The Carpenter's Dilemma

©️ Andyhm. 2025

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This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons. All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.

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Almost eight years ago, I dipped my toes into the LW pond for the first time and posted The Woodworker's Wife. Over the years, it's garnered a love-hate relationship with readers. It was those comments that helped me improve later stories. Since then, I keep spotting errors and plot holes in the original I'd missed or ignored, and I couldn't help feeling it would benefit from a rewrite. Whenever I hit the dreaded writer's block on another story, I'd come and spend a few minutes attempting to improve an old friend. This is what I believe that story should have been. It's a complete rewrite, hence the new title, but it follows the same core premise. Only I couldn't help feeling the original was posted in the wrong category, I've always thought the story was a Romance, hence why this version will be posted there. It is longer, by almost 8K words (the best part of three lit pages).. Hopefully, you will enjoy reading this new version as much as I did writing it.

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The Carpenter's Dilemma.

Prologue:

Wood: A simple four-letter word for such a complex gift given to us by Mother Earth. I've been enamoured with it for as long as I can remember. Wood is warm to the touch, and no two pieces are alike. The aroma of freshly sawn timber is so sensual and evocative; it's up there with the best fragrances. It can be textured or smooth and exists in a symphony of hues.

My grandfather began my love affair with this beautiful material. He had the same passion, working as an ecclesiastical carpenter, repairing and replacing the decorative wooden furniture and fittings of churches. He gave me my first carving when I was four; to most others, it was a naïvely carved wooden horse toy. But even at that young age, I could see how he'd teased the horse's soul from the core of that scrap of oak. I have it; still, it sits on my desk, a rough, stylised, quickly carved horse he created in a few minutes, now stained and worn smooth from my hands.

By the time I was a teenager, I'd absorbed all that he could teach me, and when squeezed dry, he introduced me to other masters in the art of manipulating wood. I sat at their feet and learnt my trade.

Wood is my passion, yet it pales significantly compared to my feelings for my wife and daughter. Only there comes a time in a relationship when enough is enough, and I have finally reached that point.

What could I be thinking about? Well, it's straightforward, well, simple to me. After ten years of what I thought was a happy marriage, life had just dropped the proverbial bombshell. My wife is on the cusp of an affair with another man

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1.

I'm David Peters, Dave to my friends, and I've been married to Zoe for the past ten years. We live in a converted barn in South England with our young daughter and her pets. The barn sits nestled in the shadow of the South Downs, surrounded by farmland and close to an archetypical Sussex village.

Zoe and I met twelve years earlier while studying at the Brighton Art College. I was there adding an academic stamp to the woodworking skills I'd acquired as a teenager. A formal qualification was the compromise I'd made with my parents; they gave me both the moral and financial support enabling me to follow my chosen career, and after a pleasant three years, I left with a degree in interior design with an emphasis on furniture.

Zoe was an artist studying art techniques under the tutelage of a renowned artist, and she was the star of her class. Since graduating, she has steadily gained a deserved reputation as one of the South of England's foremost female portrait artists. Several years ago, she was the featured artist at the influential artists' exhibition in a small but highly regarded gallery in Brighton. Her pieces were primarily portraits, nudes and semi-nude studies. The local and national press reviews were positive, with several art critics labelling her as an artist to watch. She was able to sell the majority of the exhibited paintings. Since then, several other galleries nationwide have expressed an interest in displaying her work. While at home, she's been offered more and more commissions.

Like every besotted husband, my wife is the most beautiful woman I know. She's a year younger than me, with long light brown hair that always seemed permanently flecked with paint. Hair that frames an oval but not a classically beautiful face, with blue eyes and a cute little button nose. She's five foot six and has a ballerina's willowy stature; I'm madly in love with her, and she's given me the impression that the feeling is mutual. She has a happy and friendly nature; if she has one fault, she's too trusting of people. She tends to see the best in them--more than once, I've had to extricate her from situations that had gotten away from her. At a party, a friend described us as the perfect couple. I suppose, in a way, she's right; I'd always considered we were perfect for each other, warts and all!

I'm thirty-two, with no standout features. I'm average height, five foot eleven. I'm reasonably fit, and my arms and shoulders are well developed, a benefit of the physical nature of my work. I've dark brown hair and steel blue eyes set in an angular face.

I've turned my skill working with wood into a bespoke furniture business, making commissioned pieces from native timber and ethically sourced exotic woods. As my order book confirms, I have a healthy two-year backlog of orders. In a good year, I can produce upwards of twenty pieces, finished to a standard I feel comfortable with. Fortunately, I could demand a premium price, although it wasn't always like that. If you are rude enough to want to know how much I make a year. Well, it varies; pieces can sell for as much as £25,000, depending on the size, the material, and the complexity. You do the maths.

Selling the furniture paid the bills, but my passion was releasing the hidden soul from within the core of the unique pieces of wood I stumbled across. In my mind, creatures and figures were concealed within the grain and fibres, waiting for me to nurture them into existence.

When I was younger, my grandfather gave me an exquisite wooden box carved by an artist called John Fox; it's small and fits in the palm of your hand. It depicts a stylised cat sleeping on a pillow. It's a beautiful, simple piece that's also a functional trinket box, the curled-up cat, the lid. Recently, I came across an article written by one of his students, in which he described how John had explained that the chosen piece of timber would speak to him, telling him what is hidden in its depths, waiting to be revealed. Now and again, I have the same feeling when I handle a piece of wood.

Since I began, I've released several objects hidden inside the timber. Creating pieces that hopefully would give others as much pleasure and satisfaction as the cat box still gives me. They aren't something I'd ever consider selling commercially; they sit on a shelf in the office, patiently waiting until the right person spots them. There was another set of figures that I'd released over the years, but those were personal to me, and I would never part with them.

On one occasion, we enjoyed a drink at our local pub; tucked in my pocket was a tiny carved hedgehog I'd finished months earlier. I'm unsure why I'd picked it up that evening, but I had. A woman in her late forties walked in with her daughter and sat at a table near us. I'd seen them before and knew they lived in the village. I swear I felt the hedgehog struggle to get out of my pocket. I knew what to do; stepping over to them, I placed the hedgehog in the older woman's hand.

"I believe that this should be yours," I said.

She looked at it for a long time as it sat on her upturned palm. I'm convinced it twitched and then settled down. She looked up and smiled at me with tears in her eyes. "Thank you; today would have been our 25th anniversary, and my husband and I loved watching the hedgehogs that lived in our garden.

Occasionally, I'd come across a piece of wood that, in its depth, hid something incredibly unique and personal to me. What would emerge from the depths I've kept hidden away? The first to appear was an image of a sleeping Zoe; several more came over the years, morphing to include our daughter after she was born. They were an extension of my love. I've never shown them to anyone, not even Zoe. Twelve sat in the back of a locked cupboard in my workshop.

I wasn't the only one in our family passionate about their art. I could stand and watch Zoe work for hours when she loses herself to her art--lost in concentrating on the model and the evolving image slowly appearing on the canvas. I love how she chews on the end of her brush as she concentrates. Her flicking the hair back behind her ear sings to my heart. She became one with her art; the model was positioned, and Zoe would enter a separate plane. More than once, after a long, all-day session, I've had to take the brush from her tightly bent fingers and give the poor model their freedom.

Not that I'm alone in watching the other. I've seen her sneaking glances at me while I was working, smiling as she frantically drew in her ever-present notebook. I found her notebook on her bench one afternoon. It was full of charcoal sketches of me. The one large oil painting of me she's completed hangs in our bedroom. I'm shown bent over my bench, concentrating on the complex joint I'm creating. It's the only authentic signed painting she's finished of me; the others were small informal studies.

She tells me that I'm her most challenging subject. She's never been satisfied that any of her paintings or sketches do me justice. She doesn't feel she can capture the essence of me in paint. She tells me that one is the closest she's ever come to capturing the depth of my emotion for the wood I'm working on.

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We met one sunny afternoon in May of my final year at college. At that time, I was sharing a house on the outskirts of Brighton with a couple of other final-year students and an established artist. That year, the house was included in the Brighton Artist's open house scheme, as Donald, the artist, had gained a reputation as an up-and-coming sculptor.

If you've never heard of the Brighton open house scheme, you have missed a fantastic opportunity to meet artists in their homes and view their work. The scheme runs for a couple of months each year, and local artists turn their homes into temporary art galleries.

Our house was a popular stop on the tour due to Donald's growing reputation. He, in turn, was magnanimous in allowing his housemates to display a few of their pieces alongside his. I took advantage of his generosity and displayed a couple of my carvings and a desk and chair.

The pieces I carve are visual and tactile; they beg you to pick them up and feel their sinuous curves. To a lesser extent, my furniture follows the same rules. I'd placed a piece close to my heart in the desk's middle. I told anyone who showed interest that if they could work out what it represented and, more importantly, what it meant to me, then they were the person who deserved to own it. Before this piece, my carvings were predominantly of animals. This one was different; it had been born from a family tragedy. Since I'd set it reverently in the centre of the table, several people had offered their opinions, but none had been correct. A few visitors realised it was a stylised person, but none recognised or understood the emotion it represented and the reason behind its creation.

I saw a young woman pick up the piece. She held it reverently as she slowly turned it over and over in her hands, and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

Approaching her, I gestured at the carving and asked, "What do you see?"

She looked up at me from the piece cradled in her hands. "A woman," she said immediately. Then, after looking back down, she added, "A beautiful woman twisted in grief for the loss of a loved one."

She held my gaze. "This is your work." It wasn't a question. And you knew the woman." Again, it wasn't a question.

I nodded, the memory still painful, and tried to explain, "The woman is my cousin; she and her partner had lost their six-month-old daughter in an unexpected cot death."

I had poured all the family's grief into that piece, adding my own. I'd tried giving it to Gina, but she couldn't take it. 'It's too powerful," she told me. 'The emotions are so raw; I'd cry every time I saw it." So it had been sitting on a shelf in my room, waiting for someone who deserved to own it.

And that was our first interaction. I tried to give her the piece, but she refused. She shook her head and said, "It's part of you; you should never give it up." I knew she was right, and the piece had found its owner, only I'd been too close to it to understand I had been its intended owner all along. Many of my future pieces were carved with a specific person in mind, but a fair percentage

As a conciliation, I offered to take her out to dinner. She'd accepted with a gracious smile. Over dinner that evening, we exchanged our life stories, and by the end of the meal, I knew I was in love with the woman sitting opposite me. Our first tentative kiss as I walked her home sent shockwaves coursing through my body. Zoe gasped and pushed herself against me, her lips seeking mine for a second, longer, deeper kiss.

We did something neither of us had done on a first date: She returned to my room, and we made love. We enjoyed many more dates over the next few weeks until Zoe moved in with me for my last few months of college. A year later, just after she graduated, we got married.

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We live in a converted barn in Southeast England, situated on the outskirts of a village in East Sussex, not too far from Brighton. Soon after I graduated, my favourite spinster aunt sold me a property she had inherited for a pittance. That was the perfect price, as I could afford a pittance. The property consisted of a dilapidated farm cottage, a separate barn, and a stable block, all sitting on several acres. I sold the cottage and an acre of land to a developer and used the proceeds to convert the barn into a home.

After we moved into our new home, I drew up plans to convert the long stable block into a workplace. I intended to create a workshop for me at one end and a studio for Zoe at the other. The section in between would become our office and display area.

Working closely with a local builder, it took several months to make the building watertight, then a further six to transform it into a studio for Zoe and a workshop for me; I knew what each of us wanted from our working space. I trusted no one else to add the finishing touches. The building became a temple for our creativity. At the insistence of the insurance company, we installed a security system. We later added security cameras to the outside, office and workshop. Zoe refused to have any in her studio, citing her model's right to privacy, which I would later rue.

The summer after Zoe graduated, we got married. It was a low-key event, just family and close friends. It took us several years to establish our chosen careers, build our confidence, and attract the clientele we needed to survive. During the early days, we'd often anxiously wait for the post to deliver a cheque so we could pay the outstanding bills and buy food for that week. We survived on cycles of feast and famine.

Hopefully, that was past us, as we had both established a reputation in our respective fields, and the bank balance had benefited. No more waiting for a cheque to clear. Life was comfortable, and now we could afford the better things and send Siobhan to the private school in the village.

We immersed ourselves in the village's social life. The restaurant at the local pub was child-friendly, and when the village cricket team was short a player, I'd play the odd match. We'd been invited to join our local golf and sports club. Neither of us was inclined to chase a golf ball around the course, but we enjoyed tennis and badminton. There was a sauna and a decent-sized pool, which Siobhan loved. Outside the club, we enjoyed hiking; the South Downs that overshadowed the village gave us many trails to explore. Zoe was an excellent cook, and in the summer months, alfresco dinner parties in the garden became a staple of our social life.

