome me into his apartment.

He grinned as he told me that he'd already had an odd conversation with Tracey and he looked forward to hearing the back story. But for now all he said was, "Give me the script, Son. I'll follow it to the letter."

We decamped down to the pub and I related the events of the last week or so. "What do you think her objective was then?" He asked, settling back with his pint as we waited for our food to arrive.

"No clue," I responded as I took a sip of my own drink. "Was I supposed to fight for her, beat up her lover, sob like a baby or sit quietly and submissively as she went out whoring? I still have no idea what she expected me to do."

"Are you prepared to go back on your own terms?"

It was a reasonable enough question, so I gave it the consideration it, and my Dad, deserved. "No. Not a chance. If she had a problem she could have talked to me. She knows I'd have listened. But this stupid charade just convinced me that she didn't respect me and her threatening to sleep with other men destroyed any trust on my part. What's left isn't worth saving." I took another sip. It was a lovely beer but then, the hop fields were just across the road.

Our meals arrived soon after and we concentrated on demolishing the roast pork, Yorkshire puddings, potatoes and veg that were heaped on our plates. It was twenty minutes before we surfaced for more beer and continued our chat.

Dad asked about my plans, thinking that I might look for a place of my own. He was surprised, I think, at the vehemence of my response. "No, Dad. I'm fucking sick of full-contact DIY, and the only places I can afford at the moment are all 'fixer-uppers'. I couldn't face that right now. I'm just going to travel."

I made sure to stop at two pints; I had an email to write to Tracey that evening. When we got back to Dad's house, he disappeared into the kitchen to make a cuppa while I got my tablet computer out of my bag. It was time to let Tracey know what the consequences of her game would be. Dad saw me hesitating as I tried to decide the tone to take and he suggested that I sit in the kitchen so that he could watch TV without disturbing me.

This is what I finally wrote.

Tracey

It should be obvious by now that I have left you. Your behaviour last week seems to have been calculated to humiliate, demean and disrespect me, hardly the actions of a loving and faithful wife. Your announcement that you intended to fuck another man, whether true or not, left me realising that I would never again trust you to remain faithful whenever you were out of my sight.

Imagine, as I have done, that for the rest of my life, every leaving do, training course or girls' night out I would be sitting wondering if you were fucking another man. Every time I left for work I'd wonder if you'd arranged to meet and fuck your latest lover in my bed. What could you possibly do or say to restore my trust in you? The answer? Nothing.

Therefore, given your demonstrable lack of respect for me and my consequent lack of trust in you, the obvious solution is divorce. My solicitor has begun the process on my behalf and will be your sole point of contact with me in future. He will be in touch soon.

I have taken the bulk of our savings and, in return, I have signed my interest in our home entirely over to you. It is my fondest wish that you come to loathe it with the same intensity that I do.

I have cancelled all of the regular payments in my name. You will have to negotiate and pay for utilities, insurances, council taxes and other expenses in your own name. It should be straightforward for a sophisticated woman of the world like you if even a useless fucking cuckold like me can do it.

The house will continue to need maintaining. Your past strategy of giving the poor bastard responsible a half-hearted duty fuck once a week in recognition of his efforts may not work as readily with happily married tradesmen with bills to pay.

It is possible that circumstances lead us to meet again at some point in the future. I dread that day dawning and will do everything in my power to avoid it.

Please note that I bear you no malice. I despise you for your vindictive games, but I have no intention of engaging in any sort of vendetta against you or Leo (if indeed he was even aware of his involvement in your scheme). Plotting revenge would require me to focus far more of my attention on you and your paramour than you deserve. I deem it sufficient to make myself happy, content in the knowledge that alone will doubtless piss you off.

I remain at a loss as to what you intended to achieve over the last seven days. My sole regret is that I don't care enough to find out.

Dennis

I sent the email from a specially personalised account to Tracey's work email address, knowing that she'd open it on her return to the office, and then deleted that account from my phone and tablet. I had no intention of reading any reply or attempts to justify her behaviour or demand forgiveness for her actions.

I spent a few days with Dad and then, having briefly returned to my home town to collect my Bank Cards and sign some documents for the solicitor, I began my adventure.

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Tracey

I just didn't understand what had got into Dennis that Friday Morning. I admit, I had manipulated the conversation with my sister earlier that week. I heard him closing the car door when he parked on the drive after work and I began to describe an idea that the girls at work had been discussing. We'd imagined that, by letting our husbands believe that we were planning to date another man, they would become more attentive, more willing to pay more attention to our sexual needs and spend more quality time with us rather than down the pub or watching football.

June, my sister, wasn't part of that discussion so she was horrified when I steered the conversation towards my supposed intention to date, and then sleep with, another man. She tried to convince me that I was risking my marriage, that Dennis would never forgive me. I thought that I knew my husband though. He had everything a man needed. Initially, I just meant to give him a reminder not to take it for granted.

