Soiled Knickers

Separation.

I decided to treat this issue as a negotiation. You know the concept of the other party makes an offer, you make a counteroffer and then shut up. The first one to speak after that is the loser.

There were questions I had that I wanted answers to. But I was going to make her come to me. At lunchtime I made myself a ham and cheese sandwich and poured another cup of coffee from the machine and sat down to eat out on the patio.

It was after four o'clock when she finally came downstairs. I was in the lounge watching The Last Kingdom on Netflix. Very entertaining, but as historically accurate as the story of Columbus discovering America.

I was, as every time sat in my recliner and she sat down opposite me on the sofa. As she opened her mouth to speak, I held my hand up to stop her, then pointed at the TV screen. On the screen, a very named Peri Baumeister as Gisela was bouncing up and down on an equally naked Alexander Dreymon as Uhtred in a sizzling sex scene.

Once the scene had finished, I paused the programme and turned to her.

"Did you have something to say?" I asked.

She looked at me.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly, then cast her eyes down at the floor by her feet.

"Ah, you're sorry," I replied, "well then that's settled, what are we going to have for tea?"

She looked confused.

"What?" she said, "is that it, you aren't angry?"

"Angry?" I asked, "why would I be angry. Tell me does the date August the twenty-fourth mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does, she said, "it's our wedding anniversary," she replied.

"Oh, yes," I answered, "the anniversary of our getting married? Do you remember that day?"

"I remember every detail of that day, it was wonderful," she said.

"Then you'll remember then, the man who married us. The Bishop of Winchester himself, your father I believe," I said.

"Of course I do," she said, "what are you trying to say?"

"And do you remember the part where he asked you whether you took me as your lawful wedded husband and if, forsaking all others you would cleave only to me, for as long as we both lived?"

"Yes, yes of course," she said testily.

"And do you remember saying to the bishop and to me and all our friends and family gathered there, 'I do?'"

"Yes," she said, "where is all this leading?"

"Just checking that you remember all that," I replied, "and now, just for the record, when, why and with whom did you break that promise?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, "what are you going to do?"

"No reason," I said, "I just have this strange curiosity about who my wife is fucking, why she's doing it and how long it's been happening. No real reason at all."

"There's no reason for bad language Dave," she said, "It didn't."

I stopped her.

"Sally, please, don't insult me any further by saying it was nothing it was just sex," I said, "I think that's one of the usual responses isn't it. Along with I haven't taken anything away from you."

"But I haven't," she protested, "I still love you and only you."

"Really," I said, "and you think that this is the way to show that?"

"I said I was sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Did it ever enter your head that if I found out it would hurt me?" I asked, "so it sounds to me like what you're really saying is that you hoped I wouldn't find out."

"But, really, I haven't taken anything from you," she said.

"Apart from my self-respect, my sense of my own manhood," I replied, £did that occur to you? And you've taken nothing away from me. What about you? How long is it since we last made love? If indeed, what you were doing was making love, perhaps it was just sex. A pity fuck."

"It's not that long," she said.

"It was just before your last period," I answered for her, "allowing for the four days that that tends to last, eleven days. So eleven days for me. How long since you last fucked your lover? No don't answer, it was last night wasn't it."

She didn't answer, which told me I was right.

"Right then," I said, "you're going to ring your lover boy, now and tell him to expect you, because you're moving in with him."

"I can't do that! She almost yelled.

"Well, you're not staying here," I replied, "so you choose. And, out of interest, why can't you do that? Because he's married?"

She just looked at me and nodded.

"Then we have a problem," I said, "this marriage is dead. Killed by you and your lover. Who, by the way, is unless I guess wrong Peter Mortensen?"

"What?" she exclaimed, "how did you..."

She stopped as she realised that she had given away his name.

"So I'm right then," I said, with a feeling of great sadness, "and do you intend to carry on this affair?"

"I'll give it up if you want me to," she said.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," I replied.

"No, if you want me to, I'll give him up," she protested.

"Wrong answer Sally," I said, "the correct answer would have been I realise it was a mistake, a mistake I should never have made in the first place. I will never see him again."

