The Caring Wife

How can a woman who loves me not see how unhappy she is making me? It's not what she was doing that was making me so unhappy, it's because she just didn't seem to care. If she had noticed how unhappy I was, perhaps she would have cared, because she said she loved me.

How did I know she was doing something that was making me so unhappy? Just two pieces of seemingly unconnected bits of information. I heard the first bit of information two month ago when I went with my wife, Pamela by the way, to her firms B.B.Q. She wasn't near me when I heard it.

I heard the second bit of information a month ago, at a friend's B.B.Q. We were standing, arm in arm, listening to a group conversation. Just friends having a casual chat. When we head this bit of information we looked at each other and almost said in unison, "I can't believe that." Then I bent down and kissed her. Can you believe that, I actually kissed her. Well just a peck, really.

It was when I went to get us both another drink that the two pieces of information came together in my head. Quite slowly, actually, perhaps because it seemed so unlikely. By the time I had finished my drink, I knew it was true. Pamela, my beautiful, thirty-nine-year-old wife and mother, was a fornicator.

Where did fornicator come from? I don't know. Anyway, I knew, with absolute, unequivocal certainty, that my wife, after seventeen years of marriage, was fornicating. I know, I've said it again. She had been for six months. I even knew who she was fornicating with. Yes, I like the word fornicating. Much better than fucking.

That was all a month ago and I still don't know what to do about it. You see, I love her. It's in my blood, she's just so much a part of me. And that is what is making me so unhappy. I thought I was just as an important a part of her.

So what do I do? Do I go after Pamela, accuse her outright? Then, listen to all the crap she will spew at me. Sorry, I'm getting angry. I hate the idea of doing that, and having to listen to all her excuses. No, that's not it. I'm terrified that she will just tell me it's over between us and she loves Brian Penton.

Brian Penton and my wife. They has been fornicating for the last six moths. Pamela had told me about him. He was at the office B.B.Q. I'd talked to him. I'd even thanked him for helping my wife with her promotion. I thanked Brian Penton for fucking my wife. I thanked him.

No, I won't get angry. No good getting angry. I just need another pint. The barman has caught my gesture. "Another one, please," I tell him and slap money on the bar. God, that's good. Make it last. You're not a drinker, I tell myself. I never have been, half pints of lager are my drink, not pints of real ale.

Brian Penton, I know a bit about him now. Wasn't difficult finding out he was married. His second time and two kids with his new wife. Lived in a posh part of town in a very nice house. The big question I hadn't got an answer for, not yet, why my wife. Another big, big question. How had he seduced her. He must have, mustn't he. Why would my wife want to seduce him? My God, he was forty-seven, balding, and he had a big gut. He wasn't even as tall as Pamela.

That hurt, that was a big, big blow to my ego. I'm only forty-one, I didn't have a gut, wasn't going bald, in fact I had a full head of wavy hair, and I was five-foot nine. No, no, she would never have seduced Brian Penton.

That's three pints I've nearly drunk. Have to make this one last, mustn't get another one, can't go home drunk, can I. I have to be sober when Pamela comes back from another evening fornicating with Brian Penton. Her philosophy group, she calls it.

Oh God, what do I do?

I got home before Pamela, with just enough time to make a coffee. She took one look at me and knew. "George, you've been drinking," she stated. But I still got a kiss on the cheek. Then she was off to the kitchen.

So, you see, no care, no concern about why I had been drinking, which I have never done before. She just didn't care anymore. That's what hurt me so much.

We had a normal weekend. The weather was good, so I did some garden work, Pamela did some housework. We had casual conversations. Had breakfast, lunch and dinner together. Watched some television, had some sex. Yes, we had some sex. It pained me to do it, but I had to keep up appearances.

You see, I had at last formulated a plan. Let's see if you think it will work.

No, wait a minute, perhaps you don't want the same outcome as I do. Oh, I know, you think I should burn the bitch. Yes. No. What, kill the fornicators. No, no, no, I'm not going to jail just because Bill Penton is fucking my wife. Oh God, I hate saying that. No way man.

Have you forgotten what I told you earlier. I love my wife, it's in my blood. I've invested seventeen years in her, got two kids. So, no burning. No killing.

Ok. This is it. First I contact his wife, Muriel. Tell her what her husband has been doing to my wife for the last six months. Now, the difficult part. Persuade her to hold off divorcing him, which I'm sure she'll want to do, until I've had my justified retribution. Isn't that a nice word, retribution. Got a nice ring to it as you slowly roll it of your tongue.