I was certain that he must have heard our conversation but he didn't seem to be concerned at all. I did think that, like most men, he might have just tuned it out as 'girl talk' and didn't even register what it was we were talking about.

I was fairly sure that his reference to being on everyone's discard pile was aimed at me when he was talking about redundancies over our evening meal, although he tried to conceal it. But, when he stuck his head around the door to say he was having an early night because he had a migraine, that's when I was absolutely certain that he'd heard our chat. I was excited to see how he'd respond.

I must admit that I was disappointed with how the week progressed. If anything, he spent even more time in the spare room we used as a study, apparently looking for radiators to replace those damn ugly things that came with the house. Anyway, he'd spend the evening on the computer and then go straight to bed. No turning up one evening with flowers; no offering to take me out for a nice meal, not even a mention of a nice holiday abroad somewhere exotic this summer. No sex at all. Nothing!

In fact, by Wednesday, I had actually got rather caught up with the idea of dating another man and Gloria from accounts had admitted that she had briefly been involved with Leo, the Senior Accommodations Officer. She said he was excellent company and quite an accomplished lover, though her baseline for comparison was reputedly rather limited. Still, before I left work, I had actually suggested that Leo and I might spend Friday evening together. Just for a meal of course, I wasn't really going to sleep with him.

But Thursday evening was too much to bear! I'd decided to make a nice meal after my early finish, to make Dennis feel guilty for ignoring me. How did he react? He rolled in after ten, with no excuse and when I was telling him how hurt I was he just came out with some smart-arsed comment and swanned off to the spare bedroom without a word of apology. I was fuming!

Friday morning was even worse. I had originally planned to tell Dennis about my date that morning and let him try to talk me out of it when he promised to be more attentive. Now that I actually had a date I had to rethink some of my arguments, but I was ready. Of course, the bloody man strolled downstairs at the last minute and, when I told him, 'we needed to talk' he made some crass remark about a stick up my arse and ignored the fact that I'd just told him that I had a date and I might not be back until Saturday

I was so annoyed. In fact I couldn't think of anything to say to his dismissive attitude other than, "Fuck you!" as I stormed out. I can barely remember driving to work.

That evening, I gave him the chance to apologise for his attitude. He was infuriating; pointing out that I was the one planning to be unfaithful and yet it was me who stormed out. Then he made things worse by refusing to beg me not to go, by wishing a dose of herpes on me and by claiming that, by playing stupid games, I had finally freed him from caring what I did and who I did it with.

I started to worry then that I might have pushed too far. I tried to persuade him that I had just wanted to test his affection for me. He said that, if it was a test of our marriage, then we'd both failed miserably. I see that now; just too late.

He locked himself in the shared bathroom and refused to answer when I tried to talk to him. I used the en-suite in our bedroom to bathe and then dress for my evening out. I had hoped that Dennis would see me dressed nicely and ask if he could be my date that night, rather than Leo, but when I came downstairs he was already leaving. I called to him but, if he heard, he ignored me.

In the end, I did meet Leo. The meal was very pleasant and he was good company but we parted outside the restaurant with a very chaste kiss. Leo said he'd enjoyed our meal but made it clear that he didn't get sexually involved with married women. I was home by ten thirty. Dennis wasn't back.

When I got up just after nine on Saturday morning, the house was still empty. I had assumed that Dennis was sulking at the pub when I got home and I'd missed hearing him coming in. Then I thought perhaps he'd gone to his brother's. To be honest, that was fine by me. I took a long soak in the bath hoping to remove my perfume and threw my clothes in the wash. I didn't expect Dennis to be happy I'd gone out and I wasn't going to leave obvious reminders to rub it in. The issue became moot when he didn't come home that evening either. I was a little worried, even a bit annoyed, but not too concerned. He seemed resigned rather than upset when he left. I contacted his family to try to find out, discretely, if they had seen him recently. Nobody would admit to anything but, from their tone, I suspected that he'd told some of them.

By Sunday I was quite worried. I thought about ringing the police and reporting him missing but I could imagine that conversation! "Has he had any changes in his circumstances, madam?" They would ask.

"Well," I'd reply. "I did tell him that I was going out on a date with a male colleague. And I might have implied that staying overnight for sex was a possibility too." So, right, not the police then.

My world collapsed on Monday. I nearly didn't go into work but I hadn't seen or heard from Dennis since Friday. He was hardly going to come looking for me at home when I should have been in the office, so in I went. I only had half a dozen emails in my inbox. The one from a gmail account, 'tracey.is.a.slut', leapt out at me.

I read my husband's final message to me and I saw my actions through his eyes for once. Did I respect him? Yes, he was a fine man. Did I show him respect? No, to my shame, I didn't. I took him for granted. Ironic really, as my machinations were based on my perception that he took me for granted. He was right of course. He did everything that I asked, but I still bitched because he didn't do the things that I wanted him to do 'Without Being Told To'. Yes, I know, another test that I set him up to fail.

