Disclaimer: All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older; this is a copyrighted work of fiction.

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Prologue:

After twenty-five years of marriage and two adult children, Alice and Tom Bloss take a vacation to St Monique, South of France, hoping to rejuvenate their relationship. Instead, Alice becomes involved with a reclusive French novelist (Pierre Peyroux) and succumbs to his charm, becoming his mistress.

Tom’s story.

Alice walked from the hotel’s forecourt with Pierre’s arm protectively around her. I watched as she climbed into his blue Rolls-Royce. I waved as the car drove off, but she was too absorbed with Pierre to notice me. She seems to have forgotten about me already. So now she’s out gallivanting with Pierre. It doesn’t bear thinking about what they were doing. SLUT, was the word that came to mind.

Sitting on the hotel’s private nudist beach without Alice just wasn’t the same. Amongst all these beautiful bodies, I felt left out. I noticed most were in pairs or a group of four. So I stood out as a lone single male, attracting unwanted stares. I felt like a peeping Tom. Running recent events through my mind, I became furious with Alice ... this was our holiday, our time to be together in the sun. She manipulated me and did it so smoothly that I was taken unaware. Maybe I was obtuse?

I asked her that very morning point-blank, “Did you and Pierre have sex?”

She looked up at me mischievously. “A lady never tells,” she said, grinning.

Then she made a haunting comment. “Doesn’t it make it more exciting for you that you don’t know? It makes it more exciting for me, not to tell you. Isn’t that what this holiday was all about? Making our love life more exciting? Didn’t we have the best sex ever?”

I remember Alice’s final words as she walked out the suite door with her luggage. She stopped, turned, and looked back at me with a smirk.

“Darling,” she spoke, as if explaining to some stupid child. “I’ve known you for almost thirty years. I’ve only just met Pierre. It’s a new relationship, it needs to mature and strengthen, ensuring he’s happy.”

I was too dumbfounded to answer her.

She stared at me. “Sweetheart, promise me you won’t worry?”

Now sitting here on the beach, it finally dawned on me she was trading UP.

The sex we had hours earlier was a goodbye ‘FUCK’, completing her betrayal of our marriage. Like a Judas kiss.

I decided there was no reason to stay in France any longer. I couldn’t wait to return to work, colleagues, friends, and familiar English faces. To some form of normality and the security of our home in London.

What am I thinking about? It’s not her HOME anymore, ‘FUCKING BITCH’!

On Monday at Prescott & Wharton* accounting firm, they all asked how the holidays were?

“Great,” I said.

Then, explained by sheer chance, “Alice signed up a famous French author. She is now consulting with him in Paris.” Not saying, ‘And the lying, cheating bitch was having an affair on the side.’ That was enough to explain why my wife was gone, and they accepted it.

So I jumped into my work, yep, early mornings and late nights, anything to keep my mind off Alice and her blatant lying. ‘At least numbers don’t lie!’

The following week I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer. I wanted to find out where I stood in a divorce. He told me it would be a 50/50 split. I had decided to keep the house as it was my family home, and was willing to buy her out. So I asked him to go ahead and prepare the papers but wait until I heard from Alice.

He suggested I change my mobile phone number as well; best keep all contact to a minimum. Next, open a new credit card account in your name and have your salary deposited there. Leave all other monies where they are. And finally, change your life insurance beneficiary and will. Wow, what a mess.

It was only a short time before my work colleagues heard about Alice and my separation. Of course, I got the usual round of condolences from the women.

The guys slapped me on the back, saying, “There are plenty of fish in the sea. Come down to the pub Friday. Lots of lonely girls there.”

“Thanks,” I said, but then, thinking, “Yes, twenty to thirty-year-olds, they don’t want an old guy like me!”

While waiting to get my hair cut, browsing a magazine, I saw a picture of Pierre and Alice at a reception. They looked like the perfect couple. She was just as beautiful as the day I had last seen her. My heart sagged. I was not over her as much as I thought, but she was lost to me now.

Friday night, the guys dragged me to the pub. Some of the women from work were in the lady’s lounge. I bought the second round and then left. Outside the pub, I stopped to watch the small groups of men and women drinking, chatting in a somewhat quieter atmosphere. It brought back a warm feeling of Alice and what we had together many years ago.

On Saturday, while grocery shopping, not looking where I was going, I accidentally ran into a woman, tipping her groceries from the basket. She smiled faintly. Apologising profusely, I helped pick up the items. Then, without further ado, I finished my shopping.

