Seat Up

British English spelling and grammar.

***

Seat up, seat down

I'm James, my wife is Shelly, and our story starts when our son left home. Carter was keen on Asian studies, and won a place at the National University of Singapore. He'd be gone for years, and we already planned a trip there over Christmas. His departure freed up his bedroom and the main bathroom.

"You prefer baths to showers don't you?" I asked.

"When I'm not in a rush, yes." she agreed. "Why, do fancy sharing one?"

"No. I mean yes; maybe later. I've had an idea. Why don't you move your washing stuff - and I mean all of it - into the bathroom? It's got a shower over the bath if you need one, but our en suite has no bath."

"Brilliant!" she said. "No more arguments about seat up, seat down, and I can get away from your obsessive tidiness!"

Guys usually see the clues, even they don't register. More attractive work clothes, sexy undies. Shelly had shown both those, especially Fridays. At first, I was uneasy. Then one Friday I got home early, bursting for a piss; and the seat was down. OK, I am obsessively tidy, but that does not include the toilet seat. My bathroom: my rules. The seat stays up; my statement about male territory.

"Did you use the en suite this morning?" I asked Shelly.

"Good grief, no! There's nothing I need in there. Anyway I wouldn't dare, you being so tidy!"

And I believed her. A man had been in there. And he was probably a married man. He had to deal with the seat argument with his own wife. He'd pissed in my toilet and closed it automatically. I could just picture her screwing him on our bed, and going to 'her' bathroom to clean up. She probably hadn't even realised he'd used mine. I wondered if this always occurred on Fridays. But mostly I wondered how I was staying so calm. I was furious.

I took the following Friday off work and left the house early. I dropped my Audi off at a car rental, and hired a Renault for the day. I got back in time to see her leave home. I followed and it was soon apparent she was going to work. She parked her VW in the adjacent public car park; then walked into work. I parked in there too, where I could observe her car, and went for a coffee.

I considered my options in a café across the street. I should be prepared for the unexpected. I drove to a nearby gent's outfitters and bought a lightweight anorak and a baseball cap. And two shops down I bought a craft knife; one with a retractable blade. Then I drove back to the car park, and even got my old space back. In the coffee shop, I got another cup to go, and took it to my hire car.

At eleven thirty some guy came out and went to his Mercedes. I was interested because he was parked next to Shelly. Two minutes later she came out, got in and unlocked the passenger door. The guy slipped in with her.

They headed to a big pub, known for its lunchtime food. I followed them, wearing my disguise, and they picked a table near the back. They had plenty of choice; the place was half empty. I observed them from the bar. Then I approached the waiter and told him what I wanted. He was reluctant.

"Come on, it'll only take a second. Here's twenty pounds."

It was a wonderful piece of choreography. I went to the Gents, voided my beer and coffee, and opened the door to re-enter the dining section. Their table was between me and the exit. The waiter nodded and walked past them. Then he dropped a spoon at Shelly's feet and muttered 'Shit! Now I'll have to wash it!' While she pulled her legs away, and they both stared at him, I walked behind her chair and took her handbag that was hanging on the back. It disappeared under my anorak and I left. Outside I fished out Shelly's keys, got into her VW and drove off. The hire car could wait.

The plan only seemed to be arriving in bits and pieces. Without really knowing why, I drove to the airport and parked it in long-term stay. I wiped the steering wheel and gearstick clean. I didn't need to do a particularly good job. A few of my fingerprints were to be expected.

In the taxi back to the pub, my mobile phone started. Caller id showed an unknown number.

"Hello, is that Mr James Marshall?"

"Who's this?"

"This is the Red Lion pub, and I have a lady here who..."

"You have the wrong number."

I hung up. The rest of the journey, it rang again. I cancelled every call. They couldn't be sure whether this was me not answering, or them getting my number wrong. There was no sign of either of them when I got back to the pub.

I returned to my rental car and checked Shelly's bag for the first time. A tiny pair of panties was in there; they smelled like they'd been worn today. Unless she had the opportunity to buy more, she would be undie-less for the rest of the day. It wasn't like she could get in the house for another pair. As well as her keys there was her purse, complete with cash, cards, her mobile phone, and half a dozen condoms. We don't use them. A quick check on her messages revealed she was having lunch with Graham today, and not for the first time. The thought of his Mercedes triggered the next event.

I took the Renault back to the car hire place and handed it in. Then I drove my Audi to her workplace. The car park had no cameras anywhere. The craft knife made short work ofvthe Merc's valves; just the two nearest to where Shelly's VW had been. It did a good job of scratching the bodywork on that same side: 'STOP FUCKING SHELY'. I needed to cover both doors in to fit it all in. I thought that was neat; it could have been a jealous colleague; one who couldn't spell. Then I went home.

*** *** ***

It was twenty minutes after the dropped spoon incident, before Shelly realised her bag had gone. There was no reason to make a connection between the events. She and Graham told the waiter, and a search of the dining area was carried out; no luck. The barman confirmed nothing had been handed in.

"Perhaps you left it in your car." said Graham.

"No, I definitely put it over the back of the chair."

"Let's check anyway."

"Shit!" she cried, "The bloody car's gone too."

She rushed back into the pub and asked them to call the police; then would they call her husband? They tried but seemed to keep getting the wrong number.

