She's not there

This is a story of consequences. There is no explicit sex at all, but if there was, the participants would be over eighteen. Apologies for the UK spelling; please ignore any instances of the letter 'u' that you personally consider superfluous.

It was nine thirty that Thursday morning and I, Tony, was on my way back home to see if I'd left my phone behind. It wasn't in my office and I'd checked the car. This was my last hope. I had a meeting with Dave McGregor that afternoon and, if it went well, my commission on that contract alone could be worth thousands. We were local, competitive and reliable, a shoe-in for the business as long as I didn't piss the owner off at the last minute. Dave had told me that he had some family issues to deal with first and to call him on his private number to confirm a time and place to meet. That number was stored only on my phone; I really needed to find it.

As I drove, I sang along to the Santana song playing through my car's media system from my USB playlist. The Zombies did it first but I preferred Carlos' version: it seemed smoother.

Well, no one told me about her, the way she lied

Well, no one told me about her, how many people cried

But it's too late to say you're sorry

How would I know, why should I care?

Please don't bother tryin' to find her

She's not there

I sang along, straining to hit the high notes, but happy enough with my efforts.

I pulled onto the drive and carried on singing, unaccompanied, as I went to let myself in.

But it's too late to say you're sorry

How would I know, why should I care?

Please don't bother tryin' to find her

She's not there

Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked

The way she'd act and the colour of her hair

Her voice was soft and cool

Her eyes were clear and bright

But she's not there

Do you believe in fate? I don't or I didn't. I loved the joke; 'Three conspiracy theorists walked into a bar. You can't tell me that was a coincidence.'

So was it a coincidence that I was still singing the final verse as I tried to open the front door, only to find it locked? At the time, I just assumed she was in the garden. In our village it was unusual to lock the door while we were at home, but if she was working outside at the back of the house, then she just might.

I dug out my key, opened the door and looked to see if Carrie had found my phone and left it on the hall table for me. It wasn't there. My smartwatch suddenly vibrated briefly; it had connected to the paired phone. Thank God! Now I knew that it was somewhere in the house. I touched the screen menu on my watch and selected 'Find'. Almost immediately a creepy female voice called, "I'm here," accompanied by a musical tone. I followed the sound into our living room where the repeated message appeared to be coming from an armchair.

Of course. I'd put my phone on the chair arm as I'd finished my coffee that morning and it must have slid into the gap between the seat cushion and the arm, without my noticing. Digging it out and breathing a sigh of relief, I sent Dave a text message. 'Dave. Hope everything is well. Just let me know when it is convenient for me to come and meet. I can easily move my schedule to accommodate you. Tony'

He texted back almost immediately. 'Family emergency means need to travel north for while. Need to leave first thing tomorrow. Meet tonight at the Kings Oak Hotel @7 and discuss terms over drink? My treat'

'Of course,' I replied. 'See you there'

Now my diary was sorted, I went to find Carrie to tell her that I might just have neatly screwed up any plans she'd made for our evening. She wasn't there. Not in the house or the garden, even though she'd explicitly told me today was housework day. In fact, walking into the kitchen, I noticed the sheets on the line She had obviously already stripped our bed and washed the linen. I shrugged and called her phone. A random thought struck me. I hadn't noticed her car parked on the street either.

She was breathless when she finally answered. "Hello, love. Anything wrong?" She asked, apparently concerned at my unexpected call.

"No," I reassured her, and told her of my change of plans. "You sound out of breath," I commented. "Where are you?"

She laughed. God! But I loved that sound. "I was in the garden hanging the sheets out when you rang, and I'd left my phone in the kitchen. I had to dash in to answer before it went to voicemail."

She was so earnest; so convincing; that I actually looked around the kitchen, as if somehow I'd missed seeing her there with me. "Sorry, I'll let you get back to your chores," I mumbled. "Look I've got to go. See you later." And I closed the call and my mind went blank.

I sank into one of the kitchen chairs and tried to reconcile what she has just said with what I knew to be the truth. Why the lie? I felt sick as I could only think of one reason. But where the fuck was she? It's not like we have trackers on our phones. But then I remembered: She'd loved my new company car so we'd bought a similar but smaller model, second hand, from the same dealership for her. Both cars were linked to the manufacturer's app on my phone. I could use it to check if they were locked, turn the A/C on and, more importantly, find my way back to where we had parked.