Like all married couples, we had our little arguments and disagreements. But we never let them fester; we could always discuss our problems. In hindsight, Zoe's reluctance to discuss the situation we were to find ourselves in should have been a strong hint that there was a snake in our garden.

I'm not overtly jealous; I'd always trusted Zoe, but then again, I'll not stand idly by if a man comes on too strongly to Zoe. I had to temper any jealousy, especially around the studio when you consider the constant stream of attractive men and women vying for her attention, many of whom posed naked or semi-nude for their portraits. We had developed a set of professional rules that worked for us. If the sitter wanted a nude picture of themselves, I'd ensure I was within earshot. I'd seen Adonis's sitting for her, that even I could find attractive. She was always calm and collected. She would see me watching, and she would grin and blow me a kiss before returning to her palette of colours.

Early on, that rule only applied to male patrons, but after a couple of female sitters acted up, it was changed to all. Nor would she take a commission that required her to paint away from her studio. The only exception to her chaperone rule was the small group of professional models that Zoe hired for her projects--those we both trusted and, over the years, most had become friends.

Getting back to the current problem, a few weeks previously, she told me about a potential lucrative commission in the offing. A close friend had recommended her to a business college who was looking for someone to paint a portrait of himself. We had been sitting at the kitchen table; Zoe had just dropped our daughter off at the kindergarten and, on the way back, had picked up a batch of freshly baked croissants from our local baker.

As we sat buttering the still-warm croissants, she said, "I had a bit of an odd call yesterday from Linda. It seems she'd shown her new finance director, Marcus Forde, that painting of Paul I did, and he liked it so much he's keen for me to paint something similar for him."

***

This needs a bit of back history: Linda was Zoe's flatmate when we met, and we have stayed close friends with her and her husband ever since. She has been, and still is, my source of information on all things Zoe.

I knew the painting she mentioned and was surprised that Linda had let the guy see it. It was a nude study of him. It was one of a pair that Zoe had painted as a gift for Linda and Paul's tenth anniversary the previous year. The second was a naked study of Linda, and they both hung in their bedroom.

Zoe wanted to paint the pair together. When she mentioned her idea to Linda, she suggested two separate paintings and did not mention them to Paul. Linda wanted both paintings to be a complete surprise. Linda had modelled for Zoe in the past, and an early semi-nude painting of her was one of Zoe's favourites. Linda was keen to have her own slightly more risqué version. The original was on display in a prestigious gallery in London.

To keep the secret of Paul's painting, it was one of the rare occasions Zoe agreed to paint from a set of photographs provided by Linda. It was only possible because, as she said, "I've seen him in those brief swimming trunks of his, so often I'm sure I can fill in the missing parts using Linda's photos."

Both paintings displayed the couple tastefully naked, the skill of the artist creating a sense of eroticism without revealing more than was necessary. Zoe had refused to accept any payment from either of them when she unveiled them to the happy couple, and I'd helped Paul hang them in their bedroom.

Now, this person wanted a painting of himself, and as Zoe had mentioned Paul's painting, I guessed he wanted his to be in a similar style.

***

I expressed my surprise that they would let anyone see the painting of him.

Zoe shook her head. "Oh, I doubt he's seen the originals. Linda said he saw a photo of Paul's on her phone when she showed him photos of their house."

"Oh," I replied, "A nude study of himself he wants, is it?" I said, channelling my best Yoda impression, which, to be honest, was pathetic and made her grin.

She rolled her eyes at me.

"Well, he is presumptuous, isn't he?" I pointed out.

She smirked in agreement and nodded, "I gather he's a bit full of himself. Linda says he's convinced the sun shines out of his arse, and if you get on his wrong side, he can make life miserable for you. She asked me to consider taking the commission as a favour to her, to keep him off her back. She's worried that if I say no, he could make life difficult for her."

It sounded like she didn't have a good working relationship with the man and was passing on the potential problem to Zoe. I didn't think that was a good enough reason for her to take the commission, so I asked Linda about the man.

"The painting of Paul is one of a pair." I pointed out. "Is Marcus interested in a similar pair of paintings?" I asked.

"I don't know; I'll ask him if he does call."

That call came a few days later while I was out delivering a desk to a local businessman. Zoe gave me the details after I returned.

"He only wants one of himself, so I guess he's not in a relationship," she told me as we sat at the kitchen table. She hesitated momentarily, "He gave me an odd vibe, and I'm not sure I want to take the commission. He was pushing me to say yes there and then. I told him I always meet potential clients before considering their commission and that even a face-to-face meeting wasn't a guarantee I'd agree."

She took a sip of her coffee and came around the table. She stood behind me and draped her arms across my chest. She nuzzled the back of my neck. She murmured, "One day, I will do you justice and replace the one in our bedroom with a perfect version."

I turned in my chair and pulled her onto my lap. "Why would you want a painting of me when you can have the original?" I asked her with a broad grin.

She laughed, and our lips met, hers sweet from the apricot jam she'd used, "Because, then, I can have my cake and eat it, dummy." She wriggled in my lap and smiled when she felt me respond.

"You are a wicked woman," I said, "Don't start something you're not willing to follow through with."

"Who says I'm not willing to follow through?" Zoe murmured as she wriggled again.

She turned to face me, sitting astride my lap, the hem of her skirt sliding up her thighs. The sheer fabric of her panties peeping out moulded like a second skin to her body. She rolled her hips further, exposing more of her panties, then pushed herself against the bulge in my jeans. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her lips urgently seeking mine in a crushing kiss. She grasped the bottom of my tee shirt, pulling it over my head and throwing it on the floor behind me. She bent her head forward and sucked one of my nipples into her mouth.

I picked her up, and my eagerness was evident in my continuing actions. She locked her legs and arms around me to hold me close. I carried her to the lounge, and we collapsed on the sofa, and nature took its course.

Afterwards, I looked at her flushed features. She'd lost her blouse, and her bra was around her neck. Her skirt looked like a belt around her waist, and her panties were a scrap of torn fabric hanging off one ankle. She had never looked more beautiful to me.

"Holy Christ, where did that come from, Dave?" She gasped.

"You inspired me; you always do."

As her breath returned to normal, she whispered, "I love you." I kissed her in reply.

"Have you got time for a shower?" I asked.

She nodded, "Geraldine isn't due for her sitting until two."

I picked her up, carried her upstairs to our bathroom and stood her down. She removed her battered skirt and bra as I ran the water.

She held her skirt up for me to see. "I think it's died a happy death; you owe me a new one, lover boy."

I smiled and said, "A price well worth paying." She laughed and pulled me into the shower.

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We were hurrying across the courtyard when Geraldine arrived. She's an old friend of my family, a barrister who had recently taken her silk and been appointed Queen's Counsel. Her chambers wanted a portrait for their boardroom to celebrate the selection, and Geraldine insisted that Zoe be given the commission.

I've known Geraldine since I was a young boy. Our parents are close friends, and for many years, the two families would spend the summer holidays together in Cornwall. She's a few years older than me, and as a thirteen-year-old, she had been my first unrequited love. I gave her a dolphin I'd carved from a piece of driftwood found on the beach as a token of my love. She'd accepted it and then let me down without bruising my fragile ego. Even now, that dolphin carved by a besotted thirteen-year-old sits on her mantelpiece.

We greeted her with hugs and kisses, and she smiled as she gave our wet hair a knowing look. Zoe led her to her studio, and I headed to my workshop. I was supposed to apply the finishing touches to a sideboard, but it held no attraction that day. Instead, I retrieved an off-cut of zebra wood that I'd saved from a commission earlier that year. It had been sitting on a shelf for months. I'd known that there was something important hiding inside of it. At the time, I wasn't sure what it was; I knew it was important to me, but now I know what it was.

Twice, I had to put it to one side when Zoe came into my workroom. I'm unsure why I needed to hide it from her, but I knew I should. It was mid-afternoon before I was satisfied with my handy work. On the bench before me lay a ten-inch long stylised reclining nude. It was (at least to me) a representation of a pregnant Zoe in a post-orgasmic state. The head, a featureless oval, was stretched back, resting on a pillow, her hair cascading waves. One hand rose to reach for her lover, the other resting protectively across her bulging abdomen. One leg was straight, and the other had the knee slightly raised and falling to the side, open and welcoming. The curves and the grain flowed, one into another, negating the need for fine details. The wood seemingly glowed with an inner depth. I would seal it with my favourite beeswax polish and buff it to highlight the striking contrasts within the wood grain.

I straightened, my back creaking in protest, highlighting the time spent hunched over. I picked it up, turned it over and over, unlocked the cupboard, and placed it on the shelf with the other pieces I had yet to share with anyone. They were a testimony of my love of the two people closest to me, a gallery of love and devotion.

An hour later, I stroked the top of the sideboard I should have been working on all day. I'd given it its final coat of polish, and the piece was ready for the client. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of my craft, lovingly created, yet it seemed dull and lifeless compared to the gems hiding in the locked cupboard. Zoe's studio was dark; I set the alarm, locked the building, and strolled to the house.

The kitchen was warm and welcoming, as were my two ladies sitting at the table. Wonderful baking aromas were coming from the Aga. I kissed Zoe and picked up my daughter. She laughed and wriggled in my arms as I pressed my face into her tummy and blew a raspberry.

"Isn't Daddy silly?" Zoe said, happiness suffusing her voice.

My daughter giggled as she looked down at me as I held her out. "I'm a big girl," she cried out.

"That you are, beautiful." I held her close; she tucked her head on my shoulder, and I could smell the hint of cinnamon in her hair.

"Have you been helping mummy with the baking?" I asked.

She looked at Zoe, who nodded, "It's a surprise for you, spidy... spicy buns. Is that right, mummy?"

"Oh, how did you guess they were my favourites?"

She whispered in my ear, "Mummy told me."

Zoe came over and took Siobhan from me. "Daddy must wash and change while we check on the buns."

I took the hint, quickly showered, and changed into clean clothes. As I stood on the landing, looking down at Zoe and Siobhan, I saw that it had been an enjoyable day.

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A week later, we had our first meeting with Marcus, his arrival epitomising his character. A bright red Porsche 911 convertible sped up our drive, scattering gravel in its wake. The driver blatantly ignored the sign, requesting visitors to drive slowly. He screeched to a halt in the courtyard. He unfolded himself from the car's interior and stood, surveying his surroundings as he ran his fingers through his windswept hair.

His noisy entrance drew us to the kitchen door, and we greeted him. He was just over six feet tall, an intelligent, good-looking man in a tailored suit. His face was thin, brown eyes and a sharp nose, and he was capped with expensively styled light brown hair. He was an elegant, handsome man who appeared to be fully aware of the picture he presented. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties.

He stood watching us approach; I could sense him coolly accessing us. He gave Zoe a long, penetrating smile at Zoe, while at the same time seemingly dismissing me.

"Hi, you must be the gorgeous Zoe I've heard so much about," he said. "I'm Marcus," and he held his hand to her.

She shook it, "Nice to meet you," she replied. Then she gestured in my direction, "This is my husband, Dave."

I offered my hand, and he took it and tried the macho man squeeze. I responded in kind and added a bit. A brief grimace slid across his expression just before I released his hand. Tucking his hand behind his back, he said dismissively, concentrating on Zoe, "Oh right, Linda mentioned you were married to a carpenter." Then, ignoring me, he stepped closer to Zoe. I flashed her a surprised look, and she gave me a confused shrug.

"Shall we sort out the schedule and payment details?" Marcus said.

Zoe looked surprised, confirming my understanding she hadn't agreed to the commission. I unlocked the entrance to the studios and switched off the bleeping alarm. The entrance opened into the space we used as a reception, office and gallery. At the rear was a large toilet and shower room with a bench and several lockers, doubling as a changing room for Zoe's models. Zoe showed Marcus to a group of chairs set around an occasional table, all prices I'd created. She asked him to sit and offered him a coffee while I opened the double doors leading into her studio and switched on the lights. Then, I opened up my workshop. It took me a few minutes to prepare everything for the day, and I rejoined them in the office.

I could sense the tension in the air as I entered. Zoe shook her head as I poured myself a coffee and sat on the old sofa in the corner, not wanting to intrude but interested in hearing what was said.

"I'm sorry, but it's a rule we have." She was saying. "After an awkward situation in the past, I don't work outside my studio. Even here, I only allow sitters to pose nude if my husband chaperones me. I'm sure Linda must have told you."

"She may have mentioned it, but I'm sure you can make an exception in my case," he said. "I'm a busy man, and I have access to a flat near my office we could use. This place, as nice as it is," he added dismissively, "is over an hour's drive each way." His voice was soft and pleasant, yet there was a hint of strength and arrogance in the background.

Zoe looked flustered, "I'm sorry, but I don't need your commission; I've enough work on the books to keep me busy for the next year. If you want me to paint you, you must accept that it will be here and under my rules." She glanced in my direction for support.

Marcus saw and turned to appeal to me, "You understand my position, don't you?"

I shook my head, "I'm sorry, I agree with Zoe; we made those rules for everyone's safety."

