admit I was doing the work because I’d caught my wife cheating and kicked her out, I was certain I wouldn’t be employing him again anytime soon.
The locksmith was clearly putting two and two together and getting fifty—at least I hoped he was—but his faulty logic did spark another thought that was actually useful. I didn’t want Carolyn to come home, find the locks had been changed, and jump to the wrong conclusion. I was tempted to call her and explain, but didn’t trust myself not to confront her about Weimann. Not yet. It was a conversation that called for a cooler head. So, I sent her a text. And I wasdeliberately vague about how my keys had come to be lost. I didn’t think she’d see me sleeping through a break-in on my first night alone as evidence of increased awareness—of myself, our marriage, or anything else.
THE IDEA OF SEEING
old friends for lunch was a welcome distraction from the events of the last couple of days, but as I was driving to the restaurant I found myself struggling to decide how much to tell everyone about my new situation. Vincent—the oldest of our group—had come through a tough childhood, and talk of the police and burglaries could quickly put us on the opposite sides of an argument. Jonny—who seemed to start a sickeningly successful new business every fifteen minutes—was ultra-competitive. He always wanted to show how he had the best watch or the fastest car. I could just imagine him seeing my brush with Homeland Security and raising me an encounter with the CIA. And Sally-Anne—the only woman—worked in telecoms, just like Carolyn. Their paths crossed pretty regularly at industry functions, and I wasn’t sure I wanted our personal problems leaking into my wife’s professional world.
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME
, worrying about people’s feelings, I thought, getting back into my car exactly forty-six minutes after we were due to have met. Talk about an exercise in futility. Because not one of my
friends
had shown up. And not one had called to cancel. They’d just left me to sit on my own at our usual corner table, trying to deflect the waitress’s pity and avoid eye contact with the smirking twenty-somethings at the bar.
None of my
friends
had taken my calls, either. I had to make do with a muddle-headed text from Sally-Anne trying to convince me they’d thought I wouldn’t want to meet, following what had happened with AmeriTel. I didn’t know which was worse—being stood up, or realizing that my problems had become nothing more than grist for the local rumor mill.
——
THE EIGHTIES CHANNEL PROVED
a much better companion on the drive home than any number of fair weather friends, and by the time I pulled into my driveway I was feeling a lot more focused. Work was what I needed next. Something to reconcentrate my mind. But ironically, I was dependent on something else that wasn’t there. My computer. Either of my computers, in fact. I was tempted to head into the city and buy another one—you can never have too many—when I spotted a business card wedged between my front door and the frame. I went to investigate, hoping it would be from the messenger who had my delivery from AmeriTel. But instead, it was from the police. On the back there was a handwritten message, signed by Detective Hayes:
Mr. Bowman—please call me ASAP re yr computer.
Important!!! Thx.
I took the card inside with me and tried to call the detective, but was routed through to an administrative assistant who wanted to schedule a time for me to come down to the station house in person. She claimed not to know if I’d be able to take the computer home with me afterward, but her tone was evasive. My inner cynic was alerted, and when I hung up I was left with no confidence I’d be getting my hands on my property any time soon. So, unless I fancied a long drive to the store, my only other option was to try AmeriTel again.
I called the same sequence of phone numbers as yesterday, and with
The locksmith was clearly putting two and two together and getting fifty—at least I hoped he was—but his faulty logic did spark another thought that was actually useful. I didn’t want Carolyn to come home, find the locks had been changed, and jump to the wrong conclusion. I was tempted to call her and explain, but didn’t trust myself not to confront her about Weimann. Not yet. It was a conversation that called for a cooler head. So, I sent her a text. And I wasdeliberately vague about how my keys had come to be lost. I didn’t think she’d see me sleeping through a break-in on my first night alone as evidence of increased awareness—of myself, our marriage, or anything else.
THE IDEA OF SEEING
old friends for lunch was a welcome distraction from the events of the last couple of days, but as I was driving to the restaurant I found myself struggling to decide how much to tell everyone about my new situation. Vincent—the oldest of our group—had come through a tough childhood, and talk of the police and burglaries could quickly put us on the opposite sides of an argument. Jonny—who seemed to start a sickeningly successful new business every fifteen minutes—was ultra-competitive. He always wanted to show how he had the best watch or the fastest car. I could just imagine him seeing my brush with Homeland Security and raising me an encounter with the CIA. And Sally-Anne—the only woman—worked in telecoms, just like Carolyn. Their paths crossed pretty regularly at industry functions, and I wasn’t sure I wanted our personal problems leaking into my wife’s professional world.
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME
, worrying about people’s feelings, I thought, getting back into my car exactly forty-six minutes after we were due to have met. Talk about an exercise in futility. Because not one of my
friends
had shown up. And not one had called to cancel. They’d just left me to sit on my own at our usual corner table, trying to deflect the waitress’s pity and avoid eye contact with the smirking twenty-somethings at the bar.
None of my
friends
had taken my calls, either. I had to make do with a muddle-headed text from Sally-Anne trying to convince me they’d thought I wouldn’t want to meet, following what had happened with AmeriTel. I didn’t know which was worse—being stood up, or realizing that my problems had become nothing more than grist for the local rumor mill.
——
THE EIGHTIES CHANNEL PROVED
a much better companion on the drive home than any number of fair weather friends, and by the time I pulled into my driveway I was feeling a lot more focused. Work was what I needed next. Something to reconcentrate my mind. But ironically, I was dependent on something else that wasn’t there. My computer. Either of my computers, in fact. I was tempted to head into the city and buy another one—you can never have too many—when I spotted a business card wedged between my front door and the frame. I went to investigate, hoping it would be from the messenger who had my delivery from AmeriTel. But instead, it was from the police. On the back there was a handwritten message, signed by Detective Hayes:
Mr. Bowman—please call me ASAP re yr computer.
Important!!! Thx.
I took the card inside with me and tried to call the detective, but was routed through to an administrative assistant who wanted to schedule a time for me to come down to the station house in person. She claimed not to know if I’d be able to take the computer home with me afterward, but her tone was evasive. My inner cynic was alerted, and when I hung up I was left with no confidence I’d be getting my hands on my property any time soon. So, unless I fancied a long drive to the store, my only other option was to try AmeriTel again.
I called the same sequence of phone numbers as yesterday, and with
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