A small matter of trust
Don Carter
Because I’m a writer, I get to work from home most of the time, unlike my wife Sarah, who has what she calls a ‘proper job’. She is the head of sales development for a major Public Relations company and spends a lot of time in the office, and some on the road. It was a wet and miserable November night when, at six pm I dropped her off at our local railway station, to catch a train into Leeds where she would take the seven o’clock train to London.
As I pulled into the car park and killed the engine, she leaned over to me and kissed me.
“I’ll ring you as soon as I get to the hotel,” she said, “and I’ll see you in three days.”
She got out of the car, put her umbrella up and hastily removed her suitcase and briefcase from the back seat.
“Now you hurry on home and relieve Julia from the monsters,” she instructed, “and make sure you remember to kiss them goodnight from me.”
The monsters were our two children, James, who was six and Amy, who was four, Julia was the daughter of our next-door neighbours and was our babysitter of choice.
Her trip was for a corporate training course, which she was leading, something which she loved doing.
We’d met ten years earlier when as a result of signing my first publishing contract, my agent decided that I needed a PR agency on my team. I’d chosen her company, where, at the time, she was a new recruit straight from University. She’d been assigned as my PR representative and I was her first client.
Six months later, she ceased to represent me when I asked her to marry me and the company felt that it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to continue in that role. She had, however, had a meteoric rise through the ranks at the company, and she now had every hope of shortly being appointed to the board of directors.
I watched her walk into the station building then re-started my motor and headed for home.
I was there in under fifteen minutes.
Home is a five bedroomed Victorian pile on the outskirts of Bradford. We’d used the advance on my second book to buy it, and it was far too big for us. We planned to fill it with kids, but, after the birth of Amy had been particularly difficult, we were advised by the doctors to abandon that plan and I’d done the decent thing and had a vasectomy.
As I walked into the living room, Julia and the kids were singing nursery rhymes.
“Daddy’s home,” Julia said, and the kids immediately abandoned that and ran over for cuddles.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” Julia replied, “they’ve been fed and watered, bathed, and as you can see, are ready for bed.”
“Don’t want to go to bed,” James whined.
“We all have to go to bed,” Julia told him.
“But not yet,” he answered.
“All right you can have another half hour, but you, young lady,” I turned to my daughter, “it’s your bedtime.”
“Jools take me,” she insisted.
“All right, but Mummy said I have to kiss you goodnight for her,” I agreed.
She toddled over for her goodnight kiss from Mummy, and once she’d had it insisted on one from me as well before she and Julia went off upstairs hand in hand.
Twenty minutes later, Julia came back down and told me that Amy was sleeping peacefully.
“I’d better get off,” she said as she entered the living room, “can I borrow an umbrella, please?”
“Yes, take the one in the stand in the front hall,” I said, “and thanks.”
“Not necessary,” she said, “you know I love these two.”
James was on the rug in front of the fireplace putting Lego bricks together.
“We love you too, Jools,” he said as she stood up to leave the room. She turned and blew him a kiss, which he returned.
As I heard the front door click shut behind her, I turned to him.
“Come on mister,” I said, “bedtime.”
He complained but took himself off. He’d started refusing to be put to bed about six months earlier.
I put his Lego away in his toy box and settled down to see what was on TV.
I wasn’t expecting Sarah to ring much before ten and I was watching the nightly news bulletin when there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to see two uniformed police officers stood there, it was still bucketing down.
“Mr Benton?” the male of the duo asked, “Mark Benton?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Could we come in?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, please, you must be getting soaked out there.”
I stood back to let them in.
They both wiped their feet thoroughly as they stepped inside and I closed the door and led them into the kitchen, at least the floor in there wasn’t carpeted and their dripping all over it wouldn’t do any harm.
“What can I do for you officers?” I asked.
“Your wife is Mrs Sarah Benton?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident involving your wife, sir,” she went on.
“What?” I asked in disbelief, “has her train crashed.”
“No sir, this was an RTA, sorry, Road Traffic Accident, on the M1 just south of Nottingham,” the man explained, “the car she was travelling in was struck by a jack-knifing lorry while overtaking.”
“That can’t be true,” I said, “she’s gone to London on the train.”
“Unless there’s another Sarah Benton, with this address who is thirty-one years old, I’m afraid it is sir, she was travelling in a white BMW 5 series car, registered to a Reginald Illingworth.”
“Is she,” I began, “is she all right?”
“The only information we have is that she survived and has been taken to Queens Medical Centre in Nottingham,” the woman said, “I think it would be an idea to phone them and get some more details.”
“Thank you I will,” I said.
“Good,” she agreed, “now is there anyone who can come and sit with you?”
“The problem is the kids,” I replied, “if I have to go down there, I’ll need someone to stay with them. I can ring my parents, but it will take them an hour to get here. I’ll have to ask the neighbours’ daughter to come back. She’s our regular babysitter.”
“But you’ll be all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, “I’ll ring the hospital and see what sort of arrangements I need to make.”
“Well, then, we’ll bid you farewell,” she said, “I’ll not say goodnight under the circumstances.”
“No,” I agreed, “probably not the most appropriate.”
They left me with a note of the hospital switchboard number, and as soon as I’d closed the door behind them I rang it.