He argued for another ten minutes, but we were not inclined to change our position. He kept offering more money as though that was the solution. "Compensation for your extra time and effort," he said as he tried to convince her.

Finally, with a sour expression, he accepted that he wouldn't change her mind and that Zoe's studio was the only option. I thought she'd had enough of the man and was likely to refuse the commission, but she surprised me by agreeing after proposing a price that was almost double her usual fee. Marcus didn't even flinch as he agreed.

They arranged for her to start in a month. She added the date and time of his first sitting to her appointment diary and wrote the details on one of her business cards. Then, she reminded him that she would need several images of his bed as a reference for the background. They shook hands again as he left; he held on to her hand for several seconds longer than I thought was necessary.

As I heard his car race down the drive, I commented, "He seriously wants a painting of himself naked on his bed! What an egotistical arsehole; why did you agree, for Christ's sake?" And why, I wondered, did he want a nude of himself?

"Because he's going to end up paying me an obscene amount of money, that's why. Although I agree he's an arsehole," then added in a whisper to herself that I could barely hear. "But an intriguing one."

------------------------

Over the next couple of weeks, life followed its regular pattern. Yet deep down, there was something about Marcus's and Zoe's reaction to him that kept niggling at me. Zoe was keen to give me the impression she wasn't concerned about the commission. I couldn't help wondering why, given Linda's seeming dislike of the man, she would provide Zoe's details to Marcus and apply pressure to get Zoe to accept Marcus as a client.

Finally, concern and curiosity got the better of me. On a Saturday, when Zoe was going to Brighton, and I knew Linda would be home alone, I gave her a call. I had a few hours; Zoe would show her favourite gallery owner several landscapes she hoped he would display in his gallery. They were in a looser, slightly abstract style she was experimenting with. She was happy with the results and wanted a second, informed opinion.

When I mentioned that I was calling to get an insight into Marcus, Linda fell silent before saying she needed to go shopping. She offered to meet for lunch, suggesting a pub on the Downs. When I arrived, she was already seated at a dark corner table. She was sipping a glass of red wine and had ordered a couple of rounds of sandwiches for us to share. I ordered a pint of best bitter and joined her.

I said hello and kissed her on the cheek. She greeted me and toyed with her drink before giving me a considered look and asked, "Have you met him?"

"Once, a couple of weeks ago. It was when he came to confirm the commission."

"Has Zoe met him other than that time?"

I shook my head, "Not yet; she's supposed to start next week," I told her. Linda looked relieved to hear that. I continued, "There's something about him that makes me uneasy. You were the one who recommended him to Zoe; what's going on?"

She gave me a guilty look. "Because he could have made my life intolerable if I hadn't."

Her guilty look transformed into one of concern. "It would be best if you kept an eye on him; I wouldn't leave him alone with her," she said.

Now, my spider senses were on full alert.

"He's got the gift of the gab," she added. "He could charm a bird from a tree. I've learnt how easily he can get under your skin."

I gave her a concerned look, "What do you mean?" I asked.

She hesitated and swallowed, "He's got a reputation as a womaniser, and his target of preference is married women. He's had at least three affairs with married women from our offices in the past six months, and he doesn't seem to care if he gets caught; in fact, he seems to enjoy it. One is getting divorced; the others are hanging on to their marriages by fingernails."

I looked at her in surprise, wondering why he still worked there, and she answered my unspoken question. "He gets away with it because his uncle is the board's chairman."

"Shit... how the hell did he ever hear about Zoe in the first place?"

She didn't answer immediately; she sat there twisting the corner of a paper napkin around her fingers. Finally, she breathed in and said, "That's my fault." She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Please, you need to promise me you'll never breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you. If you do, it could end my marriage. And I don't want you to discuss it with Zoe."

This sounded so unlike her that I sat back in my seat and carefully checked her expression. I had known Linda almost as long as I had Zoe, and they were like sisters. I couldn't recall when she'd wanted to keep a secret from Zoe.

I took a few moments to consider, sensed I needed her information, and didn't like my options. "That's not fair on me; I'll only agree to say nothing if it's something that doesn't directly affect my marriage. If it does, then all bets are off."

"But you won't mention what I tell you with Paul?" She repeated.

"If it turns out there's no reason, I'll stay quiet," I reluctantly agreed, giving her a straw to hold on to. Reluctantly because I needed to know, but accepting her request would tie my hands as I don't believe in breaking confidences. But I would if I had to, and she knew.

She looked at me, "You promise?" I heard the quiver in her voice and gave a brief nod.

She took a deep breath in and then let it out. "He knows about Zoe because he saw several photographs of her and the paintings she did of us when he was fucking me! I was one of his three affairs."

Of all the things she could have told me, this was the last I'd expected. I could see tears in the corner of her eyes, and she couldn't look at me.

"I know I sound like a bad cheating wife story, but I couldn't resist him; he was a whirlwind. I love Paul; I'd never contemplated having an affair. It was like my mind was saying one thing and my body another."

"How the hell did it happen?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

She sighed, "About three months ago, he asked me for support at a meeting with important American customers. It turned into an all-day meeting, and he decided to take them to dinner afterwards and insisted I join them. I guessed it would end late, as the company offered to book me a hotel room.

Paul was okay with it as he didn't want me to travel back here late at night. God, I wish I had now. Marcus talked me into spending the night with him, a combination of too much to drink and his forceful personality. I couldn't get enough of him, and in hindsight, I don't understand why; he's only a slightly better-than-average lover; Paul's miles better. I guess it was a case of forbidden fruit."

She looked at me to see how I was taking her revelation. I gestured for her to continue. She carried on in a monotone as if describing something that had happened to someone else.

"After that first time, I told him to leave me alone, and I meant it, but a week later, when I was working late, he walked into my office, and within a few moments, I was bent over my desk as he fucked me. I hated myself for being weak, but the forbidden raw sex was intoxicating. After that, he only had to get me on my own, and I wouldn't be able to resist. We continued like that for a torrid month; half the office knew something was happening between us."

I interrupted her monologue, not interested in the details of her sordid affair. All I wanted was to discover Marcus's current goal. "Linda, how is Zoe part of this?"

She held her hand up in a waiting gesture, "I'm getting to that. Remember a month ago; Paul was up north on that golfing weekend?" I nodded; she'd given him a golfing package for his 30th birthday, a weekend at St Andrews. He'd wanted me to go with him, but I couldn't think of anything less appealing. He went with his brother Tony, a jolly boys trip organised by both wives.

"Marcus turned up out of the blue at the house on Saturday night; I'd kept him clear of my family. I didn't know he knew where I lived, so I wasn't expecting him. Fortunately, the children were having a sleepover at my sister's, but I'm not sure their presence would have stopped him. He walked in like he owned the place and led me into the kitchen. Somehow, he'd learned that Paul was away, and the next moment, I'm sat on the kitchen counter, my panties pulled to one side, and he's thrusting into me like a mad man."

She'd begun squirming in her seat as she'd recounted the event, and realising, she gave me an embarrassed look. She whispered, "It felt fucking amazing, being taken like that. When he finished, he demanded I clean him up with my mouth."

"Jesus Christ, Linda," I snapped, sensing that she wasn't as upset about the affair as she was making out. "I don't want to hear the fucking details."

She gave me a hang-dog look and muttered, "Sorry." She drained her glass.

"He wanted to use the bedroom and saw those photos of Zoe and me on the landing wall--the ones Paul took on holiday last year. Marcus wanted to know who she was, so I showed him the paintings. The next thing I remember, he was fucking me on our bed."

"After we'd finished, I was lying on the bed and got a reality check. I looked around the room, and all I could see were things that reminded me of Paul and our children. I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid; it wasn't even great sex. I felt used and sick to my stomach. I threw up all over the carpet, screaming at Marcus to fuck off."

I still didn't understand, "Why, in God's name, after all that he did to you, would you point him in Zoe's direction?"

She looked at me with anguish written across her face, "Because he agreed to leave me alone and not tell Paul if I were to put in a good word for him and convince her to take his commission."

She held her hands out to me, tears in her eyes, and I took hold of them, resisting the temptation to grab her shoulders and give her a violent, satisfying shake, well gratifying for me.

She continued, "He tried to convince me that he was only interested in Zoe doing a painting for him, but I didn't believe him. The painting is a means to an end; he'll pile on the charm. I know how trusting Zoe can be, and I'm sorry, but I don't think she'll be able to resist him."

Fuck, this sounded serious. "I won't leave her alone with him, that I can promise you," I said. I meant that I agreed with Linda's assessment of Zoe. She was too trusting; there was a good chance she might not be aware of what he was doing until too late.

"I've got to get back," she said. "I didn't intend to give you all the gory details, but you needed to know how easily he can get to her." She gestured to herself. "I'm the prime example of how charming he can be. I guess he's already tried to get her on his own?"

"He did, but she shot him down. When she first started, there were a couple of awkward situations. Now, she'll only use the studio if she's working with a model, and even then, only if I'm close by."

"Good; if she can keep him at arm's length long enough, he'll get bored and look for easier prey. He's got the attention span of an insect. Just let me know when he's coming. I don't want to be around in case he takes it in his mind to try and see me again."

By now, I was seriously concerned. "Jesus, Linda, I don't see how to keep this from Zoe. She needs to know what an asshole he is!"

She looked at me, terrified. "Dave, you can't; if you tell her, Paul will find out. I know he will. I'll lose him, and it'll destroy our family. Please say you'll keep quiet." She waited for me to say something, anything.

I knew what she wanted to hear, so with false reluctance, I said, "I'll keep quiet for the moment, but only if you agree to talk to Zoe if the needs arise. You don't have to go into details about your affair, but you'll need to tell her what he's like. If you have to, you can say one of the other women confided in you."

Finally, she nodded her head and stood to leave. I rose, and she sobbed as she hugged me and then left. I sat back down and finished my pint, leaving the sandwiches uneaten, having lost my appetite. I tried to work out my options; frustratingly, there weren't many, and none auspicious. The obvious one was to tell Zoe about Linda's affair and accept the fallout, something I prefer not to have on my conscience. Yet if I had to, I would; my marriage trumped her hands down.

In the short term, I will do my best to convince Zoe to drop the commission, and if that option doesn't work, I will watch him like a hawk.

I set about implementing option two that evening, only to fall foul of another of her traits, which, fortunately for me, rarely raised its ugly head. Occasionally, she can be as stubborn as a mule if she thought she was in the right. Sadly, this turned out to be one of those times when she'd convinced herself she could handle Marcus and was doing this to help Linda. Nor did it help my case; as she pointed out, this was her most lucrative commission.

"We don't need his money," I said, "and in any case, I've been hearing some odd things about him."

I tried my best to give her a much-edited version of Linda's tale, and as I'd suggested to Linda, I made it sound like Marcus' affair had been with one of her work colleagues.

Zoe gave me a long, studied look. Then she said, "I'll be fine; just stay in earshot while he's around." She paused, "I'll try to cut his sittings down to the bare minimum; I can probably get away with half a dozen, maybe only five if I'm fortunate."

I nodded; that was probably the best I could hope for.

------------------------

Marcus turned on the charm the next time he met Zoe. I'd hoped I would only need to be vigilant during his time in the studio, and I intended to be present for each. Unfortunately, fate decided to rear its ugly head and decreed life wouldn't be that simple.

The following weekend was the Golf club's summer dance. As was usual, we'd gone as a foursome with Linda and Paul. Zoe looked beautiful and wore a flowing dark green cocktail dress; it was simple yet elegant, the hem falling to her knees. Underneath it, she was happy to tantalise me by wearing expensive French-designed skimpy lingerie in dark blue. Sheer black stay-up stockings add the final touch.

We'd arrived at the golf club in a good mood, having met up with our friends for an early dinner at a local restaurant. Bitter experience had taught us that the food served at the dance would be scanty and indifferent at best. As we ate, we discussed our plans for a joint skiing vacation for the following year. Siobhan and their two children were now old enough that we thought they would enjoy the experience.

This was the first time I'd seen Linda since we'd met at the pub; she was nervous around me, and I was cool to her. It was enough that Zoe pulled me aside as we left and wanted to know if Linda and I had an issue. I passed it off, saying I was still miffed at Linda over her involvement in the Marcus situation.

"I still think she should have checked with you before giving Marcus your details."

"She thought she was doing me a favour."

"One that could come back to bite us!" I pointed out.

"It's not her fault," Zoe insisted. "You need to apologise to her. I'm sure he will be a gentleman."

"He better be. If he isn't, I don't care how much he's paying you; he will be out on his ear. You saw how he treated me; remember, I'm just a carpenter," I retorted bitterly.

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "He did manage to wind you up. I'll ensure he understands that if he doesn't behave, I'll cancel the commission."