In less than a minute, the app was open and her car location displayed. She had parked in a semi-residential street on the outskirts of town, about ten minutes drive away. I had to see why.

I sent the location to the SatNav in my own car and set off. How I made it in one piece I don't know. I have barely any recollection of the journey but I made it without any disasters. Her car was parked outside an apartment block opposite some small shops. The whole area was a bit shabby. Tattoo parlours, a bookies, a nail bar and a small general store; not squalid but not one of our usual shopping destinations.

There was a small cafe on the block too and, having parked around the corner, I went in, ordered a cup of tea from the cute teen behind the counter and found a seat by the window with a good view of her car. I'd been there just under forty minutes and was on my second cup when they came out. A slender and still attractive woman with a guy about our age, late forties, a little paunchy and a bit scruffy. The woman was my wife, as I'd feared; but who the Hell was he to her? Surely she wasn't involved with him? That conceit of mine was dashed when she let go of his hand and kissed him. A lover's kiss, and any doubt was dashed. She had definitely just fucked him.

Once she had broken away, climbed into her car and driven off, I checked my phone. The video had captured everything. I stood up and walked to the cafe door, intending to follow him back into his building, but he crossed the road towards the shops instead. I paused for a moment and then stepped outside in time to see him enter the small store. I followed him in, still with my phone in my hand. The guy at the counter was serving a customer while my target was looking in the chiller cabinets. I positioned myself at the magazine rack opposite the till with my phone camera towards him recording video while I faked listening to a call. As he walked to the till, I tracked him by apparently scanning the magazines on the rack.

His conversation with the cashier was as enlightening as it was distasteful.

"Morning Kyle," the cashier greeted him. "Late breakfast?" He laughed holding up the pack of bacon and loaf of bread in front of him.

"Fuck off, Tris," my wife's lover replied, without heat. "My ex came round early doors for a quickie so I'm fuckin' starving now. Got a lotta protein to replace," he laughed, pointing to the bacon.

"Gonna be a regular thing this one, you reckon?" The guy asked, obviously not really interested.

"Nah!" Kyle replied. "She's okay for her age but I'm betting the new lass in the coffee shop will be a tighter fit. I'll have her squealing like a little piggy in no time. I'll give the ex a couple of weeks until the novelty wears off, then." He made the 'fuck-you' gesture with his hand. They both found this hilarious but I kept my face straight, because I was focussed on the magazines, of course. Oddly enough a title caught my eye. 'Coping With Divorce'. The universe seemed to be going out of its way to taunt me today. But, on a whim, I picked it up and took it to the till as Kyle left the shop.

"For you, mate?" The man I now knew as Tris asked, fairly sympathetically.

"More for my wife," I replied. "I think she might find it useful reading in the near future."

He shrugged, scanned the mag, took my money and I dropped the change into a charity box. Some good may as well come from the shitty day that this was turning out to be.

I watched Kyle enter the building opposite and strolled after him. After a quick glance at the names on the intercom entry system only one seemed likely; K Bennett. I took a photo; my phone was certainly earning its keep this morning. Deciding that there was nothing further to achieve here, I set off back to the car to decide how to deal with my world collapsing.

At the corner, I stopped and retraced my steps to the café. Only two tables were occupied, both in the far corners and I leaned forward to speak confidentially to the girl who'd served me. "Do you know a bloke called Kyle?" I asked in a low tone. "Lives in a flat across the road?"

"Mouthy twat?" She responded, pulling a face. "Dresses like the last one up in the orphanage but still thinks he's God's gift to women everywhere?"

Well I knew we were on the same page, so I pulled up the video from the store and passed my phone to her. "Press play," I suggested. Her lips tightened into a thin determined line as she heard Kyle outline his plans for her to Tris.

"You don't need a record of this," she warned me as she proceeded to link my phone to hers via Bluetooth and sent the video file across. She smiled with a grim satisfaction when we heard her phone signal its receipt.

