GAZUMPED

by SemperAmare

The inspiration for this one came when Van1 was reading his old mate Carvohi’s, ‘Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters’. Van1 developed the initial outline then explained it to CTC. Then, as usually happens when they collaborate, things became a whole lot worse for the cheating wife. Sorry, there is no sex in this one.

Technical disclaimer. Van1 blows shit up for a living, CTC specialises in creating something beautiful from nothing. Neither of us know much about cutting edge medical technology, so if parts of this story seem a little far-fetched, forgive us. It is a story, after all, and not a docu-drama. We hope you enjoy the fictional ride!

It been independently rated at 3/5 pickaxe handles.

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My mind is still split on whether or not I have it in me to inflict the amount of pain I know I’m about to on an innocent party who in no way deserves what is about to go down in the next half-an-hour or so. But I look at the poster-sized photograph of me and Dave on our wedding day hanging above the mantlepiece, through eyes that have shed their last tear over the decline of my mostly happy twenty-eight-year marriage. Those tears happened the whole time I was debating whether or not to go through with this conversation. The conclusion is yes, but I’m still fighting the urge to flee. Dave is going to be devastated.

John, sitting next to me on the sofa, gives my hand a gentle squeeze, bolstering my courage, and I look sideways at him and smile my thanks. In the fifteen months of our affair, I’ve steadily fallen in love with this man and I know that every ounce of love I’ve given him has been stolen directly from my husband, Dave. The moment that making love to my husband felt like cheating on John, was the moment preparation for this meeting began.

No, I’m far from looking forward to this meeting, but I am looking forward to the release afterward. I’m going to hurt Dave badly; very badly. It can’t be helped. But after it’s over I can stop pretending. Pretending I’m as deeply in love with Dave as he obviously is with me. Pretending I’m going out with my girlfriends, on a work trip, clothes shopping, all over the place, when I’m really meeting up with John. Pretending my conscience isn’t killing me. It’s very stressful and is a big reason for the worry lines I see on my face increasingly every morning. Yes, I’m looking forward to the release.

I glance over to the bookcase and check the baseball bat I secreted there earlier is still in place. Dave’s view on fidelity is very well known to me. Since the kids left home he’s taken to writing short stories about cheating wives getting their comeuppance. Some of the stories have surprised me in the ferocity of the husband’s response. He really made the wives pay dearly for their transgressions. When I questioned him about it he simply said he was letting off steam after hearing the stories some of his workmates told him where they were right royally shafted by the no-fault family court system.

By nature, my Dave isn’t a violent man but faced with the man that is stealing his happiness, his future away from him, he might well make an exception. He is considerably bigger than John, a whole lot fitter and stronger, and much less sensitive. He’s quite high up in a Biomedical company, John is an artist. If push comes to punch, I will interpose myself with the weapon as I know that no matter the provocation Dave won’t physically harm me. I can hold him at bay so John can escape.

I hear Dave’s car in the driveway and my stomach begins to roil, my heart to pound. I swallow. I need to steel myself. Deep breath.

I wonder what he thinks of the strange car in the driveway. John’s car. I know Dave used a similar scenario in one of his stories. My heart rate picks up another notch. Calm, I must stay calm.

“Honey, I’m home.”

Dave walks through the door, looking quizzically at John. I remain seated, I don’t want to have to kiss Dave in front of John. Dave’s glance in my direction tells me he’s noticed my omission.

Dave strides closer, hand outstretched. John shoots to his feet and just can’t help the look of apprehension that crosses his face as the size difference between him and Dave becomes apparent. Before I can say anything, Dave is before John, his hand still outstretched.

“Dave’s the name.”

“John,” squeaks his replacement. He looks down at Dave’s hand, hesitating. I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he slowly extends his to grasp Dave’s.

The handshake is brief. Dave lets go then rubs his right hand discreetly on the back of his pants. After so many years I know just what that gesture means. John has proffered what Dave would describe as a ‘dead fish’ handshake; slack and effeminate and, in his words of the past, ‘slightly disgusting’.

John falls back onto the couch. After a glance at the two glasses of chardonnay on the coffee table in front of the couch, Dave grabs a beer from the fridge in the kitchen. He sits on the couch opposite us, cracks the can, takes a pull, puts it on the coffee table. The same coffee table John’s and my glasses rest on. The three drinks form a triangle. I swallow. My nerves feel as if they will snap from the tension, like a branch pushed beyond its capacity to bend.