Could he trust me again? Well, no. Obviously not. As far as Dennis knew, I'd proved that beyond doubt, even though nothing actually happened with Leo. Could I restore his trust? Again, he was right. I had no more idea than he did how to convince him that I'd be any more faithful 'next time' having just threatened to shag another man merely to make a point that, in hindsight, even I couldn't really explain.

It was just after nine on Monday morning and there I was, sat at my desk weeping over the end of my marriage, and all that I could do was wait for my estranged husband's solicitors to contact me.

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Dennis

Tracey's shenanigans began towards the middle of March; April Fools' day would have been more appropriate. But, by the beginning of April my divorce was underway and one of the requirements of the process was that we lived apart. I had previously fantasised about her over there, me over here and a barrier separating us. Now I had made my decision. The barrier would be the English Channel. I had wanted to travel more so that's what I'd do.

Having said goodbye to my family and given my daughter, Sue, a sanitised account of her parents' situation, I headed towards the South Coast. I had checked a couple of magazines aimed at private car sales and realised that my five year old BMW had kept its price quite well. I rang a guy who lived about ten miles from Dover and offered him first refusal for a cash sale. I made it clear that I was asking a fair price and if he pissed me off by trying to negotiate down I'd just go to the next guy on the list.

That's exactly what happened. He looked at the car but claimed it needed some minor body repairs and suggested that I accepted £1000 less than I was asking. I assume he was hoping we'd meet in the middle. I just got into the car and drove away. I was so angry at not being taken seriously, again.

The next guy was a gent. Checked the car top to bottom and took it for a test drive. It was for his wife and he wanted something safe and reliable and he wasn't going to try to save pennies on a fair price. We shook, did the paperwork and he transferred the money to my account via his phone as we stood on his drive.

The following day, I did much the same, in reverse, with a bloke selling an older left hand drive Clio that he used to use on his foreign travels. He was so pissed at Brexit fucking up his trips through the Channel Tunnel that he decided to lose the car. I bought it, taxed it and insured it, making sure that I was covered in Europe. I pocketed a few thousand pounds profit in the process. The day after that I was at the terminus driving onto the train and an hour later I was in France.

I meandered south, taking about a week to reach Agde on the Mediterranean coast, passing through, Reims, Troyes and Lyon and driving over the magnificent Viaduc de Millau, over 2 kilometres long and the tallest bridge in the world. By the time I pulled into the marina car park in Agde that afternoon in mid April, I was ready to pause to take my bearings.

I had passed a small bistro a few hundred metres back, and I decided to eat there. (Look, the French road signs give distances in metres and kilometres so that is how I've set up my satnav. A metre is about 10% longer than a yard and a kilometre is 1000 metres or about 5/8 of a mile)

Anyway, the bistro offered a Prix Fixe menu; that is, a set meal often with wine included for a very reasonable price, and the woman who served me appreciated my attempts to order in French. The plat du jour was a superb beef dish served with a local red wine. After I'd finished, I complimented her on the meal and asked if she could recommend somewhere in the town where I might stay for a few nights. I struggled at first but eventually made it clear that all I needed was a simple, clean but chiefly inexpensive place. I'm far from fluent in French but, if the other person is patient, I can usually make myself understood.

She called to her companion who was working in the kitchen and they had an intense debate, far too fast for me to follow, where the name Celeste seemed to feature. Simone, the waitress and Veronique, the cook seemed to feel that Celeste might be amenable to an ad-hoc booking at her small guest house before the tourist season proper began. With typical French hospitality, Simone actually rang her on my behalf and negotiated a great price for a week's stay. In fact, the room was available until June at the same price and, if I was willing to help out with some basic chores, the price could reduce even further.

Well, it had to be worth a look.

Veronique wrote down the details that I needed for the satnav and I left, promising to return. The nav took me along the sea front and onto the Rue Paul Isoire (no, me neither) and then to a side street about halfway along the road. About 50 metres from the junction I was informed that I had reached my destination on the right. It was a rendered single storey building in a large garden enclosed by high walls and an imposing gate. Almost as soon as I stopped the engine, the gate opened and a handsome woman, possibly a little older than me, stepped out to greet me. She was, as I expected, the B&B proprietor, Madame (Mme) Celeste Arnaud.

Once the introductions were made it was obvious that Mme. Arnaud's English was on a par with my French but we stumbled through, laughing at our own mistakes more than the other's. She directed me to a parking spot inside the property and closed the gate, locking the rest of the world out.

She showed me to a pleasant room with an ancient but sturdy looking double bed and an attached bathroom and stood, expectantly, as I looked around. "C'est bon?" She asked.