"Can I ask a favour in return?" I asked.

She nodded. "Within reason," she conceded.

"The other woman he's mocking, his ex, is currently my wife," I explained. "I need to deal with her treachery before she finds out I'm onto them. Can you keep a lid on this until tomorrow, please?" I gave her my most endearing and pitiful look.

She saw it for what it was and grinned at me. "Stop with the puppy-dog eyes," she told me. We both got serious then. "I'm gonna share this with my dad and my boyfriend. I won't tell anyone where I got it but Kyle won't know what hit him. No one talks about me like that. Certainly not a slimy little pussy hound like Kyle!" She considered for a moment. "Look, I'll not let on 'till the weekend at the earliest. And they'll probably not get physical with that mouthy piece of shit until their tempers have cooled a bit. I don't want no-one going inside on his account." She all but spat the words out.

I returned to my car with the satisfaction of a job well done. That was a lucky break really. My best hope had been that the girl, Raquel was her name, might throw a hot drink over him. Getting two guys to give him a good kicking was more than I could have imagined.

It was time for me to stop reacting and start planning, and the best place to do that was the office. I was the sales director for a plant hire business and I had friends and resources there that would come in useful. First I spoke to my boss, the owner.

"Danesh. I've just found out that I'm going to have some fairly shitty personal stuff going on," I warned him. "I'll try not to let it interfere with my work but I can't promise I'll be at my best."

"What about the McGregor deal?" He was entitled to ask. It was worth a lot to the business.

"Dave and I both seem to be in the thick of it with family drama," I admitted, ruefully. "We're meeting tonight and I think he's ready to sign." Danesh was understandably pleased. McGregor ran an up and coming construction business and our plant on his developments could double our turnover.

"I don't want the commission, boss," I told him through gritted teeth. "Carrie has been screwing around on me. I don't know how long for, but once was too many times. The thing is." I ground the words out. "There's no fucking way she's getting a penny from any commissions I earn from here onwards. McGregor's included."

Danesh thought for a moment. "I'll talk to my brother. You know he's got an inventive approach to accounting and, as long as the tax man get his dues, it's up to us how and when we pay you." Sanjeev was his brother and our Finance Director.

I went back to my office, satisfied that issue was resolved. Having given my finances some thought, oddly enough that was all I was inclined to do. Trying to shuffle money around was only going to make me look bad if and when it came to separating our lives. If Carrie tried to play silly buggers, I'd oblige her. If she accepted the consequences of fucking Kyle, I'd be reasonable. Not generous, you understand, but reasonable; well, fairly reasonable. Well, I'd try to make it look as though I was being reasonable.

Although I had little appetite I asked Claire, our Sales Admin, to fetch me a sandwich when she stepped to the local take away for her own lunch. I usually enjoy what I get from there. To this day, I have no idea what I ate that lunchtime. While she was gone, I cyber-stalked Kyle Bennett. I was browsing his Facebook page when Claire got back.

"A friend of yours?" She enquired cheerily looking over my shoulder at the images of Kyle in various states of oafish drunkenness with his pals. I flipped to his 'Relationship' status; it read, 'it's complicated'. I pointed to the screen.

"I'm ninety nine point nine percent certain that Carrie is one of his complications," I confessed. "If you ever see that I'm not pulling my weight in the office, that's why. But you need to tell me. She might have fucked up my personal life, but I'd be grateful if you help me stop her sinking my career too." Claire was shocked. She'd met Carrie a few times and had liked her.

I knew Danesh wouldn't mind me asking our legal advisor for advice on a solicitor to guide me through what was now all but inevitable. He referred me to MMC Family Law. I rang and made an appointment to see James Murray (the second 'M') the following Monday. On the advice of the nice lady who made the appointment, I began a spreadsheet of all our shared assets.

Next, accepting a welcome cup of coffee from a solicitous and sympathetic Claire, I downloaded the photo and video files from my phone onto my laptop, being careful not to alter the originals; I wouldn't need proof of infidelity for the divorce itself, but I was going to keep it in reserve as leverage, or even revenge, if Carrie got greedy. If I say so myself, I did a tolerable job of cropping extraneous sections from the video and ended up with a folder on my phone containing a handful of photos and tight little video clips that I fully intended to share with my beloved that evening. If she so much as mentioned a fragile male ego, I swore to myself that I'd share the whole fucking series on every social media platform I could find.