"Well, I have things to think about," I said, "decisions to make, I'm going out. By the time I get back, I expect that you will have moved all your things into the second bedroom, we won't be sleeping together again."

"Dave," she pleaded.

"Sally, until you can at least convince me that you have some sort of remorse for what you did, I will not continue this conversation. I'm going out, I'll eat out and be back around ten."

With that I left the house climbed into my car and drove to Leeds.

Once there and parked, I used my phone to access the online phone directory and looked up Peter Mortensen, there was an address in Roundhay for him and a phone number.

I rang it and it was answered on the third ring.

"Hello," a female voice said.

"Oh, hello," I said, is that Mrs Mortensen?"

"Yes, it is," she replied, a slight hint of Scandinavian in her voice, "who is this?"

"My name is David Parker, is your husband at home?" I asked.

"Yes he is," she replied, "just a moment I'll get him."

"Thank you," I said.

About a minute later he came on the line.

"This is Peter Mortensen; how can I help you?" he announced.

"Good evening Peter," I said, "this is David Parker. I think you and I should get together for a little chat, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" he asked.

"We have met," I said, "at a couple of surgery department get togethers at the hospital. But it's really my wife you know. In all senses, social professional and, I believe biblical."

"I don't think I have anything to say to you, Mr Parker," he said.

"Oh, I think you do Peter, unless you'd rather I had the conversation with your wife."

"She'd never speak to you," he spat.

"Not even after I returned some of her property to her," I said, "something of hers that you loaned to my wife after one of your little trysts, perhaps. Something with your DNA and I assume my wife's in the gusset?"

He went silent and stayed silent for long enough that I thought perhaps he'd hung up on me. Then.

"Where and when?" he said.

"How about the Roundhay Fox?"

"All right," he said, "when?"

How soon can you be there?"

"Twenty minutes," he said.

"About the same time that it will take me," I said, "and Peter."

"Yes," he said.

"If you call my wife, I'll call yours."

Twenty-five minutes later I was sat at a table in the Roundhay Fox with a pint of Diet Pepsi in front of me when he walked in. I made a point of very theatrically looking at my watch.

"You're late," I said, "get yourself a drink."

He walked over to the bar and returned with a pint of bitter.

"Right," I said, "I'm going to ask you some questions. So long as I get the same answers from you as I did from my wife, you and not your wife will get the soiled knickers back. However if any single answer differs, then they will go to Mrs Mortensen with a note of how they came into my possession. Is that clear?"

He nodded.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you," I said.

"Yes, it's clear," he replied.

"Good, first question. How long have you been fucking my wife?"

"I don't know that I'd call it that," he said.

"Then what would you call it?" I asked.

"Fulfilling a need," he replied, "and to answer your question, four months. But I've had her exclusively mine for the past two weeks."

"Her need or yours?" I asked, "I wasn't aware of any feelings of dissatisfaction."

"Oh, mine of course," he replied, "she was totally inconsequential, just a set of holes to use."

"Nice to see such a caring attitude," I said, "so it was nothing to you. Why then did you tell her to completely cut me off two weeks ago?"

"Oh, that was never meant to be permanent, only until I got her pregnant," he replied calmly.

At that moment, I think I was as close to killing another member of homo sapiens as I've ever been.

"At which point, presumably, you would have dumped her and left me literally holding the baby."

"I take it from your attitude that this whole thing was a case of you pursuing her, you're not going to make some ridiculous claim that she came on to you?" I spat.

"Not at all," he said, "my plan worked like a charm."

"Well, thank you for enlightening me," I said, "I'm now satisfied that I know what went on, so I'll bid you goodbye."

"So, I'll get the erm garment back?" he asked.

"Oh, no," I replied, "your wife's getting those."

"But my answers," he protested.

"Did not match my wife's," I replied.

"Why what did she tell you?"

"Nothing," I answered, "absolutely nothing at all. My plan worked like a charm too."

I stood up and as I turned to leave, put my hand in my jacket pocket, pulled out the Olympus digital voice recorder that I had in there. I held it up so he could see it and made a big show of turning it off.

"Goodbye Peter," I said over my shoulder as I walked out, "no phone calls or your wife gets a copy of this."

