Chapter 3: Burning Blouses

I comforted Betty.

At least I think I did. I assured her that I had no plans whatsoever to leave her. That I loved her more than ever. But that I just felt I wasn't good enough for her anymore.

That twist had come to me out of the blue. It had been close to my true feelings. So close in fact that I at first didn't even see how it might goad her on. It was a very subtle way to tell her about my fears.

I held my breath watching her response.

She protested. Then she started kissing my chest and belly before taking my soft cock into her mouth. It took her long to get me hard again. But she never let go, even when I at last came in her mouth.

After that it took me a long time to find sleep. Why had she sucked me, even to the end, and swallowed, too? She hadn't done that for quite some time. A long time.

Damn... I really must be going crazy. Here I lay awake wondering about one of the most perfect blow jobs I'd ever had.

What did it prove? Did it prove anything?

How should I see Betty's behavior last night? Was it guilt? Or was it determination? Was it to cover up her infidelity? She never answered. She only told me she loved me.

Loved me, she said. Why did that sound less like a statement and more like an incantation? It must be me.

A mess it was. A pretty mess.

I was way past the moment where I could ask straight away if she was cheating on me. She'd had opportunities enough to tell me and she hadn't. On the other hand, if she did not cheat, would she stay after I accused her? How could she live with the idea that I distrust her?

I had to have proof.

"Go see what I didn't see..."

I knew now that the sneaking distrust would as certainly destroy our marriage as the quick proof of her betrayal. It might be a much slower process, but probably even more painful just because of that.

Last night our love had been missing. I may have been the only one feeling that. But I had tasted the horror of it. The loneliness. The bitter coldness it oozed. And I knew I could not go on like that.

But how to get proof?

Proof of what?

Finding them in bed together would be proof of her cheating, of course. But would not finding her in bed with him be proof of her innocence? Did I have to watch her 24/7 to be sure? And would that tell me anything about the past?

I did not want proof of her guilt. I wanted proof of her innocence. Call it denial, I call it love. You might even call it stupidity or blindness.

I'd still call it love.

I considered hiring a detective. It made me shudder with apprehension. It also made me feel ridiculous. Images of shabby, whiskey-gobbling raincoat-wearers came to mind. Ah shit... was this really me thinking? A Private Eye? Wake up, man. This is Betty we are talking about. My Libby, remember? Besides, do they really exist outside these cheap pocketbooks from the fifties? Mickey Spillane? Raymond Chandler?

Give me a break.

But I had to know. I needed to know what she did, working late. To know if there was business on her business trips. And what kind of business. I had to know how long her lunch breaks were and how much of it was lunch.

So I started digging into her schedules. I found out there wasn't one. There was no system in her late nights. The travels really seemed business-linked, at least in her reasoning and the stories she brought home. She talked about her destinations and the clients and projects involved. As often as not her boss was involved. Sometimes she went alone, sometimes with other colleagues. She only rarely went with him.

The lunches, well, I'd have to follow her in a random fashion. Paul had seen them at the Hilton. I might start there, but why would they go there more often than elsewhere? Maybe because they liked the place?

Playing detective is easy in stories. But reality has a lot of ways to mess things up. Amateur-PIs can't rely on professional experience, high tech gadgets or even time. They can only rely on chance, accidents, coincidence. Luck.

Paul seeing them had been such an accident. It could happen again, of course. So could lightning strike twice in the same place. Or someone could win the jackpot twice.

But, you know, it happens. I know it does. It happened to me. And I still don't know if I should call it lightning or the jackpot.

A bit of both, I guess.

It was a morning in May.

Someone called me. He had free tickets for a concert in Central Park, the next week. Before accepting them I had to know if Betty would be free that evening, so I phoned her at work. I got her secretary. She wasn't in, she said. I asked if I could reach her somewhere. I knew I could always call her cell phone, but I suddenly wanted to know where she was.

The girl said she was not to be disturbed.

I laughed and told her I was her husband. To my annoyance she was adamant. She had her instructions, she said. I really got pissed when I heard myself explain that it was important I'd get her. Here I was begging an office girl to get my wife on the phone, dammit.

"Okay," I said. "I'll see her at the office during lunchtime. Tell her to wait for me."

That was when she told me Betty wasn't at the office, but with a client and would spend lunchtime with him too. No, she could not tell me where. I paused, thinking.

"Please give me Robert Mancini," I asked.

"Mr. Mancini isn't in either," she answered.

She did not say that there was a link between their absences. But funny enough, there suddenly was one in my brain. My poor paranoia-ridden brain.

An hour later it was still there.

I had by then tried Betty's cell phone twice, but she never answered. It seemed shut down, understandably when she was in a conference.

I felt silly.

My thoughts seemed stuck in a swirling slush that took them round and round in a muddy maelstrom. And yes, circles have a tendency to take you exactly where you don't want to go: where you already were.

So I told Judy I didn't feel too great and left. I felt her eyes bore into my back, but she said nothing.

The Hilton was as Hiltons go.

A huge shining marble lobby, a wood paneled reception, slick and friendly people. Yes, Mr. Mancini had booked a business suite, but of course they would not tell me which one. I said I had a message, could I phone? I could.

Mancini's voice was businesslike, so was mine. It took us two minutes to settle that I was an oaf who seemed to be calling the wrong Mancini. It gave me a lot of seconds of silence when I acted as if I was searching for my information. In reality I used them to probe the silences for back ground sounds.

I had no luck. Or was I lucky? What did I prefer to hear?

It was right before lunchtime. I went into the restaurant, looking for a secluded spot. There was a trellis, overgrown with almost convincing artificial greenery. I took a New York Times to hide behind and waited.

A minute has sixty seconds.

But there are all kinds of seconds. The ones my clock used that afternoon were the laziest crawlers in the universe. They dragged their sticky feet. I could almost hear them grunt.

What felt like an hour later, the room had filled up with guests until only two tables were still free. Two small and cozy tables for two people each. One of them had a reservation ticket.

I felt pretty stupid.

Why would they come in here? If they really used the room for fucking, they might as well have ordered room service. And if they were with a client, they might well have taken them out for lunch. From here I could not see into the lobby.

Then again, Paul had seen them have lunch in here. At least, that was what he said. So I waited a while longer. To no avail. I waved the waiter closer and paid for my strategic coffees. Before leaving the hotel, I went to the men's room and had a pee.

On my return I had to pass through the restaurant to reach the elevators down to the lobby and exit. That's when I saw them. They had not yet reached their table. They lingered at the entrance to learn where their table would be. Betty stood very close to the man whom he knew was Robert Mancini, her boss.

He was about forty-five, looking tanned and healthy. He also was tall and dark in the famous Mediterranean way. I had met him often at functions. I liked him, always had.

I saw Betty rise to tiptoes and whisper something in his ear. Her hand cupped his chin. They both laughed. It was nothing, really. To me it was everything.

My heart sank, causing a nauseous dizziness.

I had walked innocently into the restaurant, standing in full sight. The next moment Betty saw me. A huge smile washed over her face. She pointed me out to Robert. Then she ran over and hugged me. We kissed.

"Cheri! What a nice surprise! What brings you here?" she cried, after we separated.