It took some time to be answered, and I asked to be put through to the A&E department.
“Is it with regard to an emergency admission?” the operator asked.
“Yes, it seems my wife was in an accident on the M1 this evening,” I replied.
“One moment please, putting you through,” was the reply I got.
Whoever it was she put me through to seemed to take an age to answer.
“Emergency,” she said, “how may I help you?”
I identified myself and told her what the police had told me.
“Just a moment please,” she said and the line went silent for a good couple of minutes before she came back, “yes, Mrs Sarah Benton was admitted at eight forty with multiple injuries following a road accident. She’s currently in surgery, after which she’ll be transferred to intensive care until she’s out of immediate danger.”
“Will I be allowed to visit her?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied, “although obviously not until she’s out of surgery. She’s likely to be there for quite a while, so you might be better coming tomorrow morning.”
“All right, thank you,” I said, “I’ll probably do that, it will solve a problem for me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she said.
“There is one other thing,” I said, “she was travelling in her boss’s car, was he admitted too?”
“I’m afraid that the other occupant of the vehicle died at the scene sir,” she said.
“Oh, right, well thank you. Goodnight,” I said before hanging up. I decided that my next calls needed to be to our parents, mine first since they were nearest and I’d need them to take the kids.
“Hi Mum,” I said when she answered, “I need a favour.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“I need you to come and get the kids tomorrow,” I replied, “I need to go to Nottingham.”
“Rather sudden isn’t it?” she said.
“Sarah’s in the hospital there, she was involved in a car crash,” I explained.
“I thought she was going to London on the train last night,” she said.
“So did I,” I replied, “but it seems she was in her boss’s car on the M1.”
“Do you want us to come now, so you can get off?”
“Could you?” I asked, “that would be great. I’ll ask if Julia can come round from next door until you get here, then I can get off. The hospital suggested waiting until morning, but to be honest, I’m not going to sleep tonight, so I may as well.”
“All right son, we’ll be there as soon as we can,” she said, and we said ‘bye and hung up.
My next call was to Sarah’s parents. I didn’t particularly like them. When we first married, they were dead set against it and, not only did they not come to the wedding, but her father, a colonel in the army, had informed their entire family that anyone who did, he would cut off.
Strangely, when I sold the film rights to my first novel for six million dollars, they suddenly decided I was the ideal son-in-law.
“Hello Dennis,” I said when her father answered, “It’s Mark. I have some upsetting news to impart, Sarah is in hospital.”
“What?” he demanded, “what’s happened?”
“She’s been in an accident on the M1 on the way to a training session in London with her boss,” I explained, not feeling the need to impart anything else, “she’s been taken to Queens Medical Centre in Nottingham, where she’s currently undergoing surgery.”
“How badly is she hurt?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “they couldn’t tell me at this stage. I’m just waiting for my parents to arrive to take care of the kids and I’ll be on my way down there.”
“Right then, we’ll get a bag packed and set off on our way up, and we’ll meet you there, presumably sometime tomorrow morning.”
All right, but drive safely,” I said.
“We will,” he said, “and Mark, thank you. I know we haven’t been the best in-laws but thank you.”
“You’re welcome Dennis, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We hung up and I rang next door. Fifteen minutes later, Julia let herself in while I was upstairs packing a bag.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Sarah’s been in a car accident,” I replied, “on her way to London.”
“What a car’s hit the train?”
“No, she was in the car,” I replied.
“But that’s impossible, you took her to the station to catch the train,” she said.
“I know,” I said, “and we may never know what the story is, the driver of the car was killed outright.”
“Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry,” she said, rubbing my arm, “where is she?”
“Nottingham,” I said.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” she said, “but you need to get down there. Don’t worry about the monsters, I’ll stay with them until your Mum and Dad get here.”
“Thanks, Julia, I really don’t know what we’d do without you around,” I told her.
“Well, never mind that, you get off, and drive carefully,” she said, “keep your phone switched on.”
I carried my bag out to the car, unlocked it and threw the bag and my laptop bag on the back seat. Then I re-locked it, went back inside and gently kissed my two children. Finally, I pulled out of the driveway at eleven ten pm.
Two hours later I pulled into a parking space at the hospital, found a pay machine and used my Amex card to pay the parking fee for twenty-four hours.
I entered the hospital through the Emergency Department entrance and found reception, where I asked for Sarah’s whereabouts.
I was told that she was still in surgery, but that if I took a seat in the waiting room, a doctor would come out and see me when one was available.
I found the waiting room and settled down to wait.
It was a long wait, I was awakened at what, according to my watch was seven forty-five am from a fitful sleep by a nurse shaking my shoulder.
“Mr Benton,” she said quietly, “would you like to follow me.”
I stood up and followed her down a corridor, through a set of double doors and into a ward labelled Emergency Department ICU.
There were four beds in the unit, and at that time there was only one occupied. I couldn’t tell who was in it for all the bandages.
“She’s heavily sedated,” the nurse explained, “if you take a seat, the doctor will be about ten minutes.”
I sat down at my wife’s bedside and waited.
It was about fifteen minutes later when a doctor appeared. He introduced himself as Steve Mitchell, a consultant trauma surgeon and suggested we talk in an office off the side of the ward. I followed him and we both sat down, opposite each other across a desk.