Saturday night, all the dirty dishes were done, clothes washed and on the line, the house vacuumed - and empty. So I gave Mike a ring to see if he wanted to watch the soccer game on the big screen at the pub.

When he answered the phone, I said cheerfully, “Hi Mike, how are you going?”

Getting a somewhat lacklustre response, I carried on, “Want to watch tonight’s game at the pub?”

His answer surprised me, “I’m not allowed to converse with you!”

Stunned, I replied. “ ... WHY?”

“You are in the middle of a divorce with Alice, and I’m told not to get involved,” was his reply.

“Who said Alice and I are getting a divorce?” I growled into the phone.

“Well, Alice has been telling her work colleagues, calling her female friends, and it appears to be a fait accompli,” was his retort.

Astonished by this turn of events, all I could come up with was, “Anyway, regardless of Alice and my relationship, how can you and I watching a soccer match at the pub have any effect?”

“I don’t know, but all her friends feel the same, so don’t bother ringing the other guys. You have been put in limbo until the divorce is finalised. Sorry!” Then unexpectedly, he hung up.

I could not believe what I was hearing. Why was I in the dog house? She is leaving me. I didn’t lie, cheat and fuck around - she did. Well, FUCK THEM ALL. They won’t be getting a Christmas card, ever.

I sat pondering the situation, and the only thing that made sense was ALL my so-called male friends were the husbands of Alice’s female friends. However, after further thought, I realised all my pre-marriage male friends had, over the years, been pushed aside, influenced by Alice’s rhetoric.

I didn’t have any real male friends. Alice had chased them off, and I had let her!

At work on Tuesday, I was making a morning cuppa tea when Helen** entered the tea room.

She was an intelligent young accountant, with a good eye for detail and would go far in the firm. Maybe even a partner someday. As her mentor we had developed a close working relationship since her employment four years ago. She was recently divorced with a young child. Her husband had some serious legal issues.

“Good morning Tom,” she hailed.

“Morning Helen,” I replied.

“Tom, I am attending my cousin’s wedding in three weeks. Would you be my escort?” Helen asked.

I paused for a bit, thinking... ‘She is some twenty years younger than me. I was flattered to think she would want me to escort her. Hell, why not.’

“Yes,” was my reply.

Intermittently over the following weekends, while at the supermarket, the woman whose groceries I had spilled passed each other. Sometimes she is accompanied by children, other times not, but never with her husband. We would nod to each other, merely shopping acquaintances.

My desk phone rang, answering it, I heard Alice’s voice saying, “Hello, Tom.”

My heart started pounding, and I momentarily lost my breath.

Alice repeated, “Hello, are you there, Tom?”

Coming to my senses, I reply, “Yes, just distracted with work papers. What a surprise to hear your voice!”

“Tom, I have been trying to contact you on your mobile, and it’s not responding.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, she continues, “I’ll come right to the point. Have you started divorce proceedings? Pierre wants to get married as soon as possible.”

I paused. Annoyed thinking, ‘Alice was leaving me, not the other way around! Why am I doing all the work?

So I responded, “As you are leaving me, I thought you were going to!”

“No, no, I don’t have the time. However, Pierre suggested as it was an English marriage, it would be easier, done in England, not France,” came her reply.

Then, before I could get a word in, “Listen Tom, I have withdrawn half the funds from our joint savings account. I don’t want the house as I’ll be living in Pierre’s mansion in the South of France.”

To appease her, I said, “Okay, I’ll start organising the divorce papers.”

Thinking, ‘fuck her and Pierre. They can wait another month now! I’m in no hurry.’

“Great,” she said. Then, she recited a mobile number for her lawyer.

“Okay, gotta go bye!” And before I could say another word, she hung up.

“FUCKING BITCH,” I said out loud to an empty phone. Heads turned in my direction.

I had to leave my office quickly. Knowing me all too well, Helen saw the look of anger on my face and asked in a concerned voice, “Tom, are you alright?”

I replied, trying to keep my voice calm, “I’m going to have an early lunch.”

I left the building with steam coming out of my ears. I decided not to return to work. I couldn’t face all the looks or questions. So I walked and walked with no real direction in mind.

Hearing Alice’s voice again brought back fresh memories of the South of France and that frantic day of trying to find her. Finally, I caught up with Alice and, of course, Pierre at the Cannes film festival.

Seeing me in the crowd, Alice approached, saying, “Tom, how clever of you to track me down. You came all this way to see me?”

“Of course,” I said, “you are my wife. When are you coming back?”