Finally, I got a grip on myself and reviewed the documents that I had already prepared for my meeting with Dave McGregor. Danesh and Sanjeev were happy with the numbers and had even given me their approval to make some minor concessions if Dave decided to play hardball. Once I left the office, my professional self had to be in charge and I needed to be on my game. All in all, tonight was going to be some fucking rollercoaster, however it all played out!

For the rest of the afternoon, I sat and reviewed my marriage. Had their been any signs of dissatisfaction from Carrie? I didn't think so. Yes, I'd moved up in the firm over the years, but it was a family business and, as long as the work was done and done well, we all worked sensible hours. Carrie couldn't complain that she was a work widow.

How long had she been fucking Kyle? When he said she was his ex, I'd assumed he meant from when we were still single. If she could lie to me so readily and cheerfully from his bed, in hindsight was that an assumption I could make? Perhaps they had got together and split up while we were married; and maybe others too. The consequences of that line of thought almost had me vomiting my lunch into my office bin. Were the kids even mine? The next twenty five minutes were spent on-line looking for and ordering testing swabs from a reliable DNA testing service for two parents and two children. I decided to use the premium service that was certified for use in court. Over five hundred quid! Fuck the woman! Why couldn't she keep her legs together?

Once I'd recovered a little, another issue hit me. When? Even after the kids were largely self-sufficient, before they left for university, we were home bodies; she didn't go clubbing with her friends. Yes, they'd catch up once in a while, usually once a month or so at each other's houses; they'd been at ours, when was that? It must have been last year sometime. Then it struck me. If four women are taking turns to host a girl's night in, I should see them three times a year, not once. Fuck me! Were they all at it? And covering for each other? Or was it just Carrie whoring about, and the others were giving her an alibi out of loyalty?

I composed an email to her friends' husbands.

'Hi all,

I have only just discovered that my wife is an adulteress. I suspect that she has been using some of the evenings when she was supposedly with your wives to meet other men. If I am right, then either your wives were helping her to hide her adultery or they were doing the same.

To be clear, I have no evidence against anyone but Carrie, but if the four of them are having girls nights in every month then surely I should be seeing them in my home much more often than I have. I have drawn my own conclusions. How you deal with your own wife is up to you.

I am sorry that I have to drag you into this but if they are all covering for each other you deserve to know.

Tony'

I addressed the message to the three men I'd met and liked and stored it in my email drafts folder.

Thinking about how many men brought yet another uncomfortable realisation. Even if Kyle had been the only one, his comments and Raquel's description of him as a pussy hound gave me no reassurance about his concern for personal sexual hygiene. I needed testing for STIs. Back to the internet. God bless the NHS. One of its partners, SH:24, undertook a discreet sexual health monitoring kit that would be delivered within two days, entirely free of charge. I ordered one; just one. Carrie could rot from the inside out now as far as I was concerned.

As I sat considering my future, I began to truly comprehend the real cost of dishonesty. From that moment on, I didn't think I could bring myself to believe anything that my wife had said to me. Well, there was twenty five years of my life wasted.

I sat and tried to refocus on my meeting and, mostly, succeeded. At six forty five, I sighed, stood, grabbed my briefcase and left for the Kings Oak Hotel. Dave McGregor met me in reception as I arrived, five minutes early, and led me to a table in the bar. The half finished pint on the table suggested he'd been there a while and seen me pull into the car park.

"I needed some time to myself to sit and think," he explained, seeing my look. I wasn't about to pry. "What can I get you?" He asked. I was about to protest but he stopped me, raising his hand. "I know," he interrupted me. "The convention is for you, wanting my business, to butter me up with drinks and meals and more, if you think it'll swing the deal and you think that's the kind of man I am." He smiled, wearily. "You didn't piss me about. You gave me your service options and gave me the prices. That's how I do business and I appreciate it. Especially now."