“Do we have any idea of what happened?” I asked.
“All I know, Mr Benton is that your wife and her companion were cut out of a car on the southbound carriageway of the M1, it appeared to have been travelling south and had been sideswiped by a jack-knifing lorry. It ended up on its roof. Both occupants had to be cut out. Your wife was the only one to survive.”
“What was she even doing there?” I asked, “I dropped her off at the station to catch the train.”
“I can’t answer that I’m afraid,” he replied, “she has suffered very extensive injuries, including some internal ones. I’m sorry to have to tell you that she has lost her baby.”
“What?” I asked.
“The baby she was carrying,” he repeated, “I’m afraid we couldn’t save it.”
“Baby?” I asked, confused, “what baby.”
“You weren’t aware that your wife was pregnant?” he asked.
“It’s unlikely I would be,” I replied, “after a difficult birth with our daughter four years ago, she was advised not to get pregnant again, so I had a vasectomy.”
Well, I thought, that goes a long way to explaining why she was where she was.
“How long is it likely to be before she’s conscious and able to speak?” I asked.
“It could be a couple of days,” he said, “why do you ask?”
“Because I have two children at home that need me,” I replied, “I’d be better off there, looking after them than here just sitting at the side of a bed.”
“You realise that not even a vasectomy is a hundred per cent effective; the child could have been yours.”
“That’s the first question I’ll ask her when she’s awake,” I said coldly, “what are the chances of having her transferred to a hospital closer to home?” I asked.
“It’s possible,” I said, “we’ve got her stabilised, so she’s in no immediate danger, but it would be expensive. The NHS wouldn’t fund it.”
“That’s not a problem,” I said, “her parents will be here at some time this morning, I’ll discuss it with them. In the meantime, is there somewhere I can get breakfast here?”
“There’s a restaurant in the basement that does a pretty good full English,” he said, “I’ll take you down there.”
He led the way through the hospital to the Sherwood Restaurant where I did get a pretty good breakfast.
When I got back to the ICU, her parents had arrived. Dennis was his usual stoic self while Jean, his wife, was beside herself.
Dennis stood up to greet me as I walked in.
“Mark, my boy,” he began, “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’m hoping that this tragic accident can, perhaps, bring us together.”
“Could we talk for a minute, outside please Dennis?” I asked.
“What is it, is there something wrong?” he asked.
“I think there might be,” I replied.
We stepped outside and walked part of the way back to the Emergency Department.
“What is it, Mark? I can see you’re disturbed by something,” he asked.
“I think we have a serious problem,” I said, “last night at six I dropped her off at the station to catch the train to London.”
“So, what was she doing in a car on the M1?” he asked.
“That was my question also,” I said, “then I spoke to the surgeon this morning, who apologised to me.”
“For what?” he asked.
“Being unable to save the baby,” I replied.
He was silent for a moment.
“But you had a vasectomy after Amy,” he said, “Sarah told us about being advised against any more pregnancies.”
“As I said, a serious problem,” I said.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Nothing for now,” I said, “I’d like to get her transferred up to Leeds, they did wonders for that TV presenter who crashed the jet car.”
“Richard Hammond on Top Gear?” he asked.
“That’s the one. I’ve spoken to the doctor who thinks it would be possible, at a cost,” I said.
“I can contribute if that’s a problem,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” I answered, “look, Dennis, I’m working on the innocent until proven guilty principle at the moment. Until I can get answers to my questions.”
“That’s good of you, Mark,” he said, “if there’s anything I can do to help, well, you only have to ask.”
“Thanks,” I said, “now I’d better let the hotel know she won’t be checking in.”
I looked up the saved number for the Bonnington and pushed the connect button.
“Good Morning, Bonnington Hotel,” a light female voice intoned.
“Good morning,” I said, “I’m ringing to let you know that my wife, who was booked in at your hotel last night was involved in an accident on the way, she won’t be arriving.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, What’s the name?”
“Benton,” I said, “Mrs Sarah Benton.”
“One moment please,” she said and the line went silent for a few seconds, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t have a booking for that name, are you sure she was booked into this hotel?”
“Yes,” I replied, “er, could you check another name, Reginald Illingworth.”
One moment,” the line went silent again until she came back, “ah yes, Illingworth, Mr and Mrs R Illingworth, they were a no show.”
My heart sank and I felt suddenly sick.
“Thank you,” I said, “they won’t be arriving, Mr Illingworth was killed last night in the same crash.”
“Oh, I am sorry, anyway thank you for letting us know.”
“Bad news?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
“They have no booking for Sarah, they do, however, have one for Mr and Mrs Illingworth,” I said.
“Who’s Illingworth?” I asked.
“Her boss,” I said, “he was driving the car last night.”
“Fuck,” he spat, “what the hell was she thinking, look, Mark, I know I have no right to ask this, but for now at least, can we keep this from Jean?”
“Until I can get some confirmation, I can do that,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said.
Two days later she was transferred, thanks to an ambulance journey from Nottingham to East Midlands airport, a medevac flight to Leeds/Bradford and another ambulance to Leeds General Infirmary. It was another two days before she was awake.
I wasn’t there when it happened.