She burst out laughing. “Darling, Pierre’s book has been made into a film, and we’re off to the premiere. I couldn’t possibly come with you now.”

In the same breath, “I’ve really got to go now.” She gave me a peck on the cheek, then ran back to Pierre’s Rolls Royce. Alice waved and blew me a kiss as the car drove off.

Then, that arrogant French man espousing the virtues of a wife having an affair with a celebrity, like some noble idea, in the French tradition! And then he had the gall to say, “Ah, you English. You have no idea how love works!”

I wondered how ignominious he would be if it were his wife.

As I walked, the more my imagination ran wild with pornographic images of Alice and Pierre together, like a strobe light taking snaps of real-time events.

Alice kissing him ... Kneeling, sucking his cock ... Smiling up at him ... Her lying on the bed ... Her arms open, inviting an embrace ... Her legs spread open wide ... Welcoming him into her inner depth ... Her arms wrapped around him ... Kissing deeply ... Reaching their climax ... Looking lovingly into each other’s eyes ... Cuddling, caressing ... As lovers do with words of endearment.

I stopped at that point and vomited my meagre lunch into the gutter. So lost in my thoughts, I was surprised when I arrived at my home in the late afternoon.

That evening, after I had calmed down, sitting in my favourite chair with a Pimms and dry in my hand, my mind wandered back to a happier time when I first met Alice - it was at University. She was beautiful, sexy, intelligent, and had a warm and bubbly personality. Because of the age difference of one year, she was starting her studies. I was in my second year. However, my degree was four years, and Alice’s was three, so we would graduate together. The next three years were busy for both of us, but we managed to date regularly and became a couple by our final year.

After receiving my economics degree, I started working at a London accounting firm, Prescott & Wharton (P&W). With her degree in journalism, Alice landed a job working for White and Stanford (White’s), one of the bigger London publishing houses, as a junior. She had dreams of becoming the top Literary Agent. Speaking fluently in French, Italian and German, she was attached to the small European division, rapidly becoming indispensable and regularly travelling to Europe.

Our relationship went from strength to strength, so we purchased my parent’s modest three-bedroom brick house in an inner London suburb, close to our workplaces. Mum and Dad were retiring to the Cornwall coast. Six months on, Alice and I married. We both had the same life objectives to succeed in our chosen careers. On a personal level, we were happy, especially in our sex lives. We put having children on hold for two years to allow Alice to establish herself. My goal was a partnership.

The years flew by quickly, and then both our children were at University. We had become empty nesters. Our sex life was still relatively active, but the magic spark was missing. We knew each other’s bodies too well. Sex had become ho-hum. Then I planned a vacation to the South of France. I had hoped it would stimulate our sex life. But in the end, it had the opposite effect, and everything changed.

Now she was living a glamorous lifestyle. The mistress of a noted celebrity, romanced, wined, dined, and loved. I’m out in the wilderness, lost, cold, feeling sorry for myself and unloved.

All I have left is my ‘FUCKing’ career!

A week later, I was at the church wedding with Helen, who looked young and beautiful. She certainly looked a lot more attractive out of office work clothes and in an evening dress.

I complimented her on her attire and radian look. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she replied.

We danced and socialised. It was a great evening out, taking my mind off the impending divorce. As the night came to a close, we sat watching the younger generation dance and make merry.

Helen tapped my hand. I focused and realised I had been off brooding again.

She said, “You were off with the pixies.”

All too quickly replied, “I was thinking about a work account.”

But I could see I had not fooled her. She knew I was thinking about Alice.

Helen told me she was moonlighting as a singer-pianist once a month at a Gentlemen’s Club with a guy named Peter.

I asked the obvious question, “So, why isn’t he here with you tonight?”

“Oh, he’s married. We only sing together, unfortunately.” came Helen’s sad reply.

We were both in denial.

Towards the end of the night, I thanked Helen for the invitation saying, “It’s been a long day. I’m heading home and have enjoyed your company very much this evening.”

I offered to give Helen a lift home. However, she had hotel accommodation for the night. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, not ready for another commitment. What’s more, not even sure one was on offer - that’s how out of date I was.

The divorce went through four months later on a Thursday. I felt very depressed! My adult children phoned to see how I was handling it.

Of course, I said “okay”, but I wasn’t.

It appeared they were in regular contact with their mother and knew all the divorce details and her glorious life with Pierre. My eldest son suggested I stay with his family over the weekend. Replying, “I will get back to you.”

