Short Story

Client: Pacific Publications Pty, Sydney, Australia - "That's Life!" magazine

Audience: Low-to-middle income females, aged 18 - 65

I'M NOT PRYING

It's 10:15 on a muggy Monday morning, and here I am standing outside an expensive apartment. I'm bracing myself for a meeting with my oldest and least favourite client. She's taking a while to let me in.

My job is to follow husbands - or wives, for that matter - to find out if they're having an affair.

The money's not good, but my expenses are paid, and I get a lot of job satisfaction.

Sometimes, though, it pays to pack extra tissues in my briefcase. I hate breaking bad news if mine is the only shoulder available to cry on.

When my client finally opens the door, she's squeezed into a bathrobe several sizes too small for her. She says nothing and breathes heavily until she waves me in with a pudgy, jewel-encrusted hand.

Most of my clients offer me a drink before they pour one for themselves, but this one just points to one of the lounges and then waddles across the room to kick something under the armchair opposite.

It's a trainer, laces still tied. Old and grubby, about size eleven. She stamps the sand that fell off it into the carpet before sitting down.

I'm not prying - I'm paid to be observant.

"Well?" she demands.

She's not interested in the state of my health. She wants to know where her husband's been this past weekend. He said it was a business trip, but she's not so sure.

There have been quite a few of these "business trips" recently. I can't give her any evidence that her Charles is straying, but she still sends me off after him. She's looking for something - anything - that will give her the excuse to divorce him and then take him to the cleaners. Her words, not mine.

I reach for my briefcase, open it and pull out yet another folder of hastily-typed notes, together with the photos that I've again managed to have developed in less than an hour.

I flick open the folder and start the familiar routine.

"Friday 23rd, 5:30 pm: subject leaves the office with another male, aged about 30."

I hand over the photograph of Charles standing outside an office building, talking to another man. Both of them are holding briefcases.

She tosses the photo onto the coffee table between us. It needs polishing. There are circles all over it. Glass stains.

I continue: "5:42pm: subject hails a taxi, boards it alone. I follow him to the airport. 6:51pm subject checks in at the business-class desk. Alone. 7:11pm: subject boards his flight. Alone."

I pass her another handful of photos. She tosses them onto the coffee table, again, saying nothing. There are two different types of glass stain on the table. One's about the size of the base of a champagne flute. There are several of those overlapping at my end of the table.

"9:15pm: subject books into hotel. Goes straight into his room. Alone. I don't see him leave it until 7am the following morning." I hand her more photos. They join the ones already on the table.

The other type of stain is not so well-defined, but something like the condensation left by the base of a stubby.

More pictures, more commentary. "Subject meets with men in suits. They have lunch. Subject returns to hotel. Alone. Emerges in tennis clothes and plays several games with men he met for lunch. Followed by drinks and dinner with same. 10:38pm: subject returns to his room. Alone."

It's the same routine for the following day: more suits, more tennis, more eating … and back to his room again. Alone, once more. The pile of photos covers the table.

Judging by the number of stubby rings there, I'd guess that there's a heap of empties in her rubbish. Not that I'm prying, of course. I'm just being observant.

I finish giving her my report. "7:05am, Monday: subject boards plane, takes taxi from airport straight to his office." End of story.

"Well," she sighs, "I'm still not convinced."

She winces when I hand her my expense bill. I smile and assure her that it's money well spent.

If there's anything to catch her Charles at, I assure her for the umpteenth time, I'll be the one to catch him, however long it takes.

She scribbles out a cheque and, without a word, dismisses me.

I take the lift back down to the car park. Before I drive off, though, I have one quick call to make on my mobile. To my newest and most favourite client.

"Hi … time to talk? Good. No, it's a different on this time. Probably under 25, not rich. Surfie. Maybe. Likes his beer. No, I have absolutely no idea what any of them see in her either. And yes, we're on for next time - whenever you want. Bye Charles … and thanks again for the weekend. It was wonderful."

END