Chapter Eight
Parked across from the busy Tapas Bar currently Ms Fiona and Ms Chrissy’s favourite Saturday lunchtime haunt, it was inevitable my thoughts would return to that day, three months before, when my card had been well and truly marked and the life I was now living became a reality rather than the perverted and evil piece of wish-fulfilment on behalf of my wife I had regarded it to be.
As I waited in the driver’s seat of Fiona’s car, kitted out in black trousers, black shoes and a crisp and immaculately pressed white collarless shirt (pressed by yours truly), it struck me that all I was missing was a cap to consolidate the impression of a waiting chauffeur.
The above impression exactly what the wife who now considered me an employee –and an extremely lowly one at that- had inte