At the Golf club, we claimed a table off to the side of the stage where a local swing band played classic dance tunes. I enjoy dancing, especially with Zoe, but I'll admit, I'm not very good, and neither is Linda. I felt an achievement every time we completed a circuit of the floor without stepping on Zoe's feet. Zoe and Paul, on the other hand, were both excellent dancers, having taken dancing lessons as teenagers. There would usually come a point in the evening when Linda and I would step back and watch as we allowed our partners to demonstrate their skills. Zoe and Paul were in their element, floating gracefully across the floor.

We'd been there for a couple of hours when the situation changed. Linda and I were enjoying a drink as we watched Paul and Zoe circulating the dance floor, beginning to get into their rhythm. The tension between us had eased.

Then, my ongoing problem smacked me in the face. Linda casually glanced around the room, then started, going as pale as a ghost and beginning to shake. "No, no, no, he can't be here." Her eyes were fixed on the people standing by the bar over to the left of us.

I looked in the direction she was staring, and I couldn't see what was worrying her. Then the group shifted, and Marcus came into view, conversing with a blonde woman and another couple I thought I knew from somewhere. Marcus was casually resting one hand on the shoulder of the woman, and the other held a glass. She looked in her mid-thirties, a head shorter than her companion. Her blonde hair was cut in a pageboy bob with an expensive casual look. She wore a semi-formal gown that showed her curves, with a low neckline that barely constrained her ample breasts.

"What's he doing here?" I asked.

"I've no idea," she said anxiously. "He's not a member, so he must be a guest of the Paterson's."

Ahh, that's who the other couple were, and I mentally kicked myself; I should have recognised them. Roger and Lydia Paterson had bought one of my very early pieces, a sideboard.

"Who's the woman with him? Is it his wife?"

"No, he's not married. I've seen her here with the Paterson's before; she's Lydia's sister." She moved, easing herself behind me. "Look, can you get Paul for me? I can't stay here; I don't trust him. He's so arrogant he's likely to come over here to rub Paul up, and he will know something happened between us."

"Step behind that column," I told her, thinking quickly. "Marcus won't be able to see you from where he's standing. I'll tell Paul that you're feeling sick and need to go. The way you look at the moment, he'll believe it!"

We both kept an eye on Marcus while we talked. Linda stepped back behind the column, confirming Marcus couldn't see her. I move around the tables, intending to intercept the dancing couple while continuing to watch Marcus. He was casually looking around as he listened to his companion.

I could tell from the smile the moment he spotted Zoe dancing with Paul. It wasn't a casual smile, more the sort a hunter gave his prey. He took several steps in their direction but stopped when he saw me moving towards them. Carefully sidestepping the other dancers, I tapped Paul on the shoulder.

He looked surprised; it was unusual for me to interrupt them when they were in full flow. "Are you cutting in, Dave?" he wanted to know.

I shook my head, "No, it's not that. Not that I wouldn't want to dance with my lovely wife," I hastened to add as I saw her frown. "Linda needs you; she's not feeling well and wants to leave." They both turned to look at her.

"Christ, she looks rough," Paul said, and we returned to her.

It didn't take much for Linda to convince Paul they should leave. I would have been happy to go with them, but Zoe had other ideas. There were a couple of our friends she wanted to speak to before we left.

"I just need fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most," she explained, "I promised to have a quick word with Sarah and Geraldine. Can you get me a glass of wine?"

"I haven't seen Sarah, but I think I saw Geraldine on the terrace a little earlier," I offered.

"Thanks," she said as she headed toward Sarah.

The bar was busy, so ordering our drinks took me a few minutes. Then an old college mate waylaid me as I started to look for her. It took me ten minutes to escape him and resume my search for Zoe. I looked around the room and saw Sarah but not Zoe. The Patersons sat at a nearby table. Lydia's sister was with them, but I couldn't see Marcus. Linda's words rattled around my head. "Don't let him be alone with her."

She's probably on the terrace, I thought and headed outside. The evening was still warm with a gentle cooling breeze. The terrace was dotted with groups of tables and chairs, lit by strings of fairy lights and flickering oil lamps. It took my eyes a moment to adapt. At first, I couldn't see her, but finally, I spotted her sitting with Geraldine at a table in the far corner of the terrace, half hidden by a bush in a pot.

There was no sight of Marcus, and I began to relax as I walked over, only to tense up as he came into view, sitting on a chair on the far side of Zoe, hidden behind the bush. His hand was casually resting on Zoe's forearm, and she laughed at something he'd just said.

He must have sensed me approaching as his hand unhurriedly fell to his side, and he eased his chair away from Zoe. I suspect he would have liked to make his excuses and leave before I finished weaving around the intervening tables. Unfortunately for him, he'd managed to box himself into a corner and couldn't extricate himself fast enough.

I placed Zoe's drink before her and pulled a chair from a nearby table. I squeezed in between Zoe and Geraldine. It put me opposite Marcus, and he shuffled in his chair to move even further from Zoe and face Geraldine.

I said hi, kissed Geraldine on the cheek, and Zoe squeezed my hand. One of those awkward silences settled on us as I stared at Marcus.

The pregnant pause continued until Marcus decided to break the silence. He looked in my direction and said, "I was looking for you, but I found these two beautiful women first." I was slightly surprised, and Geraldine's expression must have mirrored mine.

"Oh," I said. It was not my most intelligent response, but I was intrigued to see where this was going.

"Yes ... Well, I was over at the Patersons's for drinks earlier this evening," he said. "I'm a good friend of Lydia's sister, Silvia," he added and continued. "I saw their amazing sideboard. Lydia was telling me you made it."

I nodded; it's one of my first pieces," adding, "Not bad for a carpenter," remembering what he'd called me.

Marcus appeared to ignore my comment, but I saw Zoe looking embarrassed and Geraldine confused. "I'd be interested in commissioning something similar," he said. "An entertainment cabinet for my place in town. What would the damage be?"

I gave him a predatory smile; I wasn't interested in taking a commission from him, which is probably why I said what I said next.

"I'm afraid not; my order book is full for at least another two years; I'm only accepting commissions from previous clients. Mind you, if I even considered it, it'd set you back north of thirty-five grand, with a ten grand non-refundable deposit."

Not that I was ever going to make him anything. As soon as the first question a potential customer asks is 'how much', I'm usually not interested in producing anything for them.

In hindsight, (isn't that such a marvellous thing!) I now regret saying that, as I suspect that's when the situation turned from being a bit of fun for Marcus and became a serious game, with Zoe as the prize. If he couldn't get me to do what he wanted, then he'd try and take something precious to me. I know I regretted being as blunt as I was.

"That's a lot of money for furniture," he commented dryly. Then, shifting to face Zoe, he said, "I'm looking forward to starting with you next week. I do so admire your work."

Zoe blushed, making her look even cuter. She tried to defend me, saying, "Dave doesn't make 'just' furniture. His are physical representations of art."

Marcus held up his hands in mock surrender. "I wasn't trying to trivialise David's skill, but compared to your work, I know which I prefer."

Zoe is humble when it comes to her work. She still finds it difficult to accept people like it as much as they do, making her vulnerable to praise. I watched her glow in the praise as Marcus carried on commenting on the various pieces of hers he'd seen. I'll say one thing for him: he'd done his homework, and he said just the right things. She went from embarrassed to happy with a hint of adoration in a few minutes. Watching her bask in his phoney admiration confirmed I had a fight on my hands.

Geraldine came to my rescue, announcing that she needed to 'powder her nose' and taking a slightly reluctant Zoe. I'm a man; can someone tell me why women don't seem to be able to go to the bathroom on their own when they are out in public? I didn't care this time, as it got Zoe away from Marcus. Reading the expression on Geraldine's face, I saw that she was about to have a quiet word with Zoe.

I could sense that Marcus wanted to carry on, but I had decided that he'd done enough damage for the evening. I turned my back on him and headed indoors to intercept Zoe on her return.

I found her and Geraldine near the corridor to the restrooms. Zoe looked somewhat embarrassed as Geraldine gestured animatedly as she spoke to her. Geraldine fell silent as I approached; Zoe hugged her and then came over and hugged me.

"Can we leave, please?" she asked. She turned to Geraldine, "Come see me on Monday, please." Geraldine agreed, and we left.

I glanced back and glimpsed Marcus by the entrance to the terrace, watching us leave. I resisted the temptation to give him the finger and, instead, wrapped my arm around Zoe, resting my hand on her bottom, ensuring he saw me. She moved in closer and put her arm around my waist.

"I love you," I whispered into her ear.

"I know, I don't deserve you." She whispered back.

We'd reached the car, and I turned her to face me. "I've loved you from the first day we met. You are everything to me. Every night, I fall asleep grateful for another day with you and Siobhan."

She buried her face into my chest, and I heard her whisper, "I love you so much it hurts."

We drove back home in silence, her hand delicately caressing my thigh. Jane, the babysitter, told us our daughter had been a little angel. She's the eighteen-year-old daughter of our next-door neighbours. I paid her and, as per usual, gave her a lift home. Although she lived next door, in her case, next door was a farm a good half a mile down a dark and lonely road.

By the time I got back, Zoe had checked on Siobhan and changed out of her dress into her comfy clothes. She had poured me a glass of my favourite single malt and a glass of wine for herself. I hung my jacket over the back of a chair and tossed my tie on the table. We took our drinks to the patio, as the evening was still warm. She sat next to me on the bench and curled up against me.

I sat there for a few moments trying to decide the best way to broach the question of Marcus's behaviour, but Zoe was the first to break the silence.

"Geraldine is worried about Marcus's intentions; she feels he has an ulterior motive. I told her she was being silly; he was just being pleasant."

"She's not the only one who thinks that!"

"Don't tell me you are jealous of him, too."

My voice went cold, "Why the hell would I be jealous? I don't trust him," I retorted. "I told you what Linda said about him last week, that he's got a bit of a reputation as a womaniser around her office and has been hitting on some of her colleagues. Now she's discovered he's already had a couple of office affairs this year, and one of the women is now in the middle of a nasty divorce."

"You didn't tell me that before; when did you learn about that?"

"Linda saw him this evening and mentioned it in passing. She only found out about the divorce a couple of days ago." I was making it up on the fly. I didn't care if Zoe checked my story with Linda; that was her problem. But if it made Zoe question Marcus, I'd be happy with the outcome.

Zoe shook her head, "Dave, I'm happy. No, make that; I'm very happily married. There are only two people I love, and they are both here with me now. You've got nothing to worry about." She stroked my arm, which was wrapped around her.

She raised her head, and her lips sought mine, working their way up my neck and trailing little kisses until they found my waiting mouth.

I surrendered to her passion as she swung a leg over my lap and sat facing me. She held my head in both hands, stared deeply into my eyes, and whispered, "There has only been, and there will only be one man in my life, and that's you."

I replied the only way I could. I picked her up, and she wrapped her arms and legs around me. I carried her upstairs to our bed and made love to her until the wee hours of the morning.

------------------------

The rest of the weekend passed without any incidents. Zoe spoke to both Linda and Geraldine. I wasn't privy to those conversations, but afterwards, Geraldine and I talked.

Zoe had to go to Brighton Monday afternoon for a meeting with her gallery owner. She'd decided to take Siobhan with her to get new shoes.

I was in my workshop starting work on my next commission: a large piece in three parts, a glass-fronted display cabinet to be set between two matching bookcases. The three pieces were for the office of the chairman of a private bank in Switzerland. It would be a lot of work and take me at least four weeks to finish. I selected the pieces of wood I was going to need.

The bell in the workroom rang. I'd fitted a sensor at the entrance of our drive that rang a series of bells in the studio block and the house. It wasn't a security measure, per se, but a heads-up that someone was visiting. It had saved Zoe and me from several embarrassing situations in the past. Geraldine pulled up and got out of her car.

"Geraldine, how is 'my learned friend'," I asked with a smile.

She grinned at me, "I think you should beg the court for mercy and offer a cup of coffee as a bribe."

I kissed her on the cheek, and we headed into the office. I poured us both a cup of coffee, and we sat down.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," I told her. "What did I do to deserve this visit?"

She gave me a darkly piercing stare that looked deep inside my soul. It made me understand why she was so feared in court. She may be one of the country's youngest female QC, but that hasn't stopped her from already gaining a fearsome reputation.

"What's going on with Zoe and this Marcus chap?" She asked bluntly.

"I'm not sure," I replied. I held my hand up to forestall the follow-up question on her lips. "Nothing from Zoe's side, I'm sure, but I think it's pretty obvious Marcus's got more on his mind than just a painting."

I gave her chapter and verse on all I'd been told about Marcus without giving up my source.

"Summing it all up," she said, "He's a womaniser, a player, and you think Zoe is his next game."

I nodded.

She nodded sagely, "Well, that explains what I saw on Saturday night. He first mentioned he'd been looking for you when you sat down. Before that, he had laid it on Zoe thickly, and she lapped it up. Why, in god's name, haven't you put your foot down and told her to drop him?"