I didn't go straight back home, instead I did what I said I would do and drove round to Call Lane and ate at an Argentinian steak house there.

After a very nice T-bone steak, jacket potato and green vegetables, I paid the bill, walked back out to my car and drove back to Horsforth. It was almost ten when I arrived back and Sally was still sitting exactly as she had been when I left.

"Did you eat?" I asked her, letting my nature overrule my distaste.

"Where have you been?" she asked, "I was worried."

"I told you I would be back late," I replied as I walked through to the kitchen and started to make her a sandwich.

She followed me in about a minute later.

"Where did you go?" she asked, putting stress on the did.

"I went to see a friend of yours from work."

"Not Sabrina?" she said, startled," I hope you didn't tell her about all this."

"No," I agreed, "not Sabrina. I didn't need to tell him, him being one of the main actors in this drama."

She looked puzzled for a few seconds, then realisation dawned.

"You went to see Peter? At his house," she gasped.

"I met him in a pub," I explained.

"But why?" she asked.

"Because you were changing the subject every time I asked about what was going on," I replied, "he was very forthcoming."

"So now you know that it was just sex and it's you I truly love?" she asked.

"Well," I replied, "now I know that he's taken you for a complete and utter fool."

"That's stupid," she said, "all he ever wanted was for us to be together and me and you to remain together."

"Which is why he made you come off the pill and stop making love with me?" I asked.

"He," she began, stammering, "he told you that?"

"Yes," I replied, "I recorded the entire conversation, go and sit down, I'll bring your sandwich in and you can listen to it. It will show you just exactly what type of man you've been consorting with."

An hour later, after she'd finished her sandwich and listened to the recording, she sat on the sofa, head in hands, sobbing. I sat waiting for the sobbing to die down.

"That was his plan?" she asked eventually.

"It seems so," I replied.

"Dave, I'm so, so sorry," she said, "I was caught up in it. I thought he and I were going to be forever, but he couldn't leave his wife because she was severely disabled and dependent. He used, me."

"Sally, you let yourself be used," I said, "you're not innocent in this, you could have said no from the outset."

"So what are you going to do?" she asked.

"I've been thinking about that," I said, " you need to be here for work, I can work from anywhere, so I'm going to go and stay with my parents in Manchester until I can make a lasting plan, I can write from wherever I am, you need to be here. But you will need to take overpaying the mortgage."

"Then what?" she asked, "what about long-term?"

"Then, I'm going to destroy him."

ACT 3.

That night, for the first time since we'd been together, we slept in separate beds, separate rooms. First thing the following morning I rang my mother and explained that something had happened, without specifying what. Although I knew I'd face the third degree when I arrived, I asked if I could come over and have my old bedroom back for a while.

Of course, it was all right so after breakfast, I went upstairs, packed a couple of suitcases, loaded my laptop bag up with my laptop, external drive and all the necessary cable and loaded them into the car.

Sally had gone in to work earlier but knew that I wouldn't be there when she got back. If I hadn't been able to stay at Mum's then my next choice would have been my sister and, failing that, a hotel.

When I got to Cheadle, an hour and a half after I left Horsforth, Mum greeted me at the door, hugged me, took me inside and sat me down, gave me a cup of tea and sat down across from me.

"Well?" she asked.

I started the story. I told her about the knickers in the washing basket, having the tests done, Sally's attitude to the whole thing, my meeting with Peter Mortensen and the recording. Then I played the recording for her, having first apologised for my language at the beginning.

"Don't apologise, dear," she said, "I know what fucking is."

That was the first time I'd ever heard my mother utter anything stronger than bloody.

When I switched the recorder at the end, she let out a long breath.

"That's a hell of a mess she's got you both into, son," she said, "no argument about that. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know Mum, that's why I've come away, to think and to work that out."

"Well, you know you're welcome, does Sally know you're here?"

"Yes," I replied, "I told her I was coming last night."

"Right then, while you bring your bags in, I'm going to ring Amanda."

"What?" I asked, surprised, "Why?"

"Because, my dear youngest child, you're deeply hurt and I suspect the whole thing has hurt Sally too, you came home to your mother, I suspect she'll need her mother's support too. And perhaps, just perhaps, the two of us, can sort out the two of you."