I didn’t visit at all that day, even after the hospital rang to say she’d regained consciousness.
I did ring Dennis and let him know she was conscious but asked him to wait a couple of days before he and Jean came up. I did tell him that they would be welcome to stay at the house, I’m sure the kids would be thrilled to see them.
“Perhaps we’ll make that decision after you’ve spoken to her,” he said.
I went into the hospital the following day, after dropping the kids off at my parents’ house.
She was awake, but still laid flat when I walked in.
“Hi,” she said with a weak smile.
“Hello Sarah,” I said, standing beside the bed, “there’s something I don’t understand.”
“About what?” she asked.
“About your accident,” I replied, “I dropped you off at the station to catch a train into Leeds, for a connection to London. How did you end up halfway down the M1 in a car?”
I could almost see her deflate.
“Can we talk about it later, when I’m feeling better?” she asked.
“All right,” I agreed, “the second question. How come the Bonnington Hotel had no trace of any booking in your name, but it did have one for Mr and Mrs R Illingworth? And, the third question, when were you going to tell me that you were pregnant?”
I’d often read the phrase like a rabbit caught in the headlights. At that moment I discovered what it described.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“It was when the surgeon down in Nottingham apologised to me for being unable to save the baby,” I said, flatly, “that kind of gave it away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Well, that makes it all right then doesn’t it?” I snapped, “two more questions for you to ponder on when you’re feeling better. One, the kids, am I their father? And two, why, Sarah, what did I do wrong?”
Mark, I…” she began before I held up a hand.
“No,” I said, “not now when you’re feeling better. I’m going home now.”
There were tears on her cheeks now.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
“Maybe you could ring me when you’re feeling better,” I said as I turned and walked out of the door.
I sat in the car in for quite a while, taking deep breaths. I’d just blurted out the question about the kids, such an idea had never occurred to me earlier, but it had to be a distinct possibility. It was easily tested with a DNA test, but did I really want to know? I loved those two with all my being, what would it do to me if they weren’t mine?
I started the car and drove, slowly home, with James at school and Amy at the nursery, I had an empty house waiting for me. Perhaps it was symbolic of my empty life.
Once I reached home, I put the coffee maker on and sat down to think about what I needed to do. One thing I saw me needing in the, not too distant, future was a lawyer. Fortunately, I had a good one. I picked up the phone and dialled.
“Walker, Palmer and Singleton,” the receptionist answered on the third ring, “how may I direct your call.”
“Is Phil Walker available?” I asked.
“One moment please,” she intoned, “may I enquire as to who is calling?”
I gave her my name. A few seconds later I was talking to him. Over the years he’d progressed from being my lawyer to be my friend, I knew I could trust him.
“Mark,” he said, “how are you doing? I was sorry to hear about Sarah’s accident on the news this morning, I assume that’s what you’re ringing about, how’s she doing?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” I said, “when have you got a free slot for me to come in?”
“I can fit you in tomorrow at ten,” he said, “is there a problem?”
“There’s a few of them,” I replied, and gave him the short version of events.
“Shit,” he said, “I never would have believed that if it hadn’t been you telling me. Listen, to hell with tomorrow, can you meet me after work?”
“I’ll have to see if I can get Julia to watch the kids for me, but subject to that, yes,” I replied, “where and when?”
“The Royal Oak, six o’clock?” he said, “that’s walking distance from your house, so you should be all right for a drink.”
“That’s fine,” I said, “if I can’t make it, I’ll let you know.”
“Right then, my friend, I have to dash got a client coming in in a couple of minutes, I’ll see you then.”
We said goodbye and hung up, then I pulled out my mobile and texted Julia who answered almost immediately that she was good to babysit.
At three that afternoon, I picked the kids up, took them home and fed them. I was just clearing away when Julia walked in through the back door, and the kids jumped up and ran to her for hugs. They quickly dragged her off into the living room to play.
Satisfied that the kids were sorted, I wandered upstairs to the smallest of our bedrooms, where I’d dumped Sarah’s bags when I got back from Nottingham that night, and which I’d left untouched since. There were her suitcase, briefcase and a transparent plastic sack with the legend patient’s property.
I tipped the last one out on the bed and began to sort it into two piles, salvageable and unsalvageable. The majority was in the second category. They’d had to cut her clothes off her at the hospital and what she had been wearing was now rags. I did notice, though, that there was no underwear in the collection.
That mystery was solved when I opened her briefcase there was both a rolled-up bra and a bunched up pair of knickers in there, together with her laptop and charger and a few files from the office. On the bottom was a small packet containing a dozen condoms. Which was strange, given that she was already pregnant. Another question that needed answering. The clothes from her suitcase I laid out on the bed. Nothing unusual there that she wouldn’t have normally taken on a business trip. I put the suitcase away in the wardrobe and went back downstairs.
At five forty-five, I pulled on my coat and headed off to the Royal Oak, arriving just before six and, apparently, just after Phil. He was not alone.
He had a young woman with him, perhaps twenty-seven, slim, blonde, blue eyes and quite attractive. He introduced us, naming her as Marisa LeBeque, pointing out the capital B in her name, and telling me that she was an associate at his office, and given the nature of what I’d told him, a specialist in matrimonial matters.
She had a notepad on the table and a pen in her hand.
