by Daniel Hurst
Their habits. Their routines.
Their weaknesses.
Then it’s just a case of implementing a series of strategies that will yield the result that my client requires. And what does the client require? In Sarah’s case, she wants Simon and Stella to break up. That way, she will have a chance at getting her man once he is unencumbered. But why would Simon and Stella break up if they were happily married?
Because I can make it seem like one of them is cheating on the other.
All I have to do is plant some seeds and watch them grow. The first thing to do is create doubt in the subject’s mind. Stella might think of her husband as being loyal until she suddenly sees me on her doorstep telling her that he is not. I have no evidence to give, but I don’t need it at that time. All I needed to do was plant the first seed. Now Stella is thinking about it, and the first crack in the solid foundation of their marriage has been made.
Then I simply create more cracks by planting things in their house, things that shouldn’t be there. I can also use technology to create messages that seem incriminating for a cheating spouse or send handwritten letters with even more fake claims in them. In truth, I can do anything that I want because I’m the boss of my own business, and that business is all about understanding what makes human beings tick.
Hope. Fear. Happiness. Paranoia. We’re all the same, and we all want the same thing.
We just want to be loved.
That’s the concept that marriages are built on. Two people who love each other and make a commitment to be together forever. But those marriages only work with trust, and losing that trust can bring the whole thing crumbling down.
In the end, Stella will leave Simon because she can’t trust him. It doesn’t matter that he has done nothing wrong because the evidence I left has created enough distrust for things to never be the same again. Then my work is done, but for my client, Sarah, her job is just beginning. Now it’s up to her to make all that time, money and effort worth it by swooping in and taking Simon for himself, preferably when he’s feeling at his lowest point after the breakdown of his marriage and needs somebody to cheer him up.
And just like that, Sarah has got her dream man.
She’s happy because she’s always loved him, Simon’s happy because he has a new woman to make him feel good about himself, and I’m happy because I’m thousands of pounds richer. The only person who isn’t happy in the end is Stella, but not everyone can be a winner. But she’ll move on and find somebody new eventually, so I don’t spend too much time worrying about her.
That’s my business. That’s how it works. And that’s exactly what I am doing to Rebecca and Sam right now for my client. I am planting seeds. I am creating distrust. And I am about to bring their whole marriage tumbling down.
How exciting.
Is it any wonder that I can’t wait to get back to work?
16
REBECCA
I’m glad it’s Friday because that means work is over for another week. But as every female knows, a woman’s work is never done, and so it proves now because while I have finished at my workplace, I still have plenty of chores to be getting on with around the home. The first task is to put a wash on, so I pick up the basket in the bedroom and carry it downstairs. Working in construction tends to mean an early finish on a Friday, and I’ve always enjoyed that about the industry. In my younger days, it would mean that I was able to start drinking earlier than my other friends ahead of our Friday nights out, but now that I’m older and somewhat more sensible, it simply means I can get home quicker and get some menial tasks out of the way so that I don’t have to do them on the weekend. Nobody wants to do dirty washing, but it has to be done, so I might as well get it out of the way.
But I’m not completely boring these days. I do have more exciting plans tonight after the chores are done. Sam and I are going out with one of my best friends and her partner for a meal, and it should be fun. But before the fun comes the chores.
Reaching the utility room, I put the basket down and take off the lid before pulling out the dirty garments inside and tossing them into the washing machine. I’ve decided to do a white wash, so I filter the clothes going into the machine, making sure that I don’t make a mistake and put something colourful in there. It’s mainly Sam’s work shirts that are going in, and I roll down the sleeves and open up the collars on all of them so that they get a thorough wash during the cycle. But it’s as I am opening up the collar on the third white shirt that I’m about to put into the machine when I see it.
A red mark on the collar.
Lipstick?
It certainly looks that way. But how has lipstick come to be on my husband’s shirt? It certainly isn’t mine because I don’t wear lipstick during the week and that’s when Sam wears these shirts. It must have come from somebody else. But who? And how did it get on here?
I know it’s important not to overreact and read too much into something because the chances are that it has a simple and innocent explanation, but these are not simple or fully innocent times. This is still the same week that a woman came to my door and told me that my husband had cheated on me. While that was shocking, there was no evidence anywhere at all to back up that claim.
But now there might be.
I decide to keep the suspicious shirt out of the wash so that I can show it to Sam when he gets in and ask him if there is any reason why there is lipstick on his collar. Maybe there is. Maybe there is a perfectly good explanation, and there’s nothing to worry about.
But maybe that woman at the door was telling me the truth.
Maybe my husband has been up to things that he shouldn’t have been behind my back.
I grit my teeth and tell myself to not get too emotional or worked up until I have spoken to him. But that’s easier said than done, and I decide to take out my phone to give him a call and see where he is. Hopefully he has left his office now and is almost home, so I don’t have too long to wait to have this conversation. I could ask him about the lipstick over the phone, but I want to be able to see his face when I do.
I want to see his reaction to my discovery.
I hold my mobile to my ear as I wait for him to pick up but he doesn’t, so my call goes to voicemail. I hang up before leaving a message and decide to type out a quick text instead.
What time will you be home?
Then I put my phone down on top of the washing machine beside the incriminating item of clothing and take a deep breath.
I’m going to have to be patient.
But it doesn’t mean I have to be sober.
Walking into the kitchen, I go into the fridge and take out a small can of vodka and tonic. I like these little cans because they’re not too big and they’re much easier than having to pour the drink myself. All I have to do is crack the lid open and take a sip.
The alcohol is refreshing as it should be on a Friday night after what has been an eventful week. It was Monday when I almost died at work, so I think this drink is well earned, regardless of what I have discovered tonight. It’s now almost been a week since that woman knocked on my front door, and I’d like to say that the time has flown since then, but it hasn’t. Every day has just been a dreary drag and filled with all sorts of worries and doubts about what she said to me. It’s funny to think that this time last week, I was a happy woman without a care in the world. I certainly didn’t have anything to worry about regarding my husband anyway. But all that has changed now.
Last Friday, I was drinking for fun.
But this Friday, I am drinking to forget.
I’m halfway through the can before I hear the sound of my phone vibrating on the top of the washing machine where I left it. I head back into the utility room to pick it up, and as I do, I see Sam’s name on the screen.
‘Hi,’ I say as I answer the call before taking another sip of my rapidly disappearing drink.
‘Hey. Is everything okay? Sorry I missed your call.’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.
Did you get my text?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be home soon. Just finishing up a few things at the office.’
‘Okay.’
‘Dinner’s at eight tonight, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Great. I’ll be home as quick as I can. See you soon. Love you.’
I hesitate slightly before replying.
‘Love you too.’
The line goes dead, and I lower my phone before taking another swig from my can. I’ve almost finished it now, and I’m on my way to the fridge to get another one before I even realise what I’m doing. But screw it. I’m not going to be drunk off a couple of small cans of vodka and tonic. They don’t even put that much alcohol in these things anyway.
Opening the second can, I think about Sam and the awkward question I am going to have to ask him when he gets home. It’s a shame that we are going to have to start the weekend that way but it has to be done. I have to find out where that lipstick came from.
I just hope he has a good answer for me.
If not, this definitely won’t be the last drink that I’ll be having tonight.
17
SAM
I could tell that Rebecca had been drinking from the second that I walked through the front door and laid eyes on her. She didn’t have a glass in her hand, but she had that look in her eyes that she always gets when she’s had alcohol. Like she’s a little hazy. She’s not drunk by any means. She usually starts swaying and singing when she gets that far along. But she is definitely tipsy, and I’m surprised because I’ve never known her to be one to drink alone. Sure, it’s Friday night, and we have dinner plans with friends, so I could understand her having one or two. But one or two wouldn’t be enough to give her that look in her eyes.
She’s definitely had more than that.
But why?
‘Hey. Good day?’ I ask her as I walk over to her and try to get a better read on the situation.
‘Yeah. Not bad. You?’
Rebecca’s response is a casual one. Does she not want me to know that she has been drinking without me? She didn’t slur her words, so maybe she thinks she has gotten away with it. But she can’t hide that look in her eyes.
‘Work was fine. The usual. Too many meetings. Not enough actual work being done.’
I lean in to give my wife a kiss, and I’m expecting to smell or perhaps even taste the alcohol on her lips, but I don’t get the chance to.
That’s because she pulls away from me.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, wondering why she has just rejected me for the first time since we have been together.
‘You tell me,’ Rebecca replies, and that’s when she walks into the utility room.
I have no idea what she is doing, but I don’t have to wait too long to find out. A few seconds later and she returns to the kitchen with one of my white work shirts in her hands. Then she tosses it to me, and I manage to catch it, although I’m not sure why we are playing catch with my clothes.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Look at it,’ she tells me, and I do as I’m told, but the shirt looks pretty normal to me.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Check the collar.’
I do, and that’s when I notice the red smear across it. That’s weird. I have no idea what it is, and I definitely hadn’t noticed it when I was wearing it a day or two ago.
‘What is that?’ I ask as I have a go at wiping it off, but it’s already pretty well rubbed in and doesn’t come off despite my best efforts.
‘It’s lipstick.’
‘Lipstick?’
I have another go at wiping it but no good. I hope it will come out in the washing machine, but maybe it’s okay because it’s on the underside of the collar so that nobody has to see it. I guess that’s how I missed it when I put it on the other day. But how did it get under there?
‘It’s definitely lipstick,’ Rebecca tells me as if to clear up any doubt I might have had. But I’m not arguing. If she says it’s lipstick, I guess it’s lipstick.
‘How did you get lipstick on it?’ I ask her, not that I’m blaming her. I’m just confused as to why she is making a big deal about it. Maybe she’s annoyed because this is a relatively new shirt, and she thinks it might be ruined now. But it’s not, and besides, it’s not as if it’s expensive.
‘It’s not mine!’
‘What?’
‘I said it’s not my lipstick. I don’t have a shade like that, and even if I did, I haven’t been anywhere near any of your shirts with it.’
‘You must have done. How else did it get on here?’
‘You tell me.’
I don’t like the way Rebecca said that, and now I realise what’s going on here.
She thinks this lipstick belongs to another woman.
‘Look, I don’t know how I got lipstick on my collar, but I can assure you that it’s not from some woman.’
‘Then how did it get there? Have you been wearing lipstick?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Am I being stupid right now? Am I stupid for believing you instead of that woman the other night?’
‘Hey! That’s enough!’
I hate to raise my voice at my wife, but I had to do something. I’m not going to stand here in my own home and be accused of being unfaithful.
‘What is going on here?’ I ask, throwing the shirt onto the kitchen table and taking a few steps towards Rebecca. ‘I thought we’d agreed that what happened last Saturday was just an unpleasant incident and that it didn’t mean anything.’
‘We did. But that was before I found another woman’s lipstick on your clothes.’
I look into my wife’s eyes, the eyes that are clouded by alcohol, and I have to believe that her current state of inebriation is not going to do me any favours as I try to talk this through rationally.
‘Have you been drinking?’ I ask, even though I know the answer. I just want to see if she lies to me.
‘Yes. I’ve had a few drinks.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. Who cares? Just tell me how that lipstick got on your shirt!’
‘I have no idea, Rebecca!’
‘You’re lying to me!’
We’re both shouting now, and that’s never a good sign. That’s why I pause for breath and try to figure out how to stop this argument from escalating further.
‘Do you want me to cancel tonight? You’re obviously not in the right frame of mind, and I’m not really in the mood for it now either if I’m honest.’
‘No, I’m not cancelling. I want to go and see my friend. I also want my husband to tell me the truth!’
‘About what?’
‘About everything! The woman at the door! The lipstick. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing is going on!’
‘I don’t believe you!’
There. She’s said it. Now I know. My wife no longer trusts me. And why? Because of some lying bitch on our doorstep last week and a random lipstick stain which I genuinely have no idea about how it came to be there.
‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ I tell Rebecca as I sink into a chair. ‘I’ve never lied to you, and I’ve certainly never cheated on you. I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘You can explain things.’
‘How can I explain something if I don’t understand it?’
‘You need to do better than that!’
‘I can’t!’
Rebecca shakes her head and storms past me, where I presume she is on her way out of the kitchen. But she isn’t. She is going back to the fridge for another drink. I watch her crack the lid open on a can of vodka and tonic, which I guess is her drink of choice tonight, and she takes a long gulp before coming up for air.
‘I’m not going out with you if you’re going to be like this,’ I tell her, being honest like I always am. Maybe that’s my problem.
Maybe I should start lying.
‘You’re coming out because I’m not cancel
ling, and I’m not explaining why you couldn’t make it. So get yourself ready. But don’t think I’ve forgotten about this. I won’t forget about it until you tell me the truth.’
With that, Rebecca walks out of the room, taking her drink and her bad mood upstairs, where she is going to get ready for our dinner this evening. It’s a double date, but the idea is almost laughable right now because we are at war, so I hardly feel like playing happy couples with other people.
What should I do?
I guess I’ll take a leaf out of Rebecca’s book and have a look in the fridge.
If she’s drinking tonight, so am I.
18
REBECCA
I should have cancelled this dinner. I should have known it was going to be a disaster ever since the argument when Sam got home. But I foolishly kept the booking, and now I’m sitting in this restaurant opposite my best friend and her boyfriend while my husband sits beside me stewing in his bad mood. I’m not the only one who’s been drinking a little too much tonight. Sam had a few beers after I left him in the kitchen. I knew that when I came down an hour later and saw him sitting there with the empty cans in front of him.
Now we’re both drunk, and we’re both mad at each other.
We’ve somehow got to get through this meal without the people opposite us realising that.
While my marriage might be lacking right now, at least this restaurant is nice. It’s an Italian, and I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard good things. So far, those things have been true. The service has been exquisite, the food has been divine, and the atmosphere in this room is warm. The company is good too. My best friend is called Ally, and her boyfriend’s name is Phil. I’ve been friends with her since school, and she’s been dating him since last summer. That’s only a few months, but by Ally’s standards, that’s a long time. It’s also a good sign that she is bringing Phil on a double date with us because it must mean that she is serious about this guy. And I can see why she might be. From what I can tell so far, Phil is a friendly and charming man who looks dashing in his smart blue shirt. But apparently, he’s not the only one.