I gave her a surprised look. Did she think I was that naive? "Don't you think I haven't tried," I said exasperatedly. "Unfortunately, as you know, it's not that simple. We've never interfered in each other's careers; if I start now, she'll go all defensive. At least this way, I stand a chance of controlling the situation. If I try to make her block his access, I'm sure he will create other opportunities to meet her outside my control." I shrugged my shoulders. "In any case, I've already tried, and she shot me down. She's convinced that she's on top of the situation."

She sighed, "I suppose you are right, but it's a risky option. It's clear that he's intelligent and charming. Look how he made it seem like he was only talking to her while he waited to speak to you. And he was very smooth with his compliments; Zoe was lapping them up," she pointed out.

"I noticed," I replied bitterly. "He was only made aware of her a few weeks ago. But he must have studied up on her, as it seemed he knew a lot about her on Saturday. She's always been vulnerable to compliments because she doesn't completely believe in her abilities."

I gestured at a couple of her paintings in the office's gallery half. "Christ knows why; I mean, look at these. She's outstanding!"

"So it's a 'Catch 22' situation for you."

Not exactly how I would have described my situation, but I could see why she thought that. "True, but remember, I've got a secret weapon in Siobhan. From what I've gathered, he's not interested in long-term relationships. For him, it's all about the hunt and that first kill. I need to make it, so it's not worth his time and effort."

"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

I shook my head, "He doesn't scare me, at least not physically. He's all show and bluff, and we are financially sound. But if he hurts her or my daughter, there's a chance I might need your professional services."

Geraldine hesitated momentarily, then gave me a brief smile, "Give me a tenner," she insisted.

I handed her a ten-pound note from the cash box, wondering why she wanted it.

"Good, you've hired me to act for you; I'll get the Clerk of my chambers to write a contract. Let's be prepared, just in case." Then she asked, "When is his first sitting?"

"It's supposed to be on Thursday."

"Okay, keep me updated, but I have to go. I've got a court case tomorrow I need to prepare for."

We stood up, and I escorted her back to her car.

As she got into the car, she kissed and hugged me. She said, "Don't forget that I love the three of you, and you need to give my goddaughter a kiss from me."

I smiled as I watched her drive away. Then, I grew serious as I walked back to my workshop. I continued selecting the lengths of wood I needed for my next project, but my heart wasn't in it. I pondered the situation I'd found myself in. I believed our relationship was solid, but I also had no idea how far Marcus would be willing to go. I realised I needed to have to have another talk with Linda. I needed her first-hand knowledge of Marcus to counter his seduction technique.

Zoe knew I was tense and preoccupied over the next few days. My next talk with Linda did little to ease my fears. She hadn't wanted to meet, but I insisted. We met in the same pub on Tuesday; I'd been to my suppliers and called in on my way back. I knew how much she loved Paul and their children, and I was concerned at how easily Marcus had managed to seduce her. I needed to know how he did it. The trouble was that she couldn't identify any single thing he did

"He seems to know exactly what to say and when to say it," she said in exasperation. "He ticked all my boxes, and I was in bed with him before I knew it. He made me question my love for Paul, so I will never forgive him."

She was close to tears, and she had to take several deep breaths before she could continue. "He's an absolute master at making you feel important, making you feel that he's got your best interests in mind. We'd had a couple of pleasant conversations before that evening in London, but nothing out of the ordinary. That evening, he was his usual self, charming and a perfect gentleman when we wined and dined with the Americans. He made me feel important; he kept deferring to me when they asked us a question. It seemed so natural to agree when he suggested we visit his room for a nightcap to evaluate the meeting. He was a force of nature; he kissed me, and I was lost."

She squeezed my hand. "You won't want to hear this, Dave, but for those few hours, he made my world rock. I couldn't have stopped myself more than I could stop the tide coming in."

"Shit," was all I could say in response.

"There is a silver lining to this, but it won't help you now."

I was willing to grasp at any straw. "What is it?" I asked.

"Once you finally see what lies beneath the veneer and you find the real Marcus, he loses his charm and never gets it back. All three of us say the same thing about him."

"So I just need him to show her the real Marcus before anything happens; any ideas on achieving that?"

Sadly, she shook her head.

------------------------

The sun dawned on Thursday, and I girded my loins in preparation for meeting my nemesis. Ultimately, it was anticlimactic. He arrived on time, driving sedately along the drive. He sat for Zoe, and I watched and listened to them through the office's open door. Apart from some artist-to-model-appropriate comments, nothing much was said. He thanked her as he left and waved to me through the open door.

I felt like a complete fraud, and I guess that was his plan. Zoe said nothing, but she'd known I'd not been working for the three hours he sat for her. I'd never done that before; I'd always been around, but I hadn't stopped working.

At breakfast, on the day of his next appointment, I got the 'I want to know that you're around if I need you, but you know you don't have to stop working' speech.

I compromised by working quietly and keeping the power tools switched off. The doors between the studio and the workshop stayed open. I could hear snatches of their conversation, and while most were seemingly innocuous, he was constantly complimenting her.

After he had left, I saw her scribbling in her appointment diary. I recalled she'd hoped it would only take four or possibly five sittings to complete the structure of the painting. She'd pencilled in an additional six sittings; he would be here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the next three weeks. This wasn't good, and if he was such an influential businessman, how was he managing to free up all this extra time?

"Why do you need all these extra sessions?" I wanted to know.

"He wants the canvas to be a much more involved piece than we originally discussed, and he's pushing for it to be finished for the first of next month."

Damn, that was convenient. Suddenly, he had a deadline, one that would ensure additional one-on-one time with my wife.

"You don't like working to a deadline," I said pointedly. "It's not what you agreed to, and I hope you are increasing the price accordingly."

"When I accepted the commission, I wasn't aware there was a deadline. He has to travel most of next month and wants it finished before he leaves."

"And you are happy with that?"

"Not totally, but he was so sweet when he asked. I found I couldn't say no."

"And you've increased the price to reflect the extra work?"

"I didn't consider that."

"Well, you should have!" I snapped back.

She must have seen my face when I said that and realising I wasn't happy she came and hugged me. "I'll send him a message that given the changes he is requesting and the extra time it will take, the fee will have to increase. Darling, you know nothing's going to happen. I love you too much to think about another man." Then she laughed, "And you've got a better body than his."

She pushed me back, and I fell onto the sofa. She clambered on top of me and started to unbutton my shirt. She ran her fingers across my chest and kissed and sucked on my nipples.

"This body is all I ever want," she murmured. She held her arms up, and I pulled her top off and unclasped her bra. She shrugged it off and lay back down on me. Her hard nipples pressed against my chest, and our lips tangled.

It seemed like a magic trick, but seconds later, we were both naked and giving the poor springs of our venerable old sofa a hearty bashing.

A phone call to Linda the following morning confirmed my suspicions about his new timeline. Checking with Marcus's assistant, she discovered he had lied to Zoe. The only thing in his diary was a two-day trip planned for the following month. His deadline was just a ruse for more time with Zoe, and the desire for a more elaborate painting had been for the same reason.

------------------------

I sat in the garden later that afternoon; it had been my day to collect our daughter from school, so I'd packed up early and picked her up. Siobhan was currently redecorating the kitchen with the help of her mother. Discretion is one of my wiser traits; I'd taken myself to the patio to nurse a beer.

After several bottles of a locally brewed strong ale, I concocted a cunning plan as Baldrick would propose to Blackadder. The next day I would casually drop a hint that as I may have been mistaken about Marcus, I might as well see if he was serious about the piece of furniture he'd mentioned. Then, I intended to contact his assistant and make an appointment to see him while he was supposedly travelling. And just like that, I would have proved he was a liar.

A couple of more beers and my plan was in tatters. Of course, Zoe would know why I'd tried to make an appointment. For Christ's sake, all I had to do was ask him face-to-face on his next visit. I mentally got Blackadder to hit me.

Then there was the flip side: maybe I was becoming paranoid and obsessed over Zoe's reaction to Marcus. I'd seen no changes in the Zoe I knew. She was still just as loving as she'd ever been. There were no secret phone calls or any other evidence she was taking an unhealthy interest in Marcus, and I think she was getting worried about me.

She brought me out of my musing with a kiss on my neck. She looked at the row of beer bottles before me, an unusual sight for me, and said, "Are we okay, love? You seem worried."

I should have been honest with her, but I wasn't. I took the coward's way out, hugging her and telling her everything was fine.

------------------------

Monday was the first of Marcus's additional sessions, and I worked quietly with the connecting doors open. Snatches of conversation and the odd laugh drifted through the doors. I was packing up when he left, as it was my turn to collect our daughter. I followed him down the drive; he turned left, and I turned the other way. When I collected Siobhan, her teacher reminded me that I had agreed to help erect a climbing frame and play set with several other fathers on Wednesday afternoon.

Damn, damn, that was Marcus's next appointment, and there was no way I could back out of my commitment.

When we got back, I told Zoe the news: "There is a problem with his next appointment. I'd completely forgotten I had agreed to help at the kindergarten. "I can't get out of it, as it was my bloody idea in the first place. You are going to need to reschedule Marcus."

"I can't see that being a problem," she replied. "He's been very charming and understanding so far." She tried calling him, but he wasn't picking up. Then she called his office and spoke to his assistant. I heard Zoe tell her that she was cancelling Marcus's appointment on Wednesday due to a scheduling issue, but she'd see him at his next planned appointment on Friday, and then she rang off.

"That's sorted," she said. "I can use the time to put the finishing touches to Geraldine's portrait."

That Wednesday morning, I loaded a toolbox in the back of our old Land Rover and headed into the village. Four other parents had volunteered, and we spent the next few hours demolishing the old, dilapidated climbing frame and replacing it with a new wooden play set that meet the council regulations.

I could have offered to make a replacement for the school, but another parent had bought it from a commercial source. Only the installation fee the supplier wanted was ridiculous, so it had been suggested we do it ourselves. We were finished by three, and as Siobhan finished at half past, I waited to collect her from her teacher. I admired the painting she showed me of the parents working on the play set, and we headed home.

As we passed our neighbour's farm, I saw what looked like Marcus's Porsche turning out of our drive in the distance. He drove off in the other direction, and I churned over the implications. I checked my phone, and it was switched on. There were no missed calls or texts. Had he only just arrived, and she'd sent him away, or had he turned up for his cancelled appointment? In which case, what had they been doing for the past two hours?

I pulled up in the courtyard, and Zoe appeared from the studio door. I unbuckled Siobhan from her car seat, and as soon as I put her down, she ran over to her mother, clasping the painting she'd done in class.

"Mummy, look at my painting!" she cried, holding it. Zoe picked her up and considered the painting.

"It's very nice, pumpkin," she said. "I love the tree in the background, blue bark and the yellow leaves, and is that daddy and his friends?"

"Daddy built the playground, and I can't wait to play on it."

"Isn't daddy wonderful?" She turned to me and asked, "Can you lock up? We will go and start supper."

"Sure," I told her, and she took Siobhan into the house. Not a word about her visitor; did I imagine the car? No, I sighed, exasperated; I'm sure it was his 911. I walked into her studio and checked out checked his canvas. There were a few wet paint patches, evidence that she'd been working on it that afternoon. Geraldine's painting didn't look like it had been touched. I sat down on the sofa in the office and shut my eyes. It was obvious that Marcus had been there; Zoe only ever painted the details of a portrait from life. I guess he'd made his move. The unanswered question was, how big a move, and what ground had I lost?

I entered the kitchen, and Zoe put a casserole into the oven. Siobhan was standing on her step stool at the kitchen table.

"I helped mummy cut the carrots," my daughter proudly told me.

"That's clever of you." Then, watching Zoe, I casually asked. "Was that Marcus's car I saw coming out of our drive earlier?"

She stiffened and said softly, "Umm, yes, it was. He said his assistant didn't pass on my message, so he arrived at about two o'clock. I was working on Geraldine's portrait and told him he needed to go as you weren't around. He was rather upset, so in the end, I spent some time working on his face. That way, he didn't need to get undressed." That was rather odd, as well as work on the facial area; some of the wet paint I'd seen had been around the lower torso. She could have just been working from memory, or was she lying to me?

I felt my resentment growing, but I managed to maintain my temper. I acknowledged her comments, returned to the workshop and confirmed my earlier impressions. Zoe had just lied to me; there was no evidence she'd even looked at Geraldine's painting.

I worked until I was called for supper, and my anger was evident in my shoddy work. I'd have to start that piece all over again. Our conversation was stilted and somewhat low-key over supper as Siobhan ate with us. I cleared up afterwards and washed the dishes as Zoe read Siobhan her bedtime story.

I was sitting on the terrace nursing a beer when she came and sat beside me. I could see she looked upset, but so was I, and I couldn't help myself.

"Damn it, Zoe, It was at your request we decided you would never be on your own with any model, and he knew the rules. You should have just sent him away." I kept my voice low as I didn't want to wake Siobhan, but I was upset, and she knew it from my tone. "And why didn't you tell me he'd been here earlier? I shouldn't have had to ask you."

