NATHAN WAS five years old and in his first year at school. He was a bright and inquisitive little lad, and the teachers adored him—but his inquiring mind did sometimes get him into trouble: at times he paid more attention to the world outside than to his lessons. Clearly he’d inherited his curiosity trait from his mother, the career journalist and amateur detective! He also bore some physical like­ness to Jacqui—the small mouth, the aquiline nose, thick eyebrows and wide-spaced eyes—but also there was plenty of Paul about him: the long, almost black, curly hair and the blue eyes.

Jacqui had resumed her job at the Mercury after her career break. The Editor had put her on the features page, alongside a new recruit named Adam Nkomo: originally from Zimbabwe, he explained, and a newcomer to journalism, although he seemed to be in early middle-age. Jacqui was spending a lot of time training him up. It was less satisfying than the investigative work she’d done before moving to Sports, but the Editor was firm about it. Meanwhile Nathan was looked after by a childminder, most days after school, until Jacqui could collect him.

But things were deteriorating back home. Paul was becoming increasingly ‘difficult’. He had smacked Nathan on one or two occasions, despite Jacqui’s pleading with him to desist. He’d made the excuse that Nathan was getting too ‘naughty’ at times, and this was the only way to keep a rein on him.

And Paul’s late evenings were becoming more frequent. Some­times Jacqui thought she could smell drink on him, though he never appeared to be drunk. Still, with him driving home, it was not a good thing. And he was bringing home bottles and cans of booze and helping himself from the fridge from time to time. Jacqui—who never drank—was getting increasingly agitated.

But it was not the worst.

The showdown came one night when Paul rolled into bed at two o’clock in the morning, noticeably smelling of drink. And in addition, of perfume. Not my perfume, Jacqui observed. Inwardly furious, she checked out his car in the morning, before he was awake. After a thorough search she discovered a used condom under the seat. In a rage she stormed back to the bedroom, shook Paul awake and confronted him. “Who is she, Paul? And how long has this been going on?”

“Dunno wha’ you on abou’,” mumbled Paul sleepily.

“Don’t lie to me, Paul. I found the evidence, in your car. Once again, who is she? And how long have you been having this affair? How could you, Paul? What about me? And Nathan?”

Paul shook himself, got up and pushed past Jacqui, making for the bathroom. There was a sound of much water splashing. In a minute or two he was back. He sat on the bed and signed to Jacqui to do the same, but she remained standing.”

“All right,” he muttered. “Yes, a few months now. Girl at work, name of Thelma. I’m really sorry, Jacqui, really really sorry. She led me on, really she did. Couldn’t stop myself. I’ll break it off right now. Today. Promise!”

And for a few weeks Paul did appear to be keeping his promise. He returned home punctually. He helped with the housework, and took his turn at collecting Nathan from the childminder. But one evening Paul was late home once more—and he smelt of the same perfume.

Jacqui said nothing. But next day, in mid-morning, she excused herself from work and drove to Paul’s workplace. There, she marched into Reception and asked:

“Do you have someone called Thelma here? If so, could I see her for a moment?”

The receptionist picked up her phone. “Thelma? Someone to see you in Reception.”

A few moments later a girl appeared, blonde, petite, not much over twenty, in a very short skirt and high heels, heavily made-up and, as Jacqui noticed as she drew near, wearing the same scent that she’d detected on Paul.

“Good morning,” Jacqui began. “May I introduce myself? My name is Jacqueline Coombes. Mrs Jacqueline Coombes, wife of Paul Coombes. And so you must be Thelma. Thelma. The. Little. Trollop. I have a little ‘present’ for you.” And she reached into her handbag and hurled the used condom, the same one she had found in Paul’s car, hurled it accurately straight at Thelma’s face.

Thelma screamed, but Jacqui spun round and bolted out of the building, before the startled receptionist could make a move. In a few seconds she was in her car, floored the accelerator, spun the wheels, and was away.

“Probably been picked up on CCTV—but do I give a damn?! Paul’s the one who brought all this about,” she muttered to herself as she drove back home.

But once she reached the house she flung herself into a chair and burst into tears.

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Later she collected Nathan from school and told him to play quietly in his bedroom.

Paul was home early, in a fury.

“You know what you’ve just done, you little wretch? Almost landed me a formal written warning, you have. And Thelma too. Yes, you just had to let Maureen overhear my name! I could lose my job over this. And then where would we be? And Nathan, where would he be?”

“You brought this upon yourself, that’s all I can say to you, Paul,” replied Jacqui, mustering all the calm she could in her voice. “No use blaming me. I’m not the one who cheated.”

Purple with rage, Paul swore, drew his fist back, and punched Jacqui full on the cheek. She staggered back, thunderstruck, but managed to steady herself against the wall and prevent herself falling. It was a while before she could collect herself.