I look up to find Dave staring at me questioningly. I can’t look him in the eye. My gaze instead flitters lower, to his faded jeans and casual polo top. How long has he been coming home dressed so casually? Where is his work uniform? Have they introduced a ‘casual Friday’ dress code? I give myself an internal shake. Now is not the moment to ask inane questions about clothing.

No, but it is the moment I’ve been dreading. This is where I shatter the soul of a man who is an outstanding community member, terrific father and provider, and near perfect husband. The first love of my life, but, unfortunately for him, not the last.

“Um, Dave, we have to talk.”

“Yes, I gathered that, Chels.”

His expression gives nothing away. It’s neutral. Unreadable.

And exactly what I expect.

It’s how he rolls in pressure situations. He becomes coldly analytical and is much better at thinking on his feet than I am. That’s why I’ve gone over this conversation in my head a thousand times, anticipating every possible angle and come up with a response, a plan for each.

But, I have to ask myself now, if I’m so damn confident I’ve covered every base then why am I so nervous I’m sweating? I can feel the trickle between my breasts.

“I just want you to know, Dave, that you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”

I can hear the shake in my voice and clear my throat. I still can’t look him in the eye.

“In all the years we’ve been together all my friends have been jealous of our marriage. I know, they know, and you should know, that you’ve been a wonderful husband. I’m nervous about having a conversation with some of them, I’ll tell you, as I fear some of them may not forgive me for hurting you.”

“Are you going to hurt me, Chelsea?”

The words are simple, yet compelling, and like filament to a magnet, my gaze is drawn to his and I finally look into his eyes. His stare, hard and implacable, breaks the spell and I look away, rattled.

“Yes, um, I’m, I’m s-sorry, Dave, I, I have to,” I stumble over my carefully prepared words. Another swallow. Another clearing of my throat. “You see, I’ve fallen out of love with you and in love with John. I… I want to hurt you as little as possible but I need a divorce so John and I can be together.”

Pausing at this point, I try to see past his mask to the absolute turmoil that must be ripping this honourable man apart inside. I expect to see… something. A throbbing at his temple, wet eyes, his fist clenching and unclenching. There’s nothing.

His lack of reaction scares me. I can’t stop my gaze darting to the baseball bat. The silence between us is unbearable. I can’t bear it. I have to fill it. My carefully prepared speech is a thing of the past.

“I didn’t want to hurt you until I absolutely had to, I hope you see that, Dave. John and I have been incredibly careful. We didn’t want you to find out until it was absolutely necessary. Until now. That meant limiting out time together. My concern for you, for your feelings, really cut into the times John and I’ve been able to… be together.”

“Be together? Fucking, you mean?”

I can’t answer. I can’t meet his gaze. I know my response, or rather, my lack of response is all the confirmation Dave needs. I have no more lies left in me. I’ve used them all up. I can’t lie to this man, not anymore. I respect him too much, but I have been kind of hoping he wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t be so blunt. The words out of his mouth make it all seem so tawdry.

There doesn’t seem like there’s anything left to say, or any point in apologising again. I’m willing to hurt Dave. I know it. He knows it.

The atmosphere in the room is horrible and I want to escape. The tension is nigh on unbearable. My nerves are strung so tight my skin is prickling uncomfortably. Dave may not be screaming in pain on the outside but I know him well enough to know it must be happening on the inside.

I shut up, anxiously wondering which of my imagined responses from him will happen. Why is my stomach churning? Why do I feel so anxious? I know whatever his response, it will be awful. Any or all of them. Fifty shades of awful. Something I need to get through in order to start my life with John.

For what seems like a long time, Dave just stares at me, until, “Okay, Chelsea.”

My response is automatic and out before I have a chance to edit it. “Okay what, Dave?”

“You want a divorce so you can marry Whatshisname here. You’ve got it.”

Tone patient. Expression bland. Neutral. I sit back and stare. Too stunned to speak. This certainly isn’t one of the anticipated reactions.

Then a whole new emotion sweeps over me. Unexpected. Left field. Like a slap. A dousing in cold water. I feel insulted. No questions. No accusations. No raised voice. No red face. And definitely no tears. Twenty-eight years together and my husband isn’t even going to spend five minutes questioning me. Berating me. Pleading with me. Christ, fighting for me.

