Chapter 1

I discovered my wife's infidelity the way most men do ... she told me she was divorcing me. I will admit it came as a bit of a surprise as I had thought we were the ideal couple. Our love life seemed normal enough and Diane didn't seem to be out of the house any more than I would expect. I was pretty busy at work, but I don't think you could describe me as inattentive at home. Anyway, she presented me with her decision, two suitcases of my clothes, the information that I had reservations at the nearest Moto-Lodge for the next two nights, and that her boyfriend was moving in that night, so I had better skedaddle. A fine start to my weekend.

Now I'm quite sure there are those amongst you who will say that I should have dug-in, turfed her out on her arse, and beaten the crap out of lover-boy, but you have to remember that at this stage I was completely off balance. I loaded my cases into the car and left in a complete daze. I probably shouldn't have been driving but I didn't hit anything, or kill anyone, en route to the hotel.

I booked in and went to my room. It was quite nice, I thought. A three quarter bed and a large double, tea and coffee, small kettle, TV, a small settee, and en-suite bathroom with shower over. The walls were an acceptable shade of beige with the colour being injected by the bedding, curtains and soft furnishings. There were the usual pieces of what I call "furniture" art on the wall. The perfect, bland, setting that will not annoy anyone except the most rabid design freaks. I was quite happy with the room. It was pleasant and functional and did nothing to increase my distress.

Now, some would have cried, some would have ranted and raged, some would have rolled onto the bed and lain in stunned silence. I undressed. I took a nice hot shower. I dressed in clean clothes. I left the room, drove to a local inn and had a very passable meal.

I found a local shop and selected some bottled water, (I wasn't going to fill the kettle from the tap in the bathroom, very few hotels pipe fresh water direct to the rooms and you never know what has fallen into the water tanks). I looked out at the local off — licence across the road and decided to buy some coke and a carton of orange juice as well. Then I crossed the road and bought a bottle of rum. I would have preferred Guyanan but settled for the God-knows-whose brand as it was the only dark rum they had. I returned to my room and administered my chosen sleeping draught.

After consuming the best part of a bottle of cheap rum, I awoke with a mouth that would kill at a thousand paces, a head that couldn't decide whether it was sore or still drunk, and a stomach that was undecided about its preferred location. I drank half the carton of orange juice as I changed into some sports gear and running shoes. The juice doesn't really help with the hangover but it makes your vomit taste nice. I went for a long run. Mind you, in the state I was in, anything further than my own length, constituted a long run.

I found the tow-path and ran along the canal. After about a mile my stomach decided it wanted out. Anywhere else it would have been pavement pizza, but here I was able to project about a quarter of the way across the canal. It was very wide at this point, honestly! That set the tone for the next mile. I was glad of the orange juice. I turned at the lock gates and returned to the hotel feeling much fresher.

Showered, freshly dressed, and having made good use of my toothpaste and the courtesy mouthwash, I made my way to the dining room. The breakfast was surprisingly comprehensive for a motorway chain hotel. There was fresh grapefruit, fruit juice, cereal, small breads, toast, full English breakfast and copious amounts of tea or coffee. I must admit, I pigged-out. What's more, after the run, everything stayed down.

Replete, I returned to my room. I needed to sort out what I was going to do. Firstly I phoned my solicitor. I know it was Saturday, but since he was also one of my best mates I knew his phone number.

"David, it's Jack."

"Hi Jack," David always greeted me that way, a standing joke. "I know what this call is about and I'm really sorry, but I can't represent you. Diane came to me to file. I told her I couldn't handle the case because of conflict of interest, so I called in my partner and he's dealing with her"

"Shit...".

David cut in before I could say anything more. "Fret not, my dear boy, I wouldn't represent you anyway, divorce law is not our greatest strength. Phone Milla, she is expecting your call."

"Eh, I don't think I have her number here."

"Are you using your mobile?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. I'm not firing on all cylinders, yet."

"Quelle surprise. Do exactly everything Milla tells you and don't hold anything back from her. She is very good but only as good as the information you give her. Give her everything you've got and she'll really cover your arse. I'll see you at the clubhouse in the morning. But don't talk to me about the divorce, it'll only fuck up your case since we're representing Diane."