Well, what do you think of my plan? Good, isn't it?

What. That's not a plan. Of course it is. Oh, I see. You want to know what my revenge is going to be? Well, yes well, I'm still working on that.

Another Monday and I'm still working on my revenge. You've got some ideas? No, I'm not burning or killing anyone, that's final. Take him to the cleaners. Oh, you mean financially. How do I do that? I'm just a policeman, well a station sergeant actually. Have I got a mate on the drug squad? Twenty years a copper, of course I know people on the drug squad. I see, get him convicted for drug dealing. That would work, he certainly couldn't fuck my wife from behind bars. Sorry I said fuck, such a crude word. That would certainly stop their fornicating. Hey, that way, his wife would get everything without him being able to contest it.

Now I had a plan and I wouldn't even have to contact his wife. All I had to was decide my best contact in the drug squad.

Then, over dinner, my beautiful, beloved, fornicating wife told me she was going away for a few days. There was a top professor of philosophy giving a public lecture and her group were all going. Because it was at a university over two hundred miles away, they we leaving by coach, midday on the Friday. A week on Friday. There was a cocktail reception that evening. The lecture was on the Saturday, then an evening meal. Then they would be coming back on the Sunday.

I checked with the university. There was a professor giving a lecture that Saturday and groups of students, as they called them, were coming from all over the country.

Did I believe her? Like hell I did. Again, she just didn't see how unhappy I was, because all I got was a quick, "thank you," and a kiss on the cheek when I didn't object to her going. What the hell has Bill Penton got that I haven't? Perhaps I should kill the bastard after all.

The next morning the anger was still with me. For seventeen years I had loved and cared for my wife. Then Penton comes along and in six months I'm nothing. Just six months. Perhaps I'm wasting my time with all this planning and scheming. Perhaps I should just burn the bitch. I had the evidence of their fornicating. Oh God, why did I love her so much.

My drug team contact told me the idea of planting drugs in Penton was not something they would ever do. Well, can you believe that. So, financial ruin. How do I go about doing that when I have trouble organizing my own finances? Sounds far too complicated for me.

Then it hit me. Josephine. Miss Josephine de Rehayne. Jorayne. Lovely girl.

As a station sergeant I could either help or hinder the progress of the good and the bad through our sometimes bewildering hierarchy of police officers. The last time I helped Jorayne, she thanked me with a blistering smile. "Officer Grey, if you ever need me, you know where to find me." Followed by a very suggestive stroke of my arm.

As I've said, she is a lovely girl. A single mum with a little girl, who sometimes needed to supplement her income for child care. We knew each other because on two occasions she chose to supplement her income with the wrong guy.

We met for lunch in a local pub, my treat. She listened sympathetically as I told her about my problem, as I knew she would, being that type of person. I wasn't asking her to do anything illegal. I couldn't, could I, not with her having a little girl to look after. Like me, she thought Brian Penton was a scumbag, much like her ex. I think she thought the same about my wife, but kept that to herself. I was mainly worried that she would refuse to be involved when I showed her a picture of Penton.

She looked at it for a moment. "I know a couple of older men like him." She knew, I knew, what she meant.

Perhaps I should have been a little slower in replying. "You'll do it then?"

She gave me one of her blistering smiles. "Just for you, Officer Grey yes, I'll do it."

How could a man leave such a lovely girl as Jorayne? "If you need money for anything, taxi, perhaps." How do I offer without offending her? I think she read my mind.

"Perhaps I'll need a new dress, you know, to look the part."

When we parted she had five hundred pounds spending money. Information about Brian Penton and my wife and when and where they met. I'm not a Station Sergeant without resources, you know. The deadline was Friday. Now I just had to wait.

The first hint I had that things were not quite right in the state of Denmark, was when my wife came home earlier than she usually did on her philosophy night. Wise man that I am, I kept my mouth shut. "Mr. Cordell had to close the group early," was the reason she gave me.

"Sorry, dear," I commiserated.

During the weekend I noticed that my wife seemed to be a little stressed. "You seem a little stressed, today," I suggested as we sat down to dinner.

'It's nothing," was her reply, accompanied by a flash of the guiltiest look I had ever seen. Being a wise man I held my tongue. My God, I hope this works. I just loved the silly bitch so much.

When she returned from her philosophy group at her usual time, she ignored me completely and went straight to our bedroom. I heard the door close. Oh dear, it looks like Denmark is falling apart.