“I don’t think that will be necessary at this stage,” I told her after we’d shaken hands and sat down, “would either of you like a drink?”
They each had one in front of them and turned my offer down.
We were in a corner of the pub lounge, which at that time of day was empty apart from us.
“So,” Phil said, “down to business then. Why don’t you tell me the story again, Mark, just to bring Marisa up to speed?”
I did, adding in the missing underwear and the condoms in the briefcase.
“I don’t understand that,” I said, “given that she was already pregnant with this guy’s baby, why the condoms?”
“I can think of an explanation, two in fact,” Marisa said.
“Enlighten us,” Phil told her, then turned to me, “see, she’s bright.”
She glared at him.
“First explanation,” she began, “anal sex, there’s a lot of germs back there, the second one, the baby wasn’t his, this was their first time together and it was for protection from disease.”
Phil nodded his agreement.
“The big question is, what do you want to do about it?”
Before I answered, I stood up, walked to the bar and got myself a pint of Black Sheep.
“The quick answer is, I don’t know,” I replied as I sat back down and took a long drink from my beer.
“That’s not an uncommon reaction,” she said, “firstly there are the children to consider. Do you love them?”
“Absolutely,” I said, “they’re my life.”
“Then tell me, if it turned out that they weren’t yours, would you still love them?”
I thought about that.
“Yes,” I confirmed eventually, “I would.”
“Then I’d suggest you don’t do DNA tests,” she said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because,” she explained, “if we do that, and they aren’t yours, then in the event of divorce your chances of even getting access to them, let alone custody are very slim indeed.”
“I see,” I said, “yes, that’s a good point.”
“Next point, now that we’ve brought up the possibility that this man, Illingworth was it?”
I nodded.
“Illingworth may not have been the first, what’s you’re feeling about starting divorce proceedings?”
“I don’t want to do anything until we have the full facts,” I said, “but at the moment, the only source for facts is Sarah herself. I don’t see her as a reliable witness in this.”
“You think she’ll try and spin it so that she looks like the victim, the wronged party here?” she asked.
“I think I would in the same circumstances,” I replied, “I think, perhaps we all would.”
“Possibly,” she agreed, “I think we need to meet with her and give her a chance to tell her story.”
“Agreed,” I said, “but in fairness, I think we should give her a chance to have her own lawyer present too. And perhaps a doctor, just in case she is overtaxed by it all.”
“What’s the best way to arrange that?” I asked.
“Does she have a solicitor?” Marisa asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “you’re sitting next to him. We’ve never had a need for separate solicitors before.”
“Is there someone else in touch with her that could ask for you?” she asked.
“Only her parents,” I said, “I’m not sure they’d be willing.”
“Then probably the only way to do it is for you to visit her and put it to her,” she said.
“I’m not sure I’d want to do that,” I said.
“Then really the only alternative is to wait until they discharge her,” she concluded, “do we know how long that is likely to be?”
“Probably another six weeks according to the hospital, possibly longer,” I said.
“And are you going to allow her to come back to the marital home?” she asked.
“I think so, for the sake of the kids, they do miss her.”
“And the marital bed?” she asked.
“That,” I said, "is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
We sat and chatted over our drinks after that. Marisa excused herself when she’d finished hers, and Phil and I went our separate ways shortly afterwards. I arrived back home at seven-thirty, just in time to put my little monsters to bed.
It was a week later when I got a call from the hospital to say that my wife was asking why the children hadn’t been to see her for some time.
It was mainly because their grandparents had gone home and weren’t available to take them. I promised to take them in some time on the following day and asked about leaving them with her for an hour or so. That was something the hospital wasn’t keen on, so I decided that I just had to bite the bullet and stay with them. I could ask Julia to come with us, but then I’d have to explain why I didn’t want to be in the same room with my wife. I also noted that, although she was feeling well enough to want the kids there, she still didn’t seem well enough to talk about everything.
I took the kids along straight from school the next day. Sarah was happy to see them but didn’t seem able to look me in the eye.
I settled them in and excused myself, saying that I was going to get them sandwiches from the hospital café. I was gone for perhaps twenty minutes and came back with two of what I can only describe as a ‘Happy Meal’ except it wasn’t from McDonald's, and actually bore some resemblance to food.
As I approached the door to Sarah’s room, I heard voices from within.
“I don’t care anymore Steve, it’s finished, I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you again,” I heard Sarah’s voice.
“Fair enough,” a man’s voice said, “you do realise that your husband will know all about it tomorrow.”
I pushed the door open.
“Too late he already knows,” I said, “get out, while you still can.”
“You gonna make me?” he asked.
“If I have to,” I replied, “but I think you’ll leave peacefully.”
“And what makes you think that little man?” he asked.
Admittedly he was two inches taller than my six-foot, and about ten kilogrammes heavier.
“I know who you are, I remember you from Christmas parties at the agency,” I told him, “and I also know that your company has a strict no fraternisation policy and that one phone call and you lose your job.”
“You wouldn’t,” he replied, “she’d lose her job too.”
“She’s losing it anyway, one way or another,” I said.
That’s when he took a swing at me and found himself jammed against the wall of the room, my left arm across his windpipe.
"You may be big,” I said, “but you’re slow. Now out, while you still have a job, and the ability to breathe.”