After months of agonising over continuing my affair with John, and sleepless nights dreading this moment, I’ve been discarded in under ten minutes, all without any apparent emotion. I need to say something, but I must be careful. How to break through Dave’s reserve without losing John. A line. Such a fine line.

“But, Dave. After all our years together are you willing to just walk away?”

“Why not, Chelsea? You have. You’ve obviously emotionally left me already. What the hell is the point trying to fight it? What is there to fight for? Why not try to preserve what fond memories we still have by just going our separate ways?”

An answer of sorts. Just not the one I was looking for.

I open my mouth to ask another question but Dave speaks before I can frame the words.

“Now, I imagine you have some papers for me to sign.”

I did indeed. A signed and notarised divorce petition, but it’s still in John’s car. We never expected to get past the yelling and screaming and possible tears tonight to get anywhere near Dave actually looking at the papers, let alone signing them. Before I can jump up, John is rising and heading out the door. I watch him. His back is rigid, shoulders stiff. The tension has gotten to him too.

In the very uncomfortable silence that follows his departure, I say, “I’m sorry, Dave. Sorry for hurting you.”

Dave rises to his feet and I can’t help glancing at the bat.

“No, you’re not, Chelsea. If you were really sorry you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

He turns and strides into the kitchen to get himself another beer, effectively ending the conversation.

By the time Dave returns to the lounge, John is back with the manilla envelope, standing awkwardly, holding it at waist height. Dave takes two very quick steps towards him. My heart goes out to John as he steps backward so quickly he trips over his own feet and stumbles back onto the couch, landing with a soft thud. That leaves Dave holding the envelope. John glances sideways at me, his face is red, and I see in his eyes that he realises he isn’t exactly covering himself in glory during this encounter. I try to tell him with my eyes that I don’t care. That I love him.

I turn back to Dave, who is watching me, his expression neutral. I can’t read his thoughts and I’m still not entirely sure he isn’t going to attack John.

“My friend Mary knows we’re here, Dave. If she doesn’t hear from us by eight I told her to call the police. Anyway, if you want someone to blame, blame me, don’t beat on John.”

“Oh, I do blame you, Chelsea. You’re the one who made me a whole bunch of promises all those years ago. Not John. Rest assured, I don’t want him to suffer more than he’s already going to.”

John suffer? What?

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, he looks to be in his mid-thirties, yet he’s tying himself to you.”

I stare at him blankly.

Dave gives me a look. I’ve seen it before. It’s when he’s telling me something I’m clearly not understanding.

“You. A woman looking down the gun barrel of fifty. You’re past being able to give him children so he’s going to go childless, a genetic backwater. I can’t think of a worse punishment for any man, never knowing the joy of watching your baby’s first step, or hearing ‘Dadda’ for the first time. He’ll never know what it’s like to teach his own child to catch a ball or ride a bike. He’ll never help with homework or teach his child to drive. He’ll never be a hero to his daughter or a role model for his son. I don’t reckon our kids will ever have much to do with him, not after they find out what the pair of you did.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins. I shiver. I’ve been so engrossed in hiding my affair and worrying about how to end my marriage I haven’t really given much thought to how the kids will react. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ll be lucky if they have anything to do with me from now on, never mind, John.

“You don’t have to tell them, Dave.”

His only answer is to tilt his head slightly as he looks at me blankly, as if to say, ‘Seriously, you want me to lie to them like you lied to me?’ I hang my head. Dave isn’t finished, though.

“But the best part is that he’ll get to marry someone he will never ever fully trust. Someone he knows is capable of hurting him even as she professes her love for him. Someone who is capable of hiding the most abhorrent behaviour with her acting skills. How will he feel the first time you ring him, Chelsea, to say you’re working late or going out with the girls or one of the myriad excuses you’ve used with me to sneak off with him, hmmm?

