Read Online Fools for Lust by Maxim Jakubowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maxim Jakubowski
Ads: Link
begged. We agreed on a final fuck the next evening. Sentimentally, I even asked her to wear the same outfit she had on the first time we met. Well, if this was to be the last time ...
That afternoon, I posted the letter.
It was after the final postal pickup from that particular letterbox. Mark wouldnât get it until the morning after next. Or later if the mail room at his newspaper was slow in distributing things.
Which left me one evening to make love to her so well, so badly that she would change her mind and stay with me for ever. I had to find the imagination, the words to sway her. Usually, I work well against deadlines. A sad gamble, I realise now.
She never appeared for our clandestine assignment.
There was no answer from her phone. They had no answer machine, but even if they had I wasnât in a position to leave a message.
A few days went by without news from her.
Puzzled, saddened, I tried to phone her at work. Her private line was dead. I hesitated, then decided to phone Mark at the newspaper.
âDid you get my letter?â
He sounded genuinely puzzled.
âWhat letter? Who are you?â
He must have thought I was some madman, some crazy guy with a bad grudge against business journalists.
Not only had my letter not reached him, but he wasnât even married, let alone living with any woman right now.
âWhoever you are, youâve got the wrong man, mate ...â he concluded.
I slammed the phone down before he did.
Felt cold sweat all over.
I phoned directory enquiries to get the number of the cable television company where she worked. How could she have pretended she was married to Mark? It made no sense at all. Made the reservations she harboured throughout our affair meaningless.
The woman on the switchboard swore blind they had no one called Callie working there. Whether under her married name or her maiden one. Sensing my increasing desperation, she even checked through the list of all the freelancers who occasionally used a desk at the company.
âNo. Iâm absolutely certain. She does not work here,â she assured me.
âAre you positive?â I asked again. âIt is so important.â
âThere ainât that many of us here, you see. I know everyone. Nobody answers your description. Are you sure youâre not confused? There are a lot of independent TV companies in the area.â
I had often accompanied her in the morning to the building, seen her from afar walk through the buildingâs portals.
I spent the day being a dedicated private eye. Checking things I should have investigated before. Local property registers: the South London mews house I had first seen her leaving, luminous, was in Markâs name only. Caught a cab to Somerset House to check again on the damn marriage certificate where Iâd learned about the Cambridge college chapel. Yes, it was there: eight years ago, maiden name Callie Edwin. Collected my thoughts. Then visited another room in the large official building. And found the divorce papers: Mark and Callie had separated four years ago.
The hole in the pit of my stomach began twisting its spear through my heart. Was her name even Callie?
Who was she?
A million questions whirled frantically through my brain.
But the main one was why?
Why, Callie?
I went home late, torn apart by conflicting emotions. My wife was still awake. Angry, inquisitorial. She had received a letter in the mail that morning accusing me of having an affair. She had repeatedly phoned me throughout the day, but it was always engaged, and in my mixed-up state I hadnât bothered to answer her messages.
âWho sent you the letter?â I asked.
âThatâs not the point,â she answered. âIs it true?â
âWho wrote the damn letter?â I shouted back at her.
âSo it is true,â she remarked.
âWho?â I asked her again.
âSomeone called Callie,â she said.
âYes, itâs
That afternoon, I posted the letter.
It was after the final postal pickup from that particular letterbox. Mark wouldnât get it until the morning after next. Or later if the mail room at his newspaper was slow in distributing things.
Which left me one evening to make love to her so well, so badly that she would change her mind and stay with me for ever. I had to find the imagination, the words to sway her. Usually, I work well against deadlines. A sad gamble, I realise now.
She never appeared for our clandestine assignment.
There was no answer from her phone. They had no answer machine, but even if they had I wasnât in a position to leave a message.
A few days went by without news from her.
Puzzled, saddened, I tried to phone her at work. Her private line was dead. I hesitated, then decided to phone Mark at the newspaper.
âDid you get my letter?â
He sounded genuinely puzzled.
âWhat letter? Who are you?â
He must have thought I was some madman, some crazy guy with a bad grudge against business journalists.
Not only had my letter not reached him, but he wasnât even married, let alone living with any woman right now.
âWhoever you are, youâve got the wrong man, mate ...â he concluded.
I slammed the phone down before he did.
Felt cold sweat all over.
I phoned directory enquiries to get the number of the cable television company where she worked. How could she have pretended she was married to Mark? It made no sense at all. Made the reservations she harboured throughout our affair meaningless.
The woman on the switchboard swore blind they had no one called Callie working there. Whether under her married name or her maiden one. Sensing my increasing desperation, she even checked through the list of all the freelancers who occasionally used a desk at the company.
âNo. Iâm absolutely certain. She does not work here,â she assured me.
âAre you positive?â I asked again. âIt is so important.â
âThere ainât that many of us here, you see. I know everyone. Nobody answers your description. Are you sure youâre not confused? There are a lot of independent TV companies in the area.â
I had often accompanied her in the morning to the building, seen her from afar walk through the buildingâs portals.
I spent the day being a dedicated private eye. Checking things I should have investigated before. Local property registers: the South London mews house I had first seen her leaving, luminous, was in Markâs name only. Caught a cab to Somerset House to check again on the damn marriage certificate where Iâd learned about the Cambridge college chapel. Yes, it was there: eight years ago, maiden name Callie Edwin. Collected my thoughts. Then visited another room in the large official building. And found the divorce papers: Mark and Callie had separated four years ago.
The hole in the pit of my stomach began twisting its spear through my heart. Was her name even Callie?
Who was she?
A million questions whirled frantically through my brain.
But the main one was why?
Why, Callie?
I went home late, torn apart by conflicting emotions. My wife was still awake. Angry, inquisitorial. She had received a letter in the mail that morning accusing me of having an affair. She had repeatedly phoned me throughout the day, but it was always engaged, and in my mixed-up state I hadnât bothered to answer her messages.
âWho sent you the letter?â I asked.
âThatâs not the point,â she answered. âIs it true?â
âWho wrote the damn letter?â I shouted back at her.
âSo it is true,â she remarked.
âWho?â I asked her again.
âSomeone called Callie,â she said.
âYes, itâs
Similar Books