He left muttering something about this not being the end of it.
“Thank you,” Sarah said once he’d left.
“Well, at least I know who the enemy is now,” I said.
“I’m glad you came in when you did, he was upsetting me,” she replied.
“More importantly, he was upsetting my kids,” I told her, “so, are you ready to talk now?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “but please, not with the kids here.”
“No, I’ll come back tomorrow morning after I drop them off at school,” I said, “but Sarah, I want the truth of it, the whole truth.”
I turned to the kids.
“Come on you little monsters, let’s get you home. Give Mummy a kiss and let’s get going,” I told them.
“What about you?” Sarah asked, “are you going to give Mummy a kiss too?”
She gestured towards the kids with her head. I looked at her then leaned over the bed and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
An hour later, I was at home, kids in bed and wondering whether there was anything on TV worth watching. I came to the conclusion that there wasn’t and instead rang the PR agency switchboard number.
As always, there was a standby operator who had the main office line switched to his, or her, home phone in order to offer a twenty-four-hour service.
“Good evening,” a gruff male voice answered, “you’ve reached the out of hours service at RGI Public relations, how may I help?”
“This is Mark Benton,” answered, “I need to speak to whoever has taken over from Reginald Illingworth.”
"I’m sorry, sir,” he replied, “the office is now closed, if you would care to ring back tomorrow morning, I’m sure one of Mr Chambers’ assistants will be able to help you.”
“Look at your priority list,” I insisted, “tell me what name is at the top of it.”
There were a few seconds of silence.
“Oh, sorry sir,” he said, “I didn’t realise. Mr Chambers has left the office, sir, some time ago.”
“Then ring him at home, and ask him to call me,” I said.
“Sorry, sir, I’m only authorised to do that in an emergency,” he said.
“What’s your name sunshine?” I asked.
“Paul Barclay, sir,” he said.
“All right then, Paul Barclay sir, this is what is going to happen,” I said. “fifteen minutes from now, if I haven’t spoken to Mr Chambers, I’m going to sit at my computer typing out a letter unappointing your company as my PR agency. Then tomorrow morning, I’m going to ring Bill Chambers and tell him who is responsible for that action. You might want to start looking through the job sites online now and save yourself some time tomorrow. I’m going to hang up now, goodbye, have a nice evening.”
I slammed the phone down.
It was just eight minutes later when the phone rang.
It was Bill Chambers.
“Mark, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“You can remind me of whether you still have a non-fraternisation policy between executive-level staff and others,” I replied.
“Yes,” he answered, “indeed we do.”
“I assume that you’re aware that on the occasion of his demise, Reginald Illingworth was driving to London for an illicit liaison with my wife?” I asked.
“I was apprised of that fact a couple of days ago,” he answered, “I am sorry for that Mark.”
“Do you know of a man named Steve from, I think, Marketing, who has been carrying on an affair with my wife, presumably for some time,” I went on.
“I know there is a rumour to that effect,” he said, “but I have no substantiation.”
“Well, this evening at the hospital, while visiting her with the children,” I said, "I found him in her room when I returned from getting them food. I found him in her room, with her informing him that it was over and he was to get out of her life. He threatened me with violence and stormed out when I pointed out that he could be fired as a result of a single phone call.”
“What do you want me to do, Mark?” he asked, “if I fire him, I have to fire Sarah as well.”
“I’m aware of that,” I replied, “but the choice of what to do is yours.”
“All right, Mark,” he answered, “I’ll take what you say under consideration. But hell, man, losing two key members of the executive team so soon after Reggie, would be difficult.”
“So, would losing your biggest client,” I added.
“All right Mark, look, can I call you tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to pass this around the team?”
“Of course, Bill, thanks for getting back to me,” I said.
We ended the call then, and I got back to finding nothing worth watching on TV.
The following morning, after dropping the kids off I drove over to the hospital, where I found Sarah awake, and looking better than she had since before she set off for London.
“Good morning,” she greeted me as I walked in.
“Good morning, did you sleep well?” I asked.
“I couldn’t do anything else with all the painkillers and sedatives they’ve been pumping into me,” she said, “when can I come home?”
“It will be a few weeks before they let you out of here,” I said, “when are your parents coming back?”
“Next week sometime,” she said.
“Well, do you have anyone else to visit you?” I asked.
“Not that I’d want,” she replied sadly, “apart from you and the kids. How are they doing?”
“Until yesterday they were constantly asking when you were coming home, why you weren’t there, that sort of thing,” I answered, “I’m sure that will start up again now that they’ve been here.”
“It was so nice seeing them yesterday,” she said, “and you of course, but I wish nobody else had turned up.”
“You mean, your friend, Steve?” I asked.
“No, not friend,” she said, “anything but.”
“Are you ready for that talk now?” I asked her.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” she said, “but I’ll try. Can we stop and continue some other time if it’s too much?”
I thought for a moment then nodded my assent.
“Before we start,” I said, "I want to stress something to you and ask one very important question, no two.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“That only complete and utter honesty will do, nothing but the truth and no skirting around things,” I replied, “everything out in the open.”
“I agree,” she said, “what are your two questions.”
“The first one, the kids,” I said.
“Yes, what about them?” she asked.