“And what about you, Chelsea? When your looks start to go in another five years or so and he’s still a trim looking forty-year-old. Do you think he’ll hesitate bunking out on you? Think about it. By then he’ll have seen all your bad points. How cranky you get one week a month, yes, one week in four, that’s 25% of the time, because of PMT. He’ll know how you snore like a freight train when you hit deep sleep. By then he’ll be sick of saying, ‘No dear,’ when you ask him if your arse looks fat in jeans. He’ll soon learn how little effort you put into cooking a decent meal; how you’re addicted to those bloody reality shows; how much you spend on every beauty product promising the fountain of youth. How…, oh fuck it, he’ll find that and all the rest out soon enough.”

Offended, I leap to my feet, words of retaliation on my tongue. I’m not the only one who snores. At least I can colour co-ordinate. Dave… I open my mouth to list Dave’s faults but a gasp from John stops me in my tracks. I look quickly down at him. By his expression, it’s obvious some of Dave’s points are getting through. I have to get him out of here.

Dave shrugs while I collapse back onto the couch, shocked. Anger, offence, and a deep feeling of hurt war within me. Is this what he really thinks of me? Has thought of me all these years?

I have so much I want to say. After months of doing my utmost to keep my affair secret to protect Dave I now have an overwhelming desire to hurt him, to make him pay for not caring. For discarding me so easily.

But the words won’t come. They fail me as I watch Dave as he takes a swig of his beer before tearing open the envelope. I look down at my hands, avoid looking at John and can only hope he’s not looking at me either.

“Half the value of the house, huh?” Dave mutters, looking up at me. “Don’t reckon so, Chelsea. It was mine before I even met you. Might get away with half the bank account but there may not be as much in there as you think. Half the difference in our retirement accounts at the date of our separation. Yup, probably, but you’ll get shit until I retire in seventeen years.”

He blessedly falls silent as he reads the rest of the document. I hope John’s love for me can overcome the fact we won’t have the financial stability we thought we’d have. That I’d told him we’d have. John is living proof of the old joke, ‘What’s the difference between an artist and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family.’

The silence drags on. It’s interminable. Finally, Dave looks up. “All pretty reasonable except the house but I’m sure your lawyer will charge you thousands trying to fight that. Now, where do we go from here?”

“Well, I suppose you get a lawyer and we…”

“No, I mean, what do we do tonight? Right now?”

“Well, I suppose I’ll go pack a few things…”

“Uh, that’s a no. I’d like you to leave right now. If you come over in two days I’ll be away…, no, that won’t work, I’ll have had the locks changed by then. I know, how about I drop your stuff over to John’s place next weekend? I’ll tell you now, you can have all the pictures off the walls except the ones of the kids, we’ll divide those, I want no reminders of you. The one exception is the photo of us on that cruise last year, you can’t have that.”

I wonder what is so special about that picture that it’s the only one including me that Dave wants to keep. It was taken about three months after I’d started my affair with John, when Dave had surprised me with a short notice cruise in the Caribbean. I didn’t love John at that stage and still enjoyed sleeping with my husband, so the photo shows a woman smiling after much sex and being spoiled. I have no idea why he wants just that one of us. It’s in a chunky, ugly frame that Dave chose and is so unremarkable it’s on the wall of the hall just inside the front door.

While I’m musing on that, Dave turns directly to John and addresses him for the first time.

“Do you still live at 42 Belmont, no, sorry, I forgot. You moved a few months ago, didn’t you? 58 Grevillea now, isn’t it?”

If I wasn’t sitting down I would have fallen over. He knew! Dave knew. Not only that, known for at least four months.

When? How? We’ve been so careful.

Like a montage from a movie the previous year flits through my mind. Vignettes of dinners, sex, gifts, date nights, birthdays, our anniversary. Mornings. Nights. Days. Time with our children. Nowhere. In not one scene could I detect a change in Dave.

I look at Dave as if seeing him for the first time. This is the man I have spent my entire adult life with. The man who held my hand and encouraged me while I gave  birth to our children. The man who I nursed through influenza. The real one. The one where you can’t lift your head off the pillow. Who nursed me through morning sickness and an emergency appendectomy.

The man I should know as well as the back of my hand. The man I should be in tune with. Notice any change in.

None. There’s been none. I’m sure of it.

I stare at him, marvelling. A stranger. My husband of twenty-eight years is a stranger to me.

I’ve been thinking myself so clever. So careful. Not giving anything away. Such a good actress. Oscar worthy in my performance.

But Dave is better.

So much better. He’s Anthony Hopkins to my Debra Messing.

