Infidelity Quartet: 1

As their years of matrimony went by, Eleanor knew it was only their innate conservatism that kept she and Jerry together.

On their wedding night -- having seen too many other marriages ossify and reach that state where they continue only because neither party can bring themselves to cry "Stop!" -- Eleanor instituted an annual "Summit Conference" at which she and Jerry would discuss every aspect of their partnership, pledging to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and assess whether to go on.

On eight subsequent wedding anniversaries the summits passed without hitch -- a few minor disagreements, occasional tears, reconciliation and mutual forgiveness. It was an emotionally taxing event, but it succeeded in keeping their relationship alive. But on the ninth anniversary Eleanor found herself glossing over her dissatisfactions and she suspected Jerry did the same. By their twelfth year, the summit conference amounted to little more than "It's been a good year, hasn't it darling?" "Yes, darling, here's to the next." Clink.

If she'd had the courage -- or cared enough -- she knew she would have been more honest, more open. After their fourteenth year together that honesty could only have said "No, it hasn't been a good year. It's been an entirely tedious year. And for all that you can be very sweet you're basically a tedious person. And every time you begin to drone on again about some dreary newspaper article or sporting event, or slurp your soup in front of the TV, or cut your toenails in bed, or turn over and go to sleep without kissing me goodnight, I become ever-more painfully aware of what a waste of time this marriage has become, and ever-more disgusted with myself that I've let it come to this and still seem unable to call it off before it gets any worse." But of course such a statement had become impossible.

On their fifteenth anniversary they went to the theatre and ate at an expensive restaurant; and, back at home, rolled over and went to sleep without kissing each other goodnight. Neither so much as mentioned the summit conferences, and the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth remained unspoken.

To herself, Eleanor acknowledged that the summit conferences had been a failure; they depended on both parties' wholehearted participation, and as the passion between them faded neither could summon the conviction to mention its passing.

Jerry began to have affairs; or at least, Eleanor began to notice that he had affairs -- perhaps Jerry was simply more careless about keeping them secret. The first time she smelt an alien perfume on him and noticed that his lips had left an oily pink smudge of lipstick on a coffee cup, she was surprised to find some traces of passion lurking in a forgotten corner of her heart: she was outraged. After he'd turned over and gone to sleep, she lay awake fuming and fretting, weeping silently into her pillow until dawn.

If Jerry noticed her bleary eyes or the damp patch on the pillow in the morning he gave no sign of it. He went serenely off to work, and Eleanor raged and wept all morning. She seriously contemplated killing him, thereby solving all her problems. Or perhaps she would kill herself, perhaps that would draw a flicker of emotion from his stony soul, coming home to find her dead on the table and blood all over the kitchen. No: killing him was the better idea.

By early afternoon the passion ebbed. She found that she didn't really care enough about Jerry himself to care too much about his affairs. By the time he returned from work, she was able to greet him entirely normally. Nothing really had changed; though perhaps she felt just the tiniest bit more contempt for him than before.

As evidence of his infidelities became more frequent, Eleanor found herself wondering about the identities of his mistresses. What poor misguided women would choose Jerry to have a fling with? Surely they could manage better? It wasn't as if there was a shortage of attractive males around -- even a brief tour of the supermarket usually produced two or three handsome young men that Eleanor would gaze wistfully at for a few moments before moving on to the frozen peas -- and it wasn't as if Jerry made up for his mediocre looks with charm: the man had the personality of an aspirin. His partners must be unbalanced -- or at least desperately lacking in taste.

When she thought this way, she would chide herself for being so uncharitable; then add "But he deserves it, the silly bugger..."

One day she decided to follow him, just to see what happened. It was more on a whim than from any strong desire to know; she just thought it might be amusing. Claiming that her car had broken down, she borrowed one from her neighbour Arnold, who had four and never drove any of them, preferring to take taxis everywhere.

She waited outside Jerry's office until his car emerged from the car park. It was surprisingly easy to slip into place behind him at the traffic lights. She'd made herself up to look different and was wearing a new scarf and sunglasses as a disguise, but he never so much as glanced at her, and never noticed he was being followed. Well, thought Eleanor, would you?

The pursuit excited her: it was rather like having an affair herself, only more illicit, somehow, with more edge to it.

After a few minutes drive, Jerry stopped to pick up (Eleanor assumed) his mistress. Pulling up half a block further on, Eleanor watched Jerry get out of the car, greet the woman with a kiss, open the car door for her (hah, she thought, he never does that for me), return to the driver's seat. As his car passed hers she pulled out and resumed pursuit.

From what Eleanor could see, the mistress was, frankly, plain -- and very young, probably no more than eighteen. "Dirty old man!" she said aloud, and had to suppress a fit of giggles.

Jerry took the young lady to dinner at the same restaurant he and Eleanor had visited on their fifteenth anniversary. Giving them a couple of minutes head start, Eleanor followed, and took a table as close to them as she felt she could get away with, facing Jerry's back. She couldn't make out what they were saying, but judging from the girl's face she wasn't missing much. The girl was definitely still in her teens, and several times during the meal Eleanor had to stop herself from laughing out loud at the bimbo expressions she made. Jerry held her hand across the table, murmuring sweet nothings.

I could go over and make a scene, thought Eleanor -- but this was too much fun. Every move the couple made seemed wildly comic. She tried to imagine Jerry's face if he knew she was watching -- and the girl's! -- it was too perfect. Eventually Eleanor had to leave (while the girl had a second portion of chocolate cake) to laugh uncontrollably in the car.

By the time Jerry and the girl emerged, Eleanor had collected herself. She resumed the chase, following the lovers (lovers! the very word was enough to start her giggling again) to a small, seedy-looking hotel in very seedy part of town. Why a hotel? Why not back to her place? Eleanor wondered. Either she's got someone and is cheating on them, or she still lives at home. Better and better.

Scouting around the back of the hotel, she found that with a little tree-climbing she could see into the couple's "love nest" -- another round of giggles followed that thought. She watched enthralled as they clumsily undressed, exchanging kisses as each item of clothing was discarded.

In the distance was the sound of breaking glass and police sirens, but Eleanor was immersed in the scene unfolding in that room. She was amazed at the ineptness of Jerry's lovemaking, and the apparent naivete of the girl. Unclothed, they lay one atop the other on the bed, rolling around uncertainly. As he raised himself up to enter her, his belly sagged horribly, and he seemed to be having trouble maintaining an erection.

"Was this what it was like when we made love? Surely it wasn't this bad?" How did the girl put up with it, seem even to be enjoying it?

Jerry was in her now, thrusting weakly. With each thrust his chest and stomach wobbled, and the girl's breasts matched their movement in grotesque synchronization. A droplet of sweat trickled down Jerry's face and fell onto the girl's stomach.

Eleanor was getting cramp in her hands and knees, and her fingers were stinging in the icy air, but, transfixed by the scene within, she couldn't even move to a more comfortable position, or rub circulation back into her hands.

[Infidelity Quartet: 2]
Posted by matt at October 25, 2003 01:06 AM