Looking in the mirror Friday morning, I appeared old on the eve of fifty. However, I didn’t feel old mentally or physically. Without Alice, I had been eating healthier and much less, losing fifteen pounds, most from around my waist and a lot from my face and neck. Cycling five miles to and from work every day has helped. But the mirror doesn’t lie! My hair was thinning - the comb-over was aging me and that needed to change. Bugger work today. I was off to the hairdresser for a change of style.

Then to Harrods for some new clothes, dress pants, shirts, sports coats, and new shoes - stuff the cost. I wanted to follow in Cal’s footsteps from ‘Crazy Stupid in Love’. After all, my life had changed dramatically, as well.

Boy, were the guys at work surprised when I walked in on Monday. Helen gave me an appraising look, and some of the single ladies gave me a second glance. The married ones quietly gave me the thumbs up.

I was about to start my weekly Saturday afternoon grocery shopping, when I noticed the woman from the supermarket. She struggled to drag a large cardboard box across the shopping centre parking lot. I ran to her aid and helped load the box into her car.

When she looked at my face, I could see a look of fear or confusion in her eyes, which quickly turned to recognition. Her eyes did a quick run up and down my body. Then, an appreciative smile showed on her face. She offered to buy me a coffee, and having plenty of time on my hands, I accepted. We introduced ourselves in the plaza cafe; her name was Mary. I discerned she was in her late thirties and very attractive.

The box, she explained, was a bike for her youngest daughter, who was turning seven. We chatted for quite a while. She was divorced and had two daughters, the eldest being ten. Even with our age difference, we had many things in common. We were of the same religious denomination, had similar tastes in music and movies, and even voted for the same political party. Looking around, I noticed the coffee shop was near empty and realised it was after three in the afternoon and closing time.

Back at her car, she offered me dinner with her family at seven. I gratefully accepted, having not purchased any groceries. I was almost out of food and keen to spend more time with Mary. Otherwise, I would be alone in the house, just watching the cricket, which we were losing. So I popped back into the shopping centre and purchased a flower bouquet and a bottle of red and white wines.

Arriving at Mary’s flat at the appropriate time, I offered her the flowers at the door, and she blushed and thanked me. Leading me into the house, “I’ll put these in water and place them on the table. Put those bottles in the fridge, and we’ll have them with dinner.”

Back in the kitchen, Mary offered me a glass of wine from an already-opened bottle. I wandered around the small lounge room, sipping my wine while she finishes preparing dinner.

Looking around, I asked, “Where are your children?”

“Kate and Robyn decided to stay overnight with my Mum,” Mary responded.

While waiting for dinner to be served, I did my bit by putting the bike together. It turned out to be quite a challenge, a relief for Mary as she had no idea how hard it would be to assemble.

During dinner, I told Mary, “My divorce from Alice concluded a month ago. I was never sure if Alice was ultimately going to leave me. But in the end, she insisted! She had found the new love of her life and wanted to marry him.” I paused...

Mary noticed Tom had a faraway look in his eyes and waited until he returned.

Then she said, “After any long relationship, it still hurts.”

I nodded and replied, “Have you heard of the French author Pierre Peyroux?”

“Why yes, hasn’t he just come out of seclusion, accompanied by a beautiful woman?”

The penny dropped, and Mary understood the ‘beautiful woman’ was Tom’s ex-wife.

Now I couldn’t stop the tears as they ran down my cheeks.

Mary jumped up quickly. I also stood triggered by her sudden reaction. She came around the table, putting her arms around my chest and hugging me with her head against my shoulder. I gently wrapped my arms around her shoulders, and we embraced.

I sobbed into her shoulder, mumbling, “You must think I’m a fool, blubbering like this.”

Standing back, Mary responded, “You’re not over her, are you?”

I gave an impeachable nod.

She went on to say, “But you thought you were. No one can hide their feelings by burying them deep. Sooner or later, they finally surface.”

We were standing arm in arm, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, for a brief moment. Then Mary prompted, and we sat on the lounge chair and held each other for a while, then just held hands.

Then, softly, I told Mary about Alice and how we met at Uni, our careers, marriage, and two children. Finally, I describe the disastrous trip to the South of France, where Alice betrayed me.

Mary and I held each other in a firm embrace, and we both slipped into a wine-induced sleep in each other’s arms.

Waking around midnight, I discovered my arm still around Mary’s shoulders, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder. A most comfortable feeling of tranquillity came over me. I felt content for the first time in months, enjoying the female-male physical contact.