©2005 Ian Hobson

As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields I felt something was different. I leaned forward and looked down to check on my Ferrari. It was parked in its usual place on the drive and looked as beautiful as ever; not a scratch on the paintwork. I shrugged off the feeling and turned back towards the unmade bed. The digital clock read: 9:47. Marie must have left for work a couple of hours before, but the impression of her head was still in her pillow.

She didn't usually work on Saturday, but apparently 'the office' was even more short-staffed than usual, so she'd agreed to go in to help with 'the backlog'. She'd even gone to bed early the night before. I'd told her to stop acting like a doormat. To tell the so-called management to get off their collective arses and hire some more bloody staff.

Fortunately she knows how to get up without disturbing me.

I still had that feeling that something had changed though, so I looked out of the window again. Then suddenly I realised what it must be. Actually nothing was different - not for a Saturday - everything was normal, including Marie's old Fiesta, parked in its usual spot in the lane. But if she'd gone to work, why was her car still there? Our cottage is miles from town, and anyone giving her a lift to work would have to go well out of their way.

I crossed the room, walked to the top of the stairs and called out her name as I descended. No reply; so she'd definitely gone. I walked through into the lounge, crossed to the bay window and opened the curtains. From here I had a better view of my Ferrari. I paused to admire its sleek lines. It was just coming up to its first birthday; only two more years to go on the loan. When I bought it, Marie had called me extravagant. But women don't understand these things. A car says a lot about a man. It's who you are.

Irritatingly, a robin alighted on the wing mirror, but then it flew down into the front garden to peck at something between the rose bushes. Marie had said something about the roses needing pruning. I'd leave that to her; gardening isn't my thing. Anyway, Saturday is always wash-and-wax day.

I hoped Marie wasn't expecting me to clean her car as well.

I wondered again why her Fiesta was still parked outside. Perhaps the bloody thing wouldn't start again - heap of junk. I hoped she hadn't wasted money on a taxi; though I couldn't think how else she would get to work? Then I remembered she'd said something, three of four months back, about a new manager. What was his name? Peter? Philip? Something like that. Perhaps he'd moved out this way and had offered her a lift. Had she said something about him house-hunting? I doubted he could afford to live where we lived; not on the sort of salaries they paid where Marie worked, and especially not if he was buying. Renting was bad enough - it was costing me an arm and a leg.

I turned away from the window and headed for the kitchen, trying to decide what to have for breakfast. Marie usually cooked me a full English on Saturdays. I opted for coffee and toast. I carried it back into the lounge and switched on the television. There wasn't much worth watching; mostly kids' stuff; cartoons and pop videos. So I finished my breakfast, went back upstairs to visit the bathroom, then returned to the kitchen to fill a bucket with hot water. It took me ages to find the car shampoo. I thought at first that Marie had moved it to the wrong bloody shelf or something. But then I saw it. It was odd that I hadn't noticed it before. It was right there in the middle of the kitchen table, and under it was a folded note from Marie.

Dear John,

I'm sorry can't tell you face to face, but we would only have a blazing row, and nothing would be gained by it. I'm going on holiday with Paul. Then I'm moving in with him. We're taking a taxi to the airport and by the time your up we'll probably be boarding. I'll pick up my car and the rest of my stuff in two weeks.

Marie

The bitch. How could she do that to me?