"But nothing happened, Dave. I called his office and cancelled; you were with me when I made the call. He just turned up and wasn't keen to go when I asked him. Given his travel plans, he was upset it would be a wasted trip. Ultimately, it was simpler to do a bit on the portrait and keep him happy."

"I still don't understand why you didn't call me. You know how I feel about him." Again, he was going on about his upcoming travel, yet if Linda was to be believed, he had no extensive travel plans. Had he not gotten the message? Or was that another lie?

Zoe looked distressed, "I don't understand why you are so upset, and he's just a client. Nothing happened; he was charming, a perfect gentleman. I think you'd like him if you got to know him."

Linda's words from the last time we spoke came rushing back to me. 'He's a master at making you feel important, that he's got your best interests in mind'.

I held out my hand, and she took it timidly. I whispered, "Zoe, if you love us, please don't do anything you regret."

"I have no intention of doing anything I would regret," she said. "You need to trust me, and I'd never put you or Siobhan in any harm."

We left it there and sat silently until it was late enough that neither of us felt guilty going to bed. Zoe curled up with her back to me, but I don't think she fell asleep for a long time. I know I didn't.

We were quiet at breakfast, and Siobhan sensed something wasn't right; for a five-year-old, she was very perceptive. I dropped her off at school that morning as Zoe had a client sitting at nine, a young woman whose grandparents wanted a portrait of her for their anniversary. I puttered around the workshop, using a bandsaw to divide a thick plank of windfall Elm lengthways, ending up with two pairs, each with a mirror of the beautiful grain on their inner face. I ran them through the planner and then sanded the surface. I intended to use them on a future project for a series of cupboard doors.

I was humming to myself; working with the wood had greatly improved my discomfort. Zoe came into my workshop after her client had left, stood on the far side of the bench I was working at, and handed me a mug of tea.

"What will you do tomorrow when he's here?" she asked, her tone suggesting she was tired of my attitude.

I put down the plane I'd been using and brushed the shavings from my overalls, playing for time. Her mention of his name raised the hairs on the back of my neck. "Whatever is necessary," I said pointedly.

Zoe gave me an exasperated look.

"I'm sorry," I said with a degree of anger. "The guy pisses me off, and it's a pity you can't seem to see beneath his smarmy manner. Does he need to be here? Can't you work from photos this time?"

She shook her head. "If I thought I could, I would, but you know that's not how I work."

"I wish you'd never taken this commission. I don't trust him."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think you're being rational about this. Marcus's been the perfect gentleman every time we've met."

I groaned, "And that's the problem; from what Linda tells me, all the women who have had affairs with him say that he's the perfect gentleman, all the while he's leading them to his bed."

"It's always Linda's friend who says this or that," she said tensely. "But how can she honestly tell? It's not like she's the one that's had the alleged affair."

I had to look away; this was the crux of my problem. I knew Linda was describing her own first-hand experience of Marcus's technique, but I'd told her I wouldn't mention her involvement unless I had to. Although it was close, I wasn't convinced we'd reached that point where I was willing to destroy her marriage. I'd ask her again if she would like to talk to Zoe. If she weren't willing, I'd take the initiative myself.

"I trust you, love, and I won't get in the way tomorrow. Just don't take everything he says or does at face value." I said.

"I'll be careful," she replied, and she came around my bench and hugged me. I suppose the unasked question was, did she intend to be careful around Marcus or me?

------------------------

I had been experimenting with a reasonably new woodworking technique that was gaining popularity. This technique allowed you to use pieces of timber previously deemed unsuitable for creating large-sized desks or countertops. It involved using a specialised epoxy resin to fill the voids. Metaphorically, I saw the similarity between that and the situation I found myself in. I needed to prevent Marcus from creating voids in my marriage and find my version of the epoxy to ensure we stayed bonded.

Marcus reverted to form on his next visit, announcing his arrival in his usual flamboyant style, scattering gravel, which didn't help my attitude. He strolled through the door and greeted Zoe with a kiss on her cheek before glancing in my direction.

"I'd expect an educated man like you to be able to read," I commented sarcastically. Marcus gave me a confused look.

"Only," I continued, "I'd swear there's a fucking great big sign on the gate warning visitors of the presence of children and animals and requesting them to drive slowly. If you find that difficult to understand, I will need you to park in the lay-by at the entrance."

Marcus's expression turned angry, and I don't think he appreciated the criticism. "It's a powerful car..."

I interrupted, "And you've got a heavy right foot. I don't want to see that again."

Zoe looked anxious and hurriedly escorted Marcus in the direction of the studio. At the doorway, she looked in my direction and gave me a worried smile. I gave her a shrug, and they entered the studio and saw Marcus reach out and close the door behind them. I was getting up to open it when the door opened again.

Zoe stood in the doorway and gave me an embarrassed smile. "Sorry."

She propped the door open with the doorstop and said, "Marcus, the door stays open."

"Oh, okay, it's only the last time I got a cold draft from the open door."

"I've got a fan heater I can use should you get cold,"

She gave me an apologetic glance before turning around and stepping back into her studio. I sat down again and returned to my search. Thirty minutes and several calls later, I'd found a supplier with what I was looking for, plus he had some other rare timber with the required import documentation. Those I knew I'd be able to use on upcoming projects. There was a background murmur of voices from the studio all the time. My head had swivelled in their direction when she laughed briefly at something he'd said.

A slightly longer laugh came from the studio, and I glanced up in annoyance. That's when what he had complained about earlier finally registered. If, as Zoe had said, she'd only painted his face on Wednesday, why had he been going on about the draft? Given the suit he usually wore, he could only have felt a draft if he had been undressed. The trouble was that it left me with two scenarios: either Zoe was lying to me, or Marcus had been trying to use it to get Zoe to work behind a closed door.

I spent the next few minutes finalising the orders until my growing sense of unease caused me to stop. I did something I only rarely do while she was with a client. I stepped into the office to a point where I could observe her and Marcus. I surveyed the scene in front of me. At least Marcus wasn't naked, but given the minuscule size of the well-filled posing pouch he wore, he might as well have been.

He was enthroned on a wide padded bench, standing in for a bed. Positioned such that his head faced away from the doorway, so I wasn't in his line of sight. Zoe was bent over her palette, her back to me, as she added paint from a tube, blending a colour to use.

Marcus was halfway through a conversation, "... good opportunity for you. I mean it; the owner of that gallery is a friend, and I guarantee he'll be happy to show your work. From what I've seen of your other pieces, you have great talent and deserve to be seen by a wider audience."

Her cheeks blushed as she responded, "I keep telling you I don't have that level of talent, and several local galleries already represent me, but thank you." She gestured with her free hand toward my workshop without looking away from the palette she held in the other. "If you want to see true talent, then when you leave, look at the piece Dave's just finished; that shows how talented he is."

"Oh, come on," he said softly, never taking his eyes off her face. "You're being modest again. There's no comparison; you have much more talent than a furniture maker. He makes stuff you could buy from a store in the mall. He's not an outstanding artist like you."

"That's not true. He's much better than that, and I doubt I'm as good as you think."

He briefly shook his head, refuting her statement, and then, seeing her smile, said, "That's better. You look beautiful when you smile."

She giggled and then sighed as she put down her brush. "And now you are being silly. You've moved again slightly."

She stepped over to him, gently tilted his head a couple of inches, and ran a finger along his cheek. He turned his face and kissed her fingers; she giggled and moved his head back to its original position. His hand reached out to stroke the back of her leg.

My anger rose to breaking point, and I heard myself growl. That was far, far more than was acceptable. I stepped into her studio, heading straight toward them. Zoe started at the sound and my movement; she turned in my direction and went white as she saw the expression on my face. His head swung round, and a hint of a grin flickered across his face that quickly vanished as he took in my clenched fists.

Zoe's mouth opened and closed several times before she said, "Dave, I err.."

I looked at Zoe, holding her eyes, silencing her with an unspoken command. I stepped around her and moved closer to Marcus.

"Get dressed and go," I said in an icy monotone, my face rigid in anger.

He made no move to get up, ignoring me and returning his gaze to Zoe, "I don't think so; that's up to Zoe. Our time is not over. There's still another hour to go," he complained.

"That wasn't a request! You are done for today," I said icily, stepping closer, and was pleased to see him flinch as I scooped his clothes from the nearby chair and tossed them in his direction, not caring that they fell to the floor directly on a patch of spilt paint.

Zoe didn't take her eyes off me, and then, without looking in his direction, she said softly, "Dave is right, Marcus. You better go."

He hesitated, and then, in one languid motion, he stood. Moving to place the couch between us, he pulled on his clothes. All the time, nobody spoke.

He approached her as he was walking out of the studio. She turned away from him, moving closer to me. He shrugged and stepped towards the door, I said in a level voice as he reached it. "Don't bother coming back until we contact you."

At Zoe's anguished look, I compromised and added, "We will call you next week to inform you of the date of your next appointment."

Anger made his face flush. "If you say so," he growled. "But Zoe, please don't forget the deadline. I will hold you to it."

"Marcus," I said with as much contempt as I could squeeze into that one word.

He paused in mid-stride.

"Our customer contacts have never allowed a client to impose a deadline," I said. "We don't work to them, and you don't just get to impose one because it suits you. I'm this close," I said as I held my hand up for him to see my finger and thumb almost touching. "To insist she drops the bloody commission and trashes the damn painting," I concluded.

He glared at me and shrugged, "Fine, Zoe, I will call on Monday to check." With that, he left.

I stepped to the doorway to see him enter his car and drive off, scattering more gravel in his wake. I found Zoe slumped on the sofa in the office.

She looked up at me with a fearful expression; I think she expected me to be full of rage and anger. I was, but mainly at the arrogant bastard, not her. A master manipulator was playing her. This was a game, one he was very good at and seemingly enjoyed playing. Nor did he care how many people he hurt pursuing his targets. I'd knocked him back, but I knew that wouldn't stop him from attempting to achieve his goal.

When I looked at her, disappointment was my driving emotion. How many times did I need to warn her?

"Dave, nothing happened, believe me," she whispered.

I sat beside her, and she rested her head on my arm. "That's not what I saw. If I hadn't come in, how far would you have gone? You feel something for him, don't you?" I said.

She whimpered and started to shake her head. Then she stopped and looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, "I don't know. Honestly, it was just a bit of harmless flirting. He's fun and interesting to talk to. So many of my clients sit there saying nothing. He wants to know all about me... us."

"He doesn't seem to think much of me, does he? I'm just a furniture maker." I couldn't keep the irritation from my voice. Knowing what they had been discussing, I told her I'd listened to them for a while.

"David," she only ever called me by my full name when upset with me. "You are one of the most talented furniture makers in the country."

She held one of my hands between hers, "You have more skill in this hand than I have in both of mine."

I ignored her comment, asking, "But what will you do?"

She squeezed my hand. "I want to finish the painting. Please, don't insist I stop. I can feel it's going to be one of my best pieces. I know he's arrogant and condescending to you, but he's also charming, and those emotions are coming through in the painting." She paused and added casually, "And he's agreed that I could submit it to the Royal Academy."

My anger spiked. Shit, I'd been trying to convince her to submit one of her paintings to the Academy for years. The only piece she'd ever considered had been depicting me working at my bench, and she'd continually refused to submit it.

"Well, isn't that fucking wonderful," I snapped. "How often have I tried to get you to submit a piece? Yet one word from him, and it's 'yes sir, three bags fucking full sir'." A rising temptation to tear the canvas from the easel and smash it to the floor was a siren call to my anger, and I started to get to my feet.

Zoe clutched at my arm, tears appearing as she pulled me back beside her. "I ... I, it's not what it seems. I've no idea if I will submit it. He mentioned it in passing, and I thought, why not? Until it's finished, I won't know if it's good enough."

"You need to think carefully about where this could lead. We don't need that damn man's money."

She looked at me sadly. "Please, I don't care about the money; I've already invested too much in it. Even you can see it's too good to leave unfinished," she begged, forcing me to give the piece a second more critical evaluation. And she was right; the canvas oozed power and emotion even in its current unfinished state.

Fuck it, I thought bitterly, it would destroy her if I forced her to stop, and I hated to consider how that decision would affect our marriage.

With anger still evident, I said, "Call him and ensure he understands that he's not to turn up on Monday. There will not be a repeat of last Wednesday's conveniently lost message."

She nodded, "I understand. I'll ensure he understands he's not to turn up until he's told. Can we discuss what will happen later when you've calmed down?"

I agreed, hoping the extra time would allow me to devise a solution. Glancing at the clock and eager to change the subject, I asked, "Do you want me to pick up Siobhan?"

I saw her shoulders begin to relax, grateful for the change of topic. She shook her head, picking up the car keys from the desk. "No, it's my turn." She paused in the doorway and suggested, "Why don't we all go to Brighton, let Siobhan enjoy the pier, and get something to eat?"