“Are they both mine?” I asked.
She looked at me for a long time without speaking, her mouth moving as if she were whispering, but nothing coming out.
“It’s not that difficult a question,” I prompted her, “as I see it there are only four possible answers, yes, no, one of them is or I don’t know, which is it?”
She didn’t answer, but, instead began to sob.
“I take it from your reaction that they aren’t,” I said, sadly, “so my next question is going to be who is their father? Was this Steve the only one you’ve been putting it about for, or are there others?”
When she still hadn’t answered me five minutes later, I stood up and left.
Back at the car, I sat for ten minutes getting my head together before starting the engine and heading for home.
When I arrived the phone was blinking to tell me I had a message. Actually, there were two.
The first was from the hospital asking me to call them, the second was from Bill Chambers, asking me to ring him.
I rang the hospital first. They wanted me to go in as my wife was extremely distressed and they needed me to help calm her down. I suggested that it would be more appropriate to ring her parents and gave the clerk the number. When she asked why I felt that, I suggested she ask my wife. Then I rang Bill Chambers.
“Good morning Mark,” he said when I identified myself, “I’ve discussed your request from last night with my colleagues, and the general consensus is that with the current situation, vis-à-vis the tragic loss of our founder and Chief Executive, and the presumably long-term loss of the services of your wife, it would be foolhardy at this juncture to dismiss Steve and Sarah.”
“So basically, you’re going to ignore your own policies for expediency?” I said, “Or is it that there were more of you involved than just the two I know about?”
“Mark,” he said, “I don’t think taking that attitude is conducive to anything.”
“I see,” I said, “all right, Bill, thank you.”
I hung up, sat down and spent the next half hour deep in thought, before I came to a decision, walked into the master bedroom and rooted through Sarah’s top drawer until I found what I was looking for. Sarah’s telephone number book.
I found it after a little searching, the number for the Illingworth house.
When I dialled it, it was answered on the third ring.
“Illingworth household, Melanie speaking,” a female voice answered.
I knew, from company events that the chambers had a sixteen-year-old daughter named Melanie, who was currently a student at their local sixth-form college, so I asked to speak to her mother.
“May I ask who is speaking?” she asked and I told her.
“Oh just a moment Mr Benton, I’ll get her.”
She came on the line less than a minute later.
“Mr Benton, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“Good afternoon Mrs Illingworth,” I said, “may I start by offering my condolences?”
“You may,” she replied, “but it would be a waste, I am quite frankly glad to be rid of him.”
“I take it my wife wasn’t his first?” I asked.
“Not by a long chalk,” she replied, “how are you holding up?”
“I’m beginning to think that I could say the same about my wife,” I said.
“I’ve requested that the company terminate both my wife and the one other man I know she was cheating with,” I explained, “but they are reluctant to lose another key member of the management team at this point. But what I wanted to ask you is, would I be right that your husband left you the company?”
“He did,” she replied, “but I’ve appointed Bill Chambers to run it.”
“Would you be interested in selling it?” I asked.
“Well, I have no real interest in it,” she said, “but to be honest it’s been running at a loss for years.”
“I know,” I said, “I’ve seen the annual reports and accounts for the last six,” I said, “with the right management team, it could be profitable though. The salaries and bonuses paid to top management are what has crippled it. I feel that as the largest client I have a vested interest in its future.”
“Then make me an offer,” she said.
“Three million pounds,” I said.
“Is that cash?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied.
“Mr Benton, Mark, you just bought yourself a company,” she said, “if you’d care to join me down there, I’ll make the announcement.”
“I can do that, but I need to be at my son’s school by three to pick him up.”
“How about one-thirty, that gives you an hour to get to the office, an hour to make the announcement and you should be able to get back for him. You have two children, don’t you?”
“Well to be honest,” I said, “my wife has two, right now, I don’t know how many I have if any.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“I have reason to believe that the children may not be mine,” I said flatly, “no evidence at the moment, but a strong reason to believe. Unfortunately, my wife won’t talk about it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Benton,” she said, “if there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you,” I said, “I hope I never have to take you up on that.”
I arrived a little before the appointed time and was not surprised to find an unfamiliar car in the car park, parked in R Illingworth’s space, I assumed it was his wife’s car.
There was only one receptionist on duty and she was one I didn’t recognise.
“Good afternoon,” she said, “how may I help you.”
“I’m Mark Benton,” I said, “I’m here to meet Mrs Illingworth.”
She looked down at her desk, then back up at me.
“Ah, yes,” she said, "the meeting is up at the Cafeteria
“Thanks, I know where it is, I’ll just go up,” I said and headed for the lift.
“Oh,” she said, “Mr Chambers said he’d like to see you first.”
I looked pointedly at my watch.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’d be late for my meeting.”
I took the lift to the third floor where the cafeteria was. The room was pretty crowded, and on the small, raised platform at one end sat Melissa Illingworth, alone, a second chair beside her. The Executive team, apart from Bill Chambers, were arranged on chairs in the front row with the rest of the staff seated behind them.
Melissa waved me over to her, indicating the other chair.
As I sat down, Bill Chambers came in, glared at me and then took a seat with his colleagues.
“Good,” she announced to the assembly, “we have our largest client with us, we can begin.”