He knew and hid his knowledge from me.

How could he? How could he hide it so well?

If he truly loves me he shouldn’t have been able to. The thought triggers heat. It rises up my neck and suffuses my cheeks. I don’t want to explore the logic of it. Had I truly loved him would I have been able to hide it so well?

But, clearly, I didn’t hide it so well.

Dave knew. Had known for months.

I look at him, but it’s not him from the here and now, it’s him from a mere two weeks ago. I see him undressing me. Tracing his fingers over my flesh. Gentle. Loving. Cherishing. A lie. He knew.

I think about how hard I’d worked to respond. To hide my guilt. How careful I’d been to ensure my expression was loving and responsive. I think about the tears I suppressed. How I silently apologised to John while I reciprocated, touching and kissing, pretending I wanted to make love. I think of the stress. How I had to fight the urge to flee. To recoil. The shame when my body betrayed my heart and I climaxed. How I had to resist leaping from the bed as soon as we were done, wanting to wash Dave’s scent off me. I think about how I lay beside him following the act. Sleepless while he slept. Apologetic to both men. I have lied to both. Betrayed both.

I think about all the other days and nights where similar scenes had played out. Scenes where my heart had pounded not from love or lust, not from excitement and anticipation, but from fear of being caught out. From anxiety over the lies. From stress over my performance. From terror at the thought of having my deception, my betrayal, exposed.

All for nothing. Dave had known.

For months I’ve been scared. Editing my every word. Conscious of my every facial expression. My nerves stretched to their limit. Exhausted from everything it’s taken to shield Dave from hurt. To keep track of my lies. Sleepless. A mental wreck.

All for nothing.

Did he love me at all? Ever? How long has he been pretending? A month? Four? Fifteen? Twenty-eight years?

All those things he said to John. All those awful things. What he really thinks of me.

I look at him and want to hit him. Rip out his tongue.

And cry. I want to cry. He’s dry-eyed. It’s me fighting tears. Me, nauseous from rage and rejection. I reach for the glass of chardonnay, wanting to douse the flames and rinse the bitterness from my mouth. It tastes sour.

Dave removes the glass of wine from my hand. His other hand is holding John’s half-finished glass. He turns and walks toward our kitchen. No, not ours. His. His kitchen now.

Over his shoulder, casually, as if speaking of the weather, he says, “Come on, get a wriggle on, Chelsea. John’s already at his car.”

I’m being dismissed. I turn my head. John has indeed left the room. He didn’t even wait for me so we could walk out together.

FOUR YEARS LATER

I turn the last page of the magazine, closing it and realise I can’t remember one article or advert from the entire thing. Probably no loss. The articles are more than likely out of date. I turn to the cover and check the dates. There’s no satisfaction in being right – the magazine is three years old.

‘Surely a doctor’s practice as large and well patronised as this one can afford to buy current magazines?’ I think as I return it to the stack and select another one. ‘And why do they always run so far behind scheduled appointment times?’

I begin my next round of bored flicking, waiting for my name to be called.

I look around the room even as I turn a page. Bland, tastefulness at its best. A forgettable sage green colour scheme, probably meant to calm. Is bored calm? Unmemorable prints of flowers and fields. Matching sage green upholstery on the chairs that line the walls.

And, of course, the usual range of illnesses. Anything from others looking normal and well to those who look like they haven’t slept in a month and should definitely not be out of their beds.

“Mrs. Smith.”

I hear the name but don’t react at first. Not until they repeat it, and then I startle, feeling stupid. Even after four years I’m still not used to being called Mrs. Smith instead of Mrs. Brown.

I rise, hefting my bag onto my shoulder and make my way down the corridor to my doctor’s room.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith. What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve come to have my Implanon replaced. It’s been five years.”

“Oh, of course. Silly of me. It’s in your appointment notes. So, still needing contraception then? You should talk to your husband about shouldering some of the responsibility and getting the snip.” He smiles.

I return the smile. “Maybe next time.”

I keep my face friendly and neutral but inside I feel smug. After our last argument in a long list of arguments about John having a vasectomy, while internally still churning over his harsh words, I salvaged some of his semen from a titty-fuck and sent it off for testing. Ironic, really. Turns out John is sterile.