The police arrived and were told the whole sorry tale. Her keys had been in her bag. Clearly the thief had intended to steal her car. And could they give her a lift home please? She needed to get there quickly as he might rob the house. No, she couldn't remember if there was anything in her handbag identifying her address. At that stage, Shelly and Graham wanted to go their separate ways but the police said they would check on the house first. Then they had to go to the station to provide written statements. An officer would keep an eye on the house.

At the police station, they called James' work place but

he'd taken the day off. They tried his mobile, but Shelly was now convinced she was misremembering the number. At last, they were allowed to leave. Shelly had no money and the police had suddenly got very busy and might not be able to provide a ride home for an hour. Graham called them a taxi and they went back to work. On the way, they got their stories straight and went in. They were colleagues, just having an innocent lunch when everythimg went wrong. It was nearly time to go home anyway, and they got their final surprise when they got to Graham's Merc. He had to pay for another taxi to take Shelly home.

*** *** ***

"You came in a taxi, problem with the car?"

"Where the fuck have you been?" she shouted.

I sat on the sofa. The wait drew out, until she exploded.

"Well?"

I waited again. Then:

"You came in a taxi, problem with the car?" I repeated.

Shelly deflated.

"Sorry. Yes, my car's been stolen, so has my bag."

"How did that happen?"

"I'll tell you, but first I need a shower. I've been in a grimy police station all afternoon."

"Shower later. Tell me what happened. Sit here."

Shelly had rarely seen me so assertive. I knew why she wanted to get out of the room but she couldn't know that. She sat carefully and poured out the story; I was sympathetic. Then I took control. Where did she have lunch? Who with? She could tell I was suspicious but refrained from getting angry; now on the defensive. She was looking uneasy by the time we finished. I changed the subject.

"I'd better call a locksmith now. There'll be someone on call for emergencies. Somebody is out there with our house keys. If there's anything incriminating in your bag, they could get in tonight while we're asleep."

She winced at the word 'incriminating'. I called a locksmith and he agreed to come immediately. Again I thwarted Shelly's attempt to get upstairs, by insisting she have a drink while we waited - to calm her nerves. As she sipped wine I stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders and neck. It made me smile; every time she started to relax, she'd tense up again and tug at her skirt. Soon the locksmith arrived.

"OK. I want you let him in, and stand by him while he changes the front and back door locks."

"Why me?"

"You're the one who went to lunch with some guy and lost the keys."

The fact that she didn't argue showed me she was still worried. When it was done I went to pay him, instructing Shelly to come too. The guy showed us two blister packs.

"Each lock is manufactured with only two keys." He handed me a blister pack. "I'd like you to be the one to open this and try them both. When someone's had a problem like yours, they should be satisfied concerning future security. Those are for the front."

I opened the pack and tried both the keys; then repeated the process at the back door. I paid him and kept all four keys. Shelly still hadn't been upstairs.

"Good." I said. "Now we can put an end to this dreadful day."

She shifted uncomfortably.

"By the way you dropped this." I said, handing her a condom. "I know it's yours, and I'd like you tell me how long you've been using them. And who you've been fucking."

"That's not mine!"

"You're not listening to me. I said I know it's yours. I'll give you one more chance to own up. In fact I'll make it easy. I know you've been fucking the Graham in your phone contacts. Now, tell me how long it's been going on."

"What? I swear I am not having an affair. That isn't mine!"

"Lift your skirt."

"I will not!"

I pushed her into the chair. Her arms flailed for support and she sat heavily. Just as she landed, I deftly pulled her skirt up over her waist. Her bare arse hit the leather.

"Where are your panties?"

I wedged my knees between hers, so she couldn't close them. She covered herself with her hands.

"What are you doing that for? I've seen your cunt thousands of times!"

She kept her hands there.

"I had a little problem at work." she explained. "I peed myself. So I took them off in the toilets."

"Where did you put them?"

"I threw them in a bin."

That's always the problem when you haven't made a proper plan. You fall into a trap when the questions come too fast. It was too late now.

"Why didn't you buy more? Have you been flashing the goodies all day?"

"It was just before lunch that I had the accident. I was going to buy some on my way back to work, but the car was stolen and everything went haywire."

"So you left with Graham, knickerless. Why didn't you stop off and buy some on your way to the pub?"

"It would have been embarrassing to do that. He's running the project I'm seconded to."

"You mean more embarrassing than having lunch with the breeze blowing throught your pubes?"

She didn't answer. I grabbed one wrist and pulled her to her feet, then dragged her upstairs. She gasped when she saw two cases already packed.

"These bags contain everything you'll need for a few days while I start divorce proceedings." I said. "I didn't pack any panties of course. And, guess what? You aren't getting any new keys either."

She started to cry; it was over.

"How did you know?"

"Last time you fucked in here, you probably went to the main bathroom. He used my toilet, and put the seat down."

I'm not entirely without feelings; I carried one of her bags down.

We stood in the hallway.

"Where can I go?" she wailed. "I have no money or cards. I can't pay for a hotel. And no car; I can't even get a taxi!"

I pushed her outside and opened one of the cases. There was her handbag.

"Your purse is there and has about fifty pounds in it. No cards; I'm cancelling them tomorrow. The rest of your condoms are there, so you can always make a bit of money charging for what's under your skirt."

She picked it up and looked inside.

"My keys are here."

"Yes. The house keys don't work now, and your car is out at the airport. If you fetch it tonight, pop in and check how far you can fly for fifty pounds. And don't come back."