The minor hum of conversation died away completely.
“As you are all no doubt aware, on his recent, under the circumstances, less than sad demise, my husband left his shares in the company to me. You are probably aware that my husband’s shares were the only ones with voting rights in the company, all the other, ‘special’ shares were there purely to circumvent taxes on executive bonuses.”
The executives looked sheepish, the rest of the assembly began to look at each other in surprise.
“As you are all probably also aware, I have no interest in running the company, as a result of which I have decided to sell my shares,” she went on.
The executives got a hungry look in their eyes, as though they smelled an opportunity.
She looked down at them.
“You can get that look off your face gentlemen, and lady,” she said, “I already have a buyer. I have today agreed to sell the company to Mark Benton, our largest client. How much for is none of your business. However, because of due diligence, that transaction will take some time. I am therefore, asking Mr Benton to accept the post of Executive President of the board of directors, effective immediately, with full executive powers, my proxy in both board and shareholder’s meetings and all matters to do with the company.”
Now the executive team looked panicked.
She looked at me and I nodded my assent.
“Good,” she said, “now any questions?”
One of the executives, whose name I couldn’t immediately remember, stood up, a tall well-built man with a head of thick white hair stood up.
“What happens to our bonus package?” he asked.
I looked at him.
“I’ll be holding an executive meeting first thing tomorrow morning,” I answered, “all executive questions will be answered then, any questions from the staff?”
There were none.
“Very well then,” I said, “my first action as Executive President is to declare this meeting closed and to call an Executive Board meeting at ten am tomorrow in the board room. Who has been taking minutes of this?”
There was a young woman, Pamela something, I remembered, seated at a small table at the side.
“Very well, could you type them up, and, before I leave, let me have the accounts for the last three years and all minutes of board and shareholder’s meetings for the last ten years,” I asked her.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Your office?” Melissa asked.
I nodded and followed her out of the room.
As we approached the door of what had been Reggie Illingworth’s office, I was amused to see a workman screwing a wooden plate to the door with my name in gold letters, above my new title.
“Pretty sure of me, weren’t you?” I said.
“I just worked on the principle that you wouldn’t turn down an opportunity for revenge,” she said, “I know I wouldn’t.”
“Even without revenge,” I said, “it’s still potentially a good deal for me. I’ve seen the accounts every year for the last three years, I know what shape the company is in, despite the fact that your husband and his band of merry men have been bleeding it dry. I’ll make it a success again.”
“I hope you do, but please, make it a priority to get rid of the nest of vipers,” she said, “for me as well as for you.”
“I have a feeling it won’t take much,” I said, “I was watching them as you made your announcement.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I announced.
It was the workman.
“The job’s finished, missis,” he said, “who wants the keys?”
“Mr Benton,” Melissa said, “thank you.”
He left after handing me three sets of keys.
“Three sets?”
“One for the main door, one for the side door from Pamela’s office and one for the executive toilet. As of now, you’re the only one who can get into this room when it’s locked. You’ll find the fitted locks unpickable, and keys can only be cut by the manufacturer,” she said, “and Mr Benton.”
“Mark, please,” I said.
“Only if I’m Melissa,” she replied, “Mark, you can trust Pamela.”
“Truly?” I asked.
“She’s the one who has been feeding me information on what my husband’s been up to,” she said, “and Mark, if it’s any small consolation, that course in London was to have been his first time with your wife.”
As if on cue, there was a tap on the connecting door and on my ‘come in’ Pamela herself walked in, with a pile of folders.
“The information you asked for, Mr Benton,” she said, placing them on the desk.
“Thank you, Pamela,” I said, “and if we’re going to work together, it’s Mark, please.”
She looked at Melissa.
“It’s OK Pam, you can trust Mark,” she said, “his wife’s one of the victims here. I’ve already told him he can trust you.”
“Are you going to clean up this mess?” Pam asked.
“I’m going to try,” I said.
“Then, I’m in,” she said.
I looked at the two of them, closely.
“Are you two related?” I asked.
“Cousins,” Melissa asked, “although it’s possible that we may be half-sisters.”
“I think I’ll settle for cousins,” I said, “life’s complicated enough as it is.”
They both chuckled at that.
“So, ladies,” I continued, “are you up for helping me fix this?”
“Damn right,” Pamela said, “those scumbags have been pressuring me since I started two years ago.”
“Then let’s see if we can pressure them,” I said.
There was a knock on the door.
“I think it may be better if you ladies retired to Pam’s office.” I said, which they did before I called out ‘come in.’
The door opened and my friend Steve walked in.
“All right you bastard, what are you plotting?” he asked.
“Me?” I replied, “what gives you the impression that I’m plotting something?”
“Why else would you buy the company?” he asked.
“Because it’s a good investment, perhaps?” I replied.
“With the losses it makes every year?” he spat.
“But we both know why those losses exist, don’t we,” I said, “and this is what is going to happen now. You are going to sit there, and I am going to pass you a piece of paper and a pen. You are going to write out your resignation, effective immediately. You will confirm that your resignation is entirely of your own free will, and you have not been coerced. You will then hand me your keys, your desk will be cleared out and you will be escorted from the building, anything found in your desk will be returned to you after we have established that it is your sole property.”