"Sounds like a good idea," I thought for a moment; something about her attitude made me remind her of one of our upcoming responsibilities. "Don't forget that Siobhan's half term is the week after next, and we agreed to close the studios."

She stopped what she was doing and looked at me; the implication hit her. The upcoming half-term would mean she'd effectively lost another week from Marcus's newly imposed deadline. From the look on her face, she hadn't considered that. She knew that after today's debacle, it would be at least several days before I'd consider relenting, and she'd be able to continue working on the painting. At best, she might get one more session before the vacation.

As work-from-home parents, we'd got used to having our daughter around all the time, sharing her care around our work. When Siobhan reached school age, the void in our days had been a bit of a wrench for us. To compensate, we'd both agreed to keep our work diaries clear during the shorter school holidays so we could concentrate on having fun with our daughter. Over the extended holidays, we would either look after Siobhan on alternate days or close the workshops and take off on a vacation.

"Ahh, yes." She said, continuing to walk to the car.

"Do you want me to call him and confirm he understands Monday is cancelled," I called out. I wasn't going to let this go.

"No, it's my problem; I should do it," she called back. Then she drove off.

After, we parked on the seafront, finding a convenient spot on Madeira Drive near the Volk's Railway. Siobhan insisted we walk to the end of the famous west pier so she could ride the roller coaster. She skipped along the wooden boards between us, holding our hands. We returned along the pier after Siobhan rode the 'Mighty Mouse' several times. We stopped at the penny arcade, and I spent a small fortune on the claw machine to win a stuffed toy for my daughter. I could have brought her a dozen from a store for how much I had to feed that machine. But I couldn't resist the hopeful look on her cotton candy-smeared face every time the tantalising claw settled on the object of her desire. The squeal of joy when the pink unicorn finally dropped into the chute made it all worthwhile.

We finished up by buying fish and chips from our favourite chippy. It's tucked away in one of the arches beneath the Esplanade. We sat on the beach's pebbles, eating them from the paper, savouring the crispy batter and the salt and vinegar-soaked chips. Siobhan picked at our meals, helping herself to the odd chip.

The lights on the pier reflected off the water, and gentle waves splashed against the sand and shingle, lulling us into a false sense of security. We didn't talk about the elephant in the room; we just told Siobhan the fun things we would do over her half-term.

I drove us home, and Siobhan fell asleep in her car seat. Zoe stared out into the darkness behind her window, preoccupied with her thoughts. As we pulled into the driveway, she stirred.

"I'll put her to bed, but then can we talk?" Zoe asked.

I agreed and parked by the back door. I watched as she picked up our daughter and carried her to her bedroom. I poured a glass of wine on each of us. The evening turned chilly, so I settled on the sofa in the lounge and waited for Zoe to come down to talk, as we had agreed.

I waited an hour and went upstairs to see what was keeping her. She was asleep atop Siobhan's bed, curled around our sleeping daughter. The night light by the bed highlighted tear streaks on her face. I hadn't the heart to wake her, so I unbuttoned her jeans and covered her with a blanket from the airing cupboard.

I locked up and briefly tidied up downstairs before going upstairs and showering. I climbed into our empty bed and wondered if this was how my life would pan out.

------------------

My daughter climbed into our bed and woke me early the following morning. I could hear the shower running in the background. Siobhan curled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep again. A few minutes later, Zoe said, wistfully from the doorway, "Is there room for me, as well?" She stood wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower.

I pulled the covers open, and she climbed in beside me. She curled up on the other side of my daughter and stretched out her hand to rest on my chest. Hints of Peach wafted up from her damp.

"I'm sorry, I know you wanted to talk last night," She whispered, "I must have fallen asleep cuddling this one. Thank you for covering me up."

"You'd been crying," I mentioned.

She gave me a sad look. "I know I was. I'm conflicted. I understand your concerns, but I still want to finish the painting. I don't know why it had managed to get under my skin so much. Please don't make me stop." She looked at me hopefully. "I will if you insist, but I think it will be one of my best; I can feel it."

The knot in my stomach tightened, yet I knew it would be difficult to refuse her. But would the cost be too high?

"I'll think about it. If I do agree, there will need to be some conditions."

"Anything, Christ, I'll paint in a chastity belt if you want me to." I thought she was joking, but the look on her face dispelled that impression.

"I wasn't thinking about anything that drastic ... but now that you mention it," I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

She punched me gently on the arm. "What then?"

"You need to maintain your professional integrity. No more letting him touch you or you him."

"I won't," she interrupted. "But he has a nasty habit of shifting from the pose."

"Which he's probably doing on purpose, to make you interact with him. Well, warn him that if he does it again, then the session is over." She nodded mutely.

"He's going to believe he's got one over me should I agree you can continue. You have a full set of reference photos, so use them." I was getting up a full head of steam and continued. "We are not going to have another situation like last Wednesday; he needs to remember he's not allowed to turn up uninvited. If he does, that's the end, and he can take the unfinished canvas away with him."

Zoe murmured her agreement

"One last point, and then I'll drop the subject. I don't think you understand how insulting it was to hear you wanted your first submission to the RA to be a painting of a man I despise."

Her head drooped, and her cheeks reddened, "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's my fault; he told me he'd attended one of the Friends of the Academy events last year. I mentioned that I'd never submitted a piece for the show. He knew that one of the year's themes for submissions is 'Powerful', and when he suggested I should consider submitting his painting, I thought, why not."

I stared at her, bitterly disappointed. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he would push the 'powerful' part of the theme; alluding that he was powerful would be a great seduction ploy. "Does that mean you don't think any of your paintings of me are powerful?" I asked, unable to keep the resentment from my voice.

"No," she said defensively. "I never thought that. It's just .... " She hesitated, attempting to soften the blow. "It's just that I've never felt I have been able to capture your true essence."

"Why, what's wrong with the one of me at my workbench? I've always thought that's one of your best. Or is it the subject you don't like?"

She shook her head earnestly. "Not true; you are my muse. I love you; that's why any painting I do of you needs to be perfect, and I struggle to do it. My efforts have been a poor imitation of the reality."

Her negativity annoyed me: "You're wrong; it's better than the one you're doing for him. And that you see the flaws; they tell me how much you love me."

She looked like a rabbit caught in the beam of a headlight. She'd allowed herself to be convinced that Marcus's painting was the one to submit, not anticipating the pain and anger the decision would cause me. She realised that she'd just admitted that she believed her painting of me wasn't good enough and that what she could achieve with Marcus's panting, she hadn't been able to do for mine.

I turned to look at the top of my sleeping daughter's head; she was important, and keeping her safe and happy was the priority.

Zoe's fingers traced feather-light kisses along the line of my chin. "Okay," she said with a hint of desperation. "Why don't we let the academy choose? If I feel his is good enough, I'll apply to submit both pieces in January next year. Will you help me take the photos for me?"

I shrugged, "At least you remember the selection process; I'll help."

She shivered slightly in my arms, and between us, Siobhan stirred. She had that sweet child smell that makes you want to bury your face in their soft hair and inhale it until your lungs burst.

"I'm hungry," came her sweet voice.

"Then let's go, beautiful girl, and get breakfast for Daddy," Zoe said.

She stood and quickly pulled a pair of panties on before unwrapping the towel from her body. She slipped a bra, jeans and a top on before she picked up her pyjama-clad daughter and tucked her on her hip.

I washed, shaved, and got dressed before heading downstairs, where the pleasing aromas of frying bacon met me.

I sat at the kitchen table, and my daughter carefully brought me a half-full mug of coffee.

We talked quietly as we ate breakfast; afterwards, Siobhan hurried off to the lounge and settled in front of the television for her Saturday morning treat of cartoons.

I stacked the dishwasher while Zoe finished off her tea.

"I called him last night to confirm we'd cancelled Monday," she said, indicating her mobile phone on the table. "He sounded sad. He thinks you're blowing everything out of proportion, and you don't want me to carry on because you're jealous of my possible success."

And in a second, I went from happy to pissed off. Were last night's tears for me or him? Why did it seem she was constantly taking his side?

"So the arsehole can read my mind. Is that what you think?" I asked bitterly.

"No, don't ever think that, Dave. I'm just telling you what he said. Which reminds me, what did you mean when you said 'his timetable' yesterday?"

"I just thought it was convenient that suddenly he needs to travel a lot next month. He didn't mention such plans when you agreed to the commission."

"He's an important person in his company; he's required to travel. Ask Linda; she works there."

"Christ, he's only a bean counter," I said contemptuously. "Next time I see her, I will ask." Zoe looked a bit put out that I was willing to question her statement.

We puttered about in silence again, skirting the elephant in the room for the rest of the morning, doing the chores we'd been putting off until the weekend.

"Do we need to go to the supermarket today?" I asked.

"I suppose we should; we can go after we drop Siobhan off at Wendy's birthday party. It starts at three."

I'd forgotten the birthday party invite with all that was going on. Oh yes, the joy of children's birthday parties and the sugar-loaded, hyperactive daemon child that's gleefully returned to you. This was the first year that Siobhan didn't want one of us to stay with her. She'd run into that year's first party saying, "I'll see you later, Daddy."

Siobhan looked like a picture in her party dress, and Zoe snapped a few quick photos on her phone. I reminded myself to download them later from her cloud account, edit them, and then email the best to the Wi-Fi-connected digital photo frames we had given both sets of grandparents last Christmas.

At five-thirty, after enjoying a childless visit to the supermarket and a relaxing coffee at the local Starbucks, we collected our hyperactive daughter and sympathised with Wendy's fraught parents.

"It's bloody McDonald's next year, I tell you," her mother exclaimed. Oh hell, it's our turn in two months, and the McDonald's option sounded promising.

While Zoe dealt with Siobhan, I unpacked the car and put the shopping away.

Zoe came up to me and put her arms around me, resting her head on my chest. "She's exhausted, the poor little tyke. I've put her to bed; she's stuffed full of cake. I'm sure she will sleep through the night."

"Do you want to cook?"

"No, let's just order in."

I called our local Chinese and ordered our usual selection. When it arrived, we took our plates and a bottle of wine into the lounge and sat on the sofa. The television was on, and we half-watched a film that was on while we ate.

We finished eating, and Zoe curled up against me and sighed contentedly. "You know that I love you," she whispered."

"I know you do, only in that case, why is Marcus so important to you?'" She stiffened under my fingers.

She wriggled round to face me and said anxiously, "I don't love him if that's what you mean. It's just that I enjoy his company, that's all. He makes what could be a boring session enjoyable. I know I let the situation get away from me on Friday, but I promise you that was as far as I would have gone. I would have told him to stop and let me paint, which would have ended it."

I wished I could believe her and hoped she meant what she said.

She paused to kiss me. "It's no different to my friendship with Paul. You let me dance with him, and nothing improper happens. I'm the artist and Marcus the subject; that's all there is."

"No, it's not the same," I argued. "Dancing with Paul is a case of mutual respect for the other's skill. That's not the case with Marcus; he's just using you."

"I'm not foolish; I can sense his attraction, but I am better than that!"

She settled against me, and I again wondered if I had overreacted. She sounded so sure of her ability to control the situation, but was it a case of overconfidence? What had I seen? An artist repositioning her model or a would-be lover's caress. I'd seen her touch many a male model, and I had never let my instincts take over and reacted the way I had. Would I have even worried if Linda hadn't mentioned her concerns? No, I knew what I'd seen, and Geraldine had seen how Zoe reacted to Marcus.

"Take me to bed; let me prove to you that I'm yours," Zoe whispered.

I picked her up and took her upstairs. Setting her down, I went to take off my shirt, but she stopped me.

"I need to do this; you're mine, and I will prove it." She pushed me up against the wall undoing the buttons and bestowed feather-light kisses across my chest before sucking my nipples, causing me to moan.

"You are all mine," she whispered, "and I'm all yours, and I will prove it until you beg me to stop."

She fumbled at my belt, undoing it, and pulled my jeans down over my hips, groaning happily as she saw the bulge in my boxers. Sliding the waistband down freed my eager cock from his confines. Her mouth swooped and swallowed the head, sucking hard and running her hands along the shaft. I leaned back against the wall, moaning as her head bobbed faster as she swallowed more of me each time.

"Shit, Zoe, I'm going to cum."

She grinned up at me and sucked harder. I came with a shudder, filling her mouth, and she swallowed, licking me clean. I pulled her up, and she kissed me savagely, sharing my taste.

"My turn to pleasure you," I whispered, quickly stripping her clothes from her as she lay back on the bed, letting her thighs fall open. I kissed my way slowly up the inside of her thighs until my lips hovered above the centre of her sex. Glistening beads on her puffy labia attested to her arousal. The little sighs of pleasure became loud moans as my tongue slid along the length of her slit.

"Please, just there," she whimpered as the tip of my tongue circled her clit.