She disappeared off into the living room to make the call and I walked back outside and brought my bags in.

I was busy setting my laptop up when there was a soft knock on my door and I heard Mum's voice say, "Can I come in?"

"Of course, Mum," I called back and she walked in.

"I've spoken to Amanda," she began, "and she's going to ring Sally this evening after work, just casually, you know, 'how are you?' that sort of thing and see what sort of a story she gets. Do you have a copy of that recording?"

"Yes," I said, "it's on the external hard drive and up on OneDrive."

"Then can you send it to me so I can pass it on to her, or you could send it direct to her. I think she needs to hear it before she speaks to her daughter."

I need the password for your broadband router, though," I said.

"Your father set it up, what do you think it was?" she replied.

I laughed softly, "He does like his Wagner operas doesn't he."

I connected my laptop, started Outlook, wrote a brief message to my mother-in-law and attached the file, then clicked send.

"There, done," I said.

I spent the afternoon working and got a good three thousand words of a book outline written. A new historical novel.

When my dad got in in the late afternoon, I went through the whole story again, then he asked to listen to the recording. I played it for home and when it finished, he sat back in his chair, like me he had a recliner that was 'his' and looked at me.

"You know," he said, "she really should report this to the trust and the GMC. This is sexual harassment at work and from his tone, this is not the first time he's done this."

"Do you think that that would work?" I asked.

"The GMC don't like this sort of thing from doctors, particularly not from senior consultants with their junior staff. The trust is a bit iffier," he said, "they will probably try and brush it off to save any hint of scandal hitting them. Or buy her off with a promotion, scare her off with threat of stalling her career or just plain ignore them."

"You're not a fan of the trusts, then Dad?" I asked, although I knew the answer well enough.

"You know what I think of trusts," he replied, "when a starting assistant finance director gets paid more than a top of the range consultant surgeon something in the state of Denmark smells like rancid bacon."

My Dad had his favourite soapboxes and that was one of them. That and the ridiculous hours junior doctors are expected to put in were his two favourites. All excused by the senior doctors on the grounds that 'Well, we had to do it.'

Mum had done a casserole for dinner and that together with a jacket potato was what we got. Like everything that my mother cooked it was delicious and I even found room for a half-helping after I finished the first.

We were just settling down to watch some TV after dinner when the phone out in the hall rang. Mum was closest so she went out to answer it. She returned a minute or so later and held it out to me.

"It's for you," she said, "West Yorkshire Police."

"Hello," I said into the mouthpiece, how can I help you?"

"Mr parker?" a gruff voice on the other end said, "Mr David Parker?"

"Yes," I replied, "that is me."

"Ah good evening sir," he said, "this is Sergeant Pete greenfield at the Elland Road custody centre in Leeds. I believe that you are the husband of Mrs Sarah Parker."

"No, I think you've got the wrong," I began the stopped myself, I was forgetting that Sally was the diminutive form of Sarah which was Sally's legal name, "Sorry, yes I am, but I call her Sally."

"Well Sir," he said, "we have your wife here in the custody suite. She's been remanded on bail but, one of her bail conditions is that she reside with her husband until the hearing date."

"What is it she's been charged with?" I asked.

"Erm, I'm not at liberty to disclose that at this moment in time, sir," he replied, "but if you can come in, we can tell you then."

"All right, I'll come over," I said, "you say you're on Elland Road."

"Yes, sir, opposite the football ground."

"Yes, I know where you are, I'm a season ticket holder."

"How soon can we expect you sir?" he asked.

"It will take me around two hours," I said, "I can get there faster, but your traffic colleagues might not like my method."

"Very wise sir," he said, "we'll see you in a couple of hours, drive safely."

"What was all that about?" my Mum asked.

"It seems that somehow and for some reason, Sally has managed to get herself arrested," I explained, "she's being held in a police cell and has been bailed for three thousand pounds, but doesn't have either the cash or a credit card to pay it with. They want me to go over."

"And you're going to do it?" Dad asked, "Despite what she's done?"

"She's still my wife dad," I replied, "I just wish I knew what she's been charged with."