“That’s it! GET OUT!” And, summoning all her strength, she managed to push Paul out through the front door, slammed it shut and bolted it. “Go to your Thelma, if she satisfies you!” she screamed through the letterbox. She hastened to secure the other doors to the house, but to her relief she heard Paul start up his car and drive off. She heard Nathan crying upstairs; he’d heard the commotion and was frightened. She went up and comforted him for a while.

Jacqui wanted a solicitor, but didn’t know of any. Until she remembered—Mr Peters, who had dealt with Grandad’s Will. Perhaps he did divorce too? She rummaged in some drawers until she found his card, and rang the number. She quickly explained the situation.

“Yes, I remember meeting you, over the Hartmead estate. Very sorry to hear about this,” said Mr Peters. “I don’t do the divorce cases, those are mostly handled by my colleague Joan Cooper. I’ll put you through to her.”

When Joan came on the line, Jacqui related all that had happened. Joan was very tactful and understanding; she suggested an urgent meeting to go over the case. She reminded Jacqui that if Paul was disposed to be violent, and there was a chance of his returning, she would do well to change the locks.

So, as soon as they hung up, Jacqui looked up and called an emergency locksmith. And sure enough, within the hour a small van drew up and the doorbell rang. The locksmith was a woman, much to Jacqui’s relief. She shot a glance at the bruise developing on Jacqui’s face, and nodded in sympathy. She laid a hand on Jacqui’s shoulder, and Jacqui couldn’t refrain from bursting into tears once again.

“Don’t worry, I shan’t ask questions. I know how you must be feeling,” said the locksmith, reassuringly. “We get a lot of these cases. Don’t worry, I’ll be as quick as I can, and then leave you in peace.” And she was as good as her word. After giving Nathan his supper and putting him to bed, Jacqui went to bed early. Late in the evening she thought she heard a car draw up and the front door lock being tried. But a few moments later she heard the same car drive off. She was relieved.

The next few days were spent in discussion with Joan Cooper at the solicitors. Joan, who was considerably younger than Mr Peters, asked Jacqui whether she was really determined to press on with divorce proceedings. Jacqui said yes, she felt the marriage had been breaking down for some time and the situation was now irretriev­able. Did she want to press charges against Paul for assault? Jacqui said no, she felt it just had to be a one-off, provided Paul apologised, and so long as he complied with any conditions set in Court.

They talked about custody. Joan said that there was a reasonable chance that Jacqui would win custody of Nathan—provided there were no undisclosed impediments to her so doing. At this, Jacqui fell silent for a moment. She obviously couldn’t tell Joan about Wistbourne—or could she? She merely stated that on infrequent occasions she may be called away on secret business, sort of Intelligence-related, the details of which she believed she was not at liberty to divulge. These assignments would never last more than a day, and care for Nathan could readily be arranged.

Joan raised her eyebrows at this. It was not normal for clients to withhold pertinent information from their solicitor. Could Jacqui please elaborate?

“I’ll have to ask,” said Jacqui. And they left the discussions at that.

She phoned Helen, whom she hadn’t yet told about the trouble with Paul. Helen was shocked, of course, but sympathetic. She scolded Jacqui a little over her antics at Paul’s workplace, saying it was a bit over-the-top, but understandable considering Jacqui’s state of mind. “But please don’t try anything of the sort again,” she added. “It wouldn’t sound good in the family court—if that’s where you’re headed.”

Jacqui explained that she needed some sort of story to account for her occasional trips to Wistbourne, the trips that led to Paul teasing her so often. “He’s bound to bring the ‘flying saucer’ stuff up in Court, if it ever comes to that. Saying it’s me that started the whole thing going—befuddled by Grandad’s Sci-fi, no doubt. If I’m to get Nathan, I’ll need to counter-attack.”

Helen thought for a while. “You can’t talk about extraterrestrials, of course. You’d be laughed all the way to the loony-bin. I think we can play it that you’re working for MI6—chatting up double-agents from some unfriendly foreign Power. Think ‘John le Carré’. Of course it’d be Top Secret, so you can’t elaborate. And it’s not far from the truth, is it? We’d simply be ‘forgetting’ that the Foreign Power is actually an Extraterrestrial Planet. But leave it with me, I’ll need to clear this with the Minister.”

So Jacqui phoned Joan, apologetically explaining that she’d have to postpone the next meeting until she’d got clearance from her ‘superiors’. And when she and Joan did meet a few days later, her ‘John le Carré’ cover story worked a treat. Joan was sure that a brief mention of the bare facts would be more than enough to fend off any nonsense Paul might produce.

What Joan didn’t know, of course, was that Jacqui’s ‘cover story’ was in fact a fiction, and that Paul’s banter was close to the truth. And she had no intention of telling her!