She rolled her hips, pushing up against me as my mouth and fingers moved tirelessly, teasing, first one, then a second orgasm from her soul.

"Fuck... me... now," she gasped out.

Her fingers trapped in my hair pulled, urging me to cover her. I pushed in deep and hard. Her legs wrapped around the back of my thighs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, tight against the skin on my back as I thrust hard and fast into her silky soft tunnel of love.

I kept up the pace, changing the rhythm of the strokes in tune with her needs and the rolling of her hips. Her body stiffened as she came. She babbled out my name repeatedly. I kept moving; she was mine, and I would prove it to her.

She whimpered and cried out again as another orgasm washed over her until finally, I surrendered to my body's need, coming with a rasping gasp, pumping my hot cum deep inside of her.

Her fingertips were dug deep into the muscles on my back, and the walls of her vagina clenched tightly around me, milking the last drop from me.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at me with a familiar look of love and desire. I rolled to the side, but Zoe refused to let me pull out. Her finger traced a line of sweat running down my chest. She kept squeezing my shaft with rippling motions of the walls of her pussy.

She kissed my nipple, "I love you so much," she whispered, "I am yours; please don't ever stop loving me."

"I won't. I couldn't. You're part of me, love."

She gave a little sob of happiness and relaxed in my arms.

We woke early the following day in virtually the same positions. My cock nestled at the entrance of her pussy, and my morning woody was making its presence felt. I rolled onto my back, and she slid down my throbbing shaft. We moved in harmony until we both came in a mutual wave of pleasure.

We had just settled back in each other's arms when our bouncing daughter interrupted our post-coital bliss.

"I think we might have to consider putting a lock on our door," Zoe said from beneath a wriggling daughter.

"And miss our morning cuddles!"

She laughed, and we rolled together, trapping Siobhan between us.

"Come on, beautiful, let go and make Mummy breakfast," I said. I slipped a pair of boxers under the cover before getting out of bed. Siobhan took my hand, and we headed downstairs to the kitchen. It didn't take long to warm up some of the croissants we picked up yesterday. I put them on a tray for Siobhan to carry. I put the rest of the breakfast and a pot of coffee on a second tray.

Siobhan carefully carried her tray upstairs, walking in front of me. Zoe put her phone down as we entered and clapped her hands in appreciation. We made short shrift of the food. I sat in bed, sipping a second cup of coffee while the two women quickly showered.

Zoe said the shower was free, and I was happy to get clean. As I was getting dressed, Zoe called from the hall to remind me the Southdown rambling group was meeting today, and she'd like to go. I thought getting out amongst friends would do us a huge favour.

We live close to one of the more beautiful stretches of the English countryside: the South Downs and the Sussex Weald. At least once a month, we meet up with our local Ramblers group for a walk along the South Downs. In the summer, we try to go more often when we can.

We would meet up and stroll along the path and bridleways that wound along the slopes of the Downs, some of the tracks dating back to the Stone Age. When Siobhan was a baby, she'd be strapped to one of us in a baby carrier. Now that she was older, she was happy to walk with the other children. The numerous children set the pace, usually a gentle amble, hence the term Ramble. We started at one country pub and two to three hours later finished back there.

I checked the rambler's newsletter pinned to the kitchen noticeboard and found the time and starting place of the ramble.

"It's an afternoon one, starting at two, beginning and finishing at the Punchbowl," I said.

"Sounds nice. Shall we get lunch there?"

"If we get there early enough, it shouldn't be packed."

We arrived midday, and several couples and their children from the Rambler's group were already enjoying a meal and drink in the pub's garden.

We settled near them, and Siobhan was off playing with her friends. It was such a pleasant day that I completely forgot all about the issues of the past couple of weeks.

------------

Later in the day, my life took a downward step. We returned tired and happy, and Zoe was in the house preparing supper. Siobhan was pleased to sit beside me in the office drawing while I searched the web for a replacement fine-detail router and several chisels I didn't need but coveted. She was happily talking to me about all her favourite Disney characters.

Looking at my daughter, crayon in hand, concentrating on the drawing of a Disney princess on the paper in front of her, reminded me of the photos Zoe had taken of her in her party dress. The images would have been automatically backed up to the cloud. We both have the same type of phone on a family plan, and I'd set them up the same way. I didn't check the cloud accounts very often; this was the first time I'd bothered for a couple of months. I found the folder with the photos I was looking for, and after editing them with Photoshop, I saved them to the hard drive and back to the cloud.

Any new data on our devices and cloud accounts would automatically be backed up to a joint account. Following a computer meltdown a few years earlier, I've become somewhat paranoid about lost data and backups. It caused us a lot of heartache, several lost orders, and disgruntled customers.

It took a local IT geek (aka Linda's sixteen-year-old nephew) almost a month to recover most of the lost data. Then, he insisted on setting up what he described as a triple redundant network; everything from our personal computers, work computers, and phones was backed up daily to a separate cloud server. I wasn't aware if Zoe was conversant with this backup feature; it was just something in the background.

You hear about betrayed partners in a relationship spending a small fortune hiring private investigators or buying covert surveillance equipment and hacking their partner's computers and emails. I needed none of that; evidence of Zoe's behaviour fell into my lap. While looking at the family's cloud file directory, I noticed a pair of folders I'd never seen before. The first was a copy of a file I could locate in my personal backup account; the other had come from hers. Intrigued, I opened mine and was surprised to find copies of my texts, attachments, chats, and phone logs from the past three months.

I didn't understand how the files could exist until I spotted the date of the first entry. It matched the date the latest software update auto-installed on our phones. I could only assume it must be a new default date storage setting on the phone, which I wasn't aware of. Zoe's phone must have been doing the same, as there were two folders.

I had a moral dilemma: should I open her folder? Was it an invasion of her privacy? Well, of course, it was, but as someone famous once said, 'Everything is fair in love and war.' I paused for what seemed to be a long moment. The mouse pointer hovered over her folder while I debated whether I wanted to learn if my fears were justified. With a nervous twitch of my finger, it opened.

I began scanning her texts, looking for anything out of the ordinary. I ignored the routine family, friends, and run-of-the-mill business texts, looking for anything that mentioned Marcus. I scanned a few recent exchanges between her and Linda but saw no mention of Marcus. I quickly discovered it was possible to filter by date or number. Doing so, I found a series of texts between Marcus and her. The first was from Marcus; the date and time stamp indicated he'd sent it a few hours after their first meeting.

It was innocuous, but the unsettling thing was that he'd sent it to her private mobile phone. We have kept our business and personal lives separate and don't give our mobile numbers to clients; too many late-night calls in the past have stopped that. I recall Zoe handing him her business card, but it only contained her business number (a landline phone connecting to the office), email, and website address. This raised the question of how he had gotten her private mobile number. A question I'd have to find an opportune moment to raise with her.

Following the chronological sequence, I saw good and bad news. Since that first session, Marcus had sent her at least one text after every session, often more. She'd seemingly ignored most of the early ones, as I could find only a few bland responses.

As he ramped up the number of texts, her replies increased. I found the text where he mentioned he thought I was jealous of her. If I hadn't been so annoyed, I would have been quite impressed with the delicate, subtle way he had suggested it.

She responded with, ►UR mistaken. He doesn't have a jealous bone in his body.

►U sure? It looked like it to me.

Again, she'd replied that he was mistaken and ignored his other texts for the rest of that day. It had been that morning she'd told me that he thought I was jealous of her success.

She must have mentioned my comments about his affairs because there was a series of texts from him about the subject. His first text said a married woman in his office had a crush on him. She had fantasised about a love affair and spread rumours about the office. He was the innocent party. Right, I believed that.

Her reply was disturbing; for the first time, she discussed her attraction to him. ►I can understand her fantasising about an affair with you. You have a beautiful body. It's a pleasure to be painting your portrait.

That was not what I wanted to see her write.

After that admission, the tone of his messages became increasingly complimentary while continuing to take subtle digs at me. You almost had to admire his technique, but not quite. Her return texts became more frequent, light-hearted and friendly.

The tone of his texts progressively changed; If you read them individually, they seemed pretty innocent. Reading them together in sequence, it was evident that Marcus was playing to her insecurities while subtly attacking my commitment to her art and our marriage.

The early ones went on about how it would be such a shame if Hubby's irrational jealousies prevented her from finishing her masterpiece. After he had got the message I'd agreed to her completing it, his tone changed again. Just as I'd anticipated, there was a 'see, I was right, and he knows it'.

After each sitting, there would always be a long text from him where he would attempt to consolidate all his little gains with her. He picked up on her confusion at my seemingly irrational dislike of him and was twisting it as a by-product of my jealousy of her potential success.

Her replies, if any, were mainly nonspecific, but now and again, you'd see the spark of happiness in her reply. She liked him; she saw his fun, charming side and enjoyed the attention he lavished on her.

On the previous Wednesday, the day of the mistake session, there was one that she sent that disturbed me: ►Please don't try to kiss me again. I shouldn't have let you stay, and I should have called Dave.

His reply came almost immediately. ►I'm sorry about the kiss, but don't regret it. My assistant apologises for the confusion over the dates. But u must admit it was so nice not to have hubby hanging around all the time. U sure u can't convince him to let u paint me in London away from him.

She replied, ►Please don't do it again, and yes, it was nice to talk in private, but London will not happen.

Shit, what was she thinking about? She was lapping up the garbage he was feeding her. I read the texts between them after the events on Friday with interest.

His was full of resentment, bemoaning my so-called irrational behaviour. One said, ►WTF did hubby think we were doing. If he behaves like that in the future, I will have to insist you finish the painting in London.

Oh, hell no, she wasn't!

Her reply went some way to reassure me. ►He misunderstood what he thought he saw, that's why he was so pissed off. I'm not even sure he will let me finish it, and there is no way he would agree to me working in London, not that I would.

I couldn't find a specific response to that message, and only a couple more following a similar vein over the next day. I logged off the cloud account and leaned back in my chair. Siobhan looked up at me from her drawing and smiled at me. I smiled back, but inside, I wasn't smiling.

Zoe called us for supper, and after picking her up, I carried Siobhan indoors. Siobhan showed her mother the drawing, which joined her other latest efforts on the front of the fridge. I ate in silence, and I couldn't help but look at Zoe and wonder what I would have to do to ensure the survival of my marriage. I knew I wouldn't give up without a fight. I had too much to lose.

Zoe and I curled up on the sofa after Siobhan had gone to bed.

"We are alright, aren't we?" she asked.

"I guess that depends on you," I said. I don't think that was the answer she expected as she wriggled around to see my face.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know; I think I've lost you to Marcus. "

"What? No, I love you. Why would you think that?"

"Well, for some time, it's seemed to me that he and the painting have become more important to you than your family."

Her voice quivered, "That's not true; you and Siobhan are the most important things in my life."

"So if I asked you to stop, you would?"

She whispered, "Please, Dave, don't ask that."

"Fuck," I groaned, "I have lost you haven't I?"

"No, you're not. Please don't give up on me. I'm still here, but it's important to us that I finish the canvas.

"Which us," I wanted to know. "You and me, or is it you and him? Tell me, honestly, do you two talk outside the studio?"

She clutched my arm tightly, "Us, you idiot." She hesitated, "He texts occasionally, but they're unimportant; I mostly ignore or delete them before I read them."

Crap, she saw my face, and she knew I didn't believe her. Well, why would I? I'd just read the damn things.

"Please, Dave, believe me, I haven't done anything I shouldn't have with him. There's been a little playful flirting to relieve the boredom, but that's all."

Maybe that was how she saw it, but based on his actions and the tone of his texts, I was sure he had an ulterior motive.

My silence disconcerted her, and she reiterated, "Please, Dave, don't turn away from me. Hold me tight."

She had always needed to be held when upset, or she sensed I was annoyed with her. She moved and sat astride my lap, facing me, her hands holding my head so I couldn't turn away from her kisses. Her denim skirt rode up her thighs, exposing the sheer fabric of her panties moulded to her pussy. She ground her pussy into the growing bulge in my jeans.

She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands over my chest. Then she leaned forward and caressed my nipples with her soft lips.

"You are my man," she murmured, "and I'm your woman."

She pulled her top off and unfastened her bra. Her breasts swayed as she rocked against me, little moans of pleasure escaping her lips.

"Oh, Zoe," I groaned, "I love you." I slid my hands up her thighs and cupped her pantie-covered buttocks, pulling her in close to me.

She fumbled with the belt of my jeans, and I raised my hips to help her pull them down. She stood up and pulled them off me completely. She undid the zip on her skirt and, hooking her fingers in the waistband, slid it and her panties down her legs. She paused momentarily for me to admire her lithe body, the faintest stretch marks across her abdomen the only evidence of her motherhood.

She knelt between my legs and gave my cock a long slow lick from the base to the tip. She swallowed the crown, running her tongue around the grove. I pulsed and grew even harder as her soft mouth drew a long gasp from me