At first, I intended to have the Implanon implant removed but then remembered the inconvenience of monthly bleeds. I like not having to deal with tampons and the like so a replacement implant it is.

Dr. Jones is saying something and I totally miss it.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I said, how about we swap your Implanon for the new type of contraceptive implant. It’s rather fantastic if I do say so myself. It not only offers contraception, it also takes a recording of your pulse at regular intervals during the day and has built in a whole host of other recording tools we use for diagnostic purposes so if you come in feeling unwell all you have to do is pause by one of our scanners and it downloads information and we can see what’s been happening with you internally since your last visit. Real space-age stuff.”

“Wow,” I laugh. “It sounds like something off Star Trek. What about side effects? I’m not going to end up the size of a barn am I? Or grow whiskers or something? And is it like Implanon in that most women stop bleeding altogether?”

“No, nothing like that. Less disruptive than Implanon but with all its benefits such as stopping or at least lessening the heaviness of blood flow.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

While Doctor Jones turns to his monitor and clicks on one of the icons on his home screen I begin unbuttoning my blouse.

“Oh, what?” he murmurs, rubbing his neck. “What the…?”

I look at him and then the screen, wondering at his confused tone. Was he like me and a klutz with technology?

“How long did you say you’ve had your implant in?” he asks, turning toward me.

“Five years.”

“How can that be? Are you sure? It looks like you already have a Vanguardian implanted. All your medical information has downloaded.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You must have been in within the last eighteen months. That’s how long they’ve been approved and available.”

“But I haven’t. I haven’t been to a doctor in two years or more.”

He turns back to the screen and even in profile I can see he’s gone pale.

“There’s information here going back four years. How can that be? And what’s all this other information? Why would there be WAV files? They’re audio files. There has to be a glitch somewhere. Someone else’s VanGuardian must have been accidentally linked to your patient card. But four years? That can’t be. And I don’t understand why I’m seeing a Google map with a flag showing the clinic. Let’s take a look at your Implanon and see if we can’t sort this mix-up out.”

My head is spinning as I move to the examination bench and lay down. I turn my head away as I’m a little squeamish about needles and the like.

“It’s definitely a VanGuardian,” he says and I can hear the confusion in his voice. “It’s the same as the ones we implant except for being a smidge longer and wider. Hmm.”

I swivel my head and look at the doctor comparing my implant with an image on the screen. My eyes are drawn to the top of the page, VanGuardian. Seeing it written jogs a memory. I know that name. That was Dave’s pseudonym on the amateur writing site where he wrote about cheating wives. A coincidence?

The rest of my appointment passes in a blur.

“We’ll sort this out, Mrs. Smith. There has to be some sort of crossed signal or something in your old implant. Or maybe you were part of some test group or something. I’ll get our tech guys on to VanGuardian and we’ll be in touch.”

I nod and walk back to the reception area on autopilot. I pay my bill and head to my car. With my hands on the wheel, snatches of conversations from the past spill into my already overloaded head.

Bummer. They have a clause in my contract about owning all of my research work and inventions so even if I work on something at home on my own time I wouldn’t be able to patent it for at least twelve months after I resign.

Research and innovation was Dave’s favourite part of his work. His forté.

As if he were sitting before me, I see Dave seated on the couch facing me and John. I picture his faded jeans and casual polo shirt. I remember the shock of how little was in our saving account when it came time to divvy up our assets and his insistence on keeping the framed photo from the Caribbean cruise we’d taken together three months into my affair with John.

Stunned, my hands drop to my lap. Suddenly, like a jigsaw, all the pieces come together.

I’d had my Implanon put in a matter of weeks before that cruise.

Different clinic to one I go to now. Different doctor. I changed doctors and clinics after Dave’s and my separation because our old doctor, the one I’d shared with Dave, was an old friend of his father and the person who had actually inspired Dave to enter the medical research field. It would have been too awkward and uncomfortable to continue with Dr. Black.

Dave had known about John. He had to have. My heart is pounding. He must have known from the beginning. Somehow he talked Dr. Black into putting in an implant Dave had developed. A VanGuardian. But more. Mine contained a GPS locator and the ability to record voice files. That had to be illegal. I hadn’t consented. I should sue the bastard. Except I heard he’d retired to Brazil, where his much younger wife was originally from.