Thursday turned out to be the day Jorayne phoned me. There was amusement in her voice. "Hello, Officer Grey, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Jorayne. My wife seems a little stressed, though. Hardly spoke to me last night or this morning."

These was a giggle. "Oh dear, I wonder if it has anything to do with how much Mr. Penton loved my new dress."

Such a lovely girl, I wondered what she had spent my money on. "Oh, dear, have you been a naughty girl, Jorayne?" I giggled back.

"Officer Grey, how could you think that of me. When it came off, perhaps I was a little naughty." She giggled and I thought of her blistering smile. "Would you like to see the pictures?"

I knew there would be pictures but I never even thought about seeing them. "Jorayne, I'm a middle aged, married man, I don't think my heart would stand it."

"Well, you may like to know that Brian Penton, on a scale of one to ten, is about a three."

I liked the sound of that, but it made it even harder to understand my wife's obsession.

That afternoon I had another phone call. "Station Sargent Grey," I responded.

"Is that Mr. Earl Grey?" A lady asked me.

"Yes, Madam, how can I help you?"

"Is your wife Pamela Grey?"

Now I knew who she was. That sort of instinct comes with the job.

"Yes." I cautiously replied.

"My name is Muriel Penton, Mr. Grey, and we need to talk."

Now what do I say. I know who you are. I know her husband is fuc, sorry, fornicating with my wife.

"Is it important, Mrs. Penton?"

"Yes, it is important, Mr. Grey."

She didn't sound very friendly. It wasn't me fucking her husband. Oops. "I come off duty at six. Can you meet me at the Old Stag at six thirty?"

"Yes, I'll meet you in the Old Stag at six thirty. Good day, Mr Grey" I felt the anger had softened a little.

Funny how neither of us asked how we would recognize each other. It didn't matter, I knew it was Mrs Penton immediately she walked into the bar. Just by standing up I gave myself away. The handshake was brief, as was the greeting. She wanted a chardonnay, I already had a larger.

We must have stared at each other for over a minute before she spoke. "Mr Grey."

I held up my hand "Please, call me Earl. It might make this conversation easier. May I call you Muriel?" I think she had expected this to be a confrontational meeting.

"Yes." Then she looked straight at me. "Mr. Grey, sorry Earl. My husband is fucking your wife." Fucking, just didn't sound nice the way she said it.

I took a moment to answer. "I prefer to call it fornicating."

I saw the surprise on her face. "You know!"

"I have known for nearly a month, Muriel. Did you know they have been fornicating for six months?"

I saw the pain her face. "Oh, oh no, I didn't know it was for that long." I felt really sorry for her.

"How did you find out?" I asked quietly.

She looked so dejected as she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a large envelope and placed it in front of me. "I received these pictures yesterday." I pushed them back to her. "Don't you want to see them?" she asked with surprise.

"No," I told her. "That's not my wife in the pictures."

Now she had a totally confused look on her face. She needed help. "Muriel, let me explain things. I found out about my wife and your husband by hearing two entirely seemingly unrelated bits of information, the first nearly two months ago, the other nearly a month ago. I now know when, where, and how often they meet."

She interrupted me. "But you said that's not your wife in the pictures."

"Please, Muriel, let me continue. I love my wife, she is in my blood and has been for over seventeen years. I can't bear the thought of life without her." I held my hand up when I saw she wanted to interrupt. "I have no idea about your marital relationship. I hope you will divorce your husband and take him to the cleaners. What I don't want is my wife implicated in any divorce. I will deal with Pamela my own way." Then I just looked at her, knowing what her next question would be.

Her question was the obvious one. 'Then, who is the woman in the pictures?"

"Let's just say she is someone I know who owed me favors. She served two purposes," I started to explain. "She occupied your husband when my wife was expecting his attention and she brought his fornication to your attention."

Slowly a smile crossed her lips. "Mr. Grey, Earl, my husband is toast. This is all the information I need. These photographs, with the video I have, show my husband fornicating, as you like to call it, with your young lady friend. I prefer the more Anglo-Saxon expression." She added with a smile.

We chatted for a while as we finished our drinks. She reached across and squeezed my hand. "You are a good man, Mr. Grey," she told me, before she left. I think Muriel and I parted on friendly terms.

That evening Pamela told me the coach trip had been cancelled. Something about the professor being unable to attend.

Well, could you have thought of a better plan?

Am I going to burn the bitch? Only if she spurns my efforts to redeem the loving, caring woman I married.