Why develop an implant with a GPS and recording abilities? Surely not just to track me. My mind mulled that over. And then it hit me. Military. Yes, military. Something like that would be of use to them. I know Dave was involved in the development of something for diabetic soldiers that was implanted and regulated their sugar without the need for daily injections or medication. So, was a GPS locator and recorder that much more of a leap?

Sometime around the time of our cruise or shortly after he must have quit his job. No wonder we had so little in our savings account. He had us living off it. I never checked. I used my credit card and Dave paid it off each month and gave me cash for tips and markets and things. There’d been no need to go to ATM’s or pay bills online. Dave had always taken care of all those things.

Was the photo from the cruise a memento of his resignation? Dave had organised the framing himself. I picture the chunky frame. Could it have been the scanner for the implant? Surely not. Deep inside I know that’s exactly what it was. That’s why he’d suggested we hang it in the hall by the coat rack. And why he didn’t want me to have it. He knew I would have had it reframed or given it to one of the kids who might have stumbled on its real purpose.

The sheer scope of how I’ve been duped floors me. It feels like there’s a vice around my chest and I can barely draw breath. No wonder he didn’t try and exact revenge in the divorce. He’d already done it, financially, at least.

And I can’t do a thing about it. Dr. Black is out of reach. And it’s been nearly four years since Dave and I finalised our divorce. Sure, I will receive a portion of his retirement funds but I’m guessing he’s got the squillions he’s earning from VanGuardian going through corporations and I won’t see a cent of it. I touch my arm where the new implant lies. I can’t even tell John. Things are shaky enough at home without me confessing to just how well my ex-husband fooled me.

And now Dave lives in the Algarve. The kids rave about his villa overlooking the beach. Well, they do in the rare times we actually speak.

I’m in a daze as I pull into the driveway of the small, rundown cottage I share with John. I can’t remember the trip home. I hope I didn’t run any red lights. All I need on top of today’s revelations is a traffic infringement notice.

On autopilot I unlock the door and walk into the lounge. John is sitting on the couch.

“Um, Chelsea, we have to talk.”

Only then do I see he’s holding hands with a girl who looks no older than thirty but who is most definitely pregnant. Not long to go, either. It looks like someone shoved a basketball under her tight pink T-shirt.

There are two glasses of chardonnay on the table in front of them.

AFTERWORD

For those of you that don’t do subtlety (like Van1 hahahaha) please re-read Chelsea’s doctor’s visit and the final paragraphs of the story for our burn for John.

NOW, TO EASE YOUR JOURNEY FROM FICTION BACK TO COLD, HARD REALITY…

Vandemonium1’s joke

A husband and wife go to a counsellor after 15 years of marriage. The counsellor asks them what the problem is and the wife goes into a tirade, listing every problem they have ever had in the 15 years they’ve been married. She goes on and on and on. Finally, the counsellor gets up, goes around the desk, embraces the woman, and kisses her passionately. The woman shuts up and sits quietly in a daze.

The counsellor turns to the husband and says “That is what your wife needs at least three times a week. Can you do that?”

The husband says, “I can bring her in on Monday and Wednesday, but on Friday I play golf.”

CreativityTakesCourage

A gecko lizard is walking through the Australian bush, heading toward the river for a drink.

On his walk he comes across a koala sitting in a gum tree, smoking a joint and stops for a chat.

“Gidday, mate. What are you doing?”

The koala replies, “Smoking a joint, come up and join me. It’s bloody good gear!”

So the gecko climbs up and sits next to the koala and they share a joint. After a while the gecko says his mouth is now very dry and that he’s going to get a drink from the river.

At the riverbank, the gecko is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls in. The current is quite strong and he starts to float away. A crocodile sees this and swims over to the stoned gecko and helps him back to the shore.

He then asks the lizard, “What’s the matter with you?”

The gecko explains to the crocodile that he was sitting in the tree, smoking a joint with his new koala friend. He then explained how his mouth got dry, and that he was so wasted that, when he went to get a drink from the river, he fell in!

The inquisitive crocodile says he has to check out the stoned koala for himself. He walks into the bush and finds the tree where the koala is sitting in the fork of a gum tree, finishing a joint.

The crocodile looks up and says “Hey, Koala, you got any more of that grass?”

The koala looks down and says “FUUUUUCK, DUDE……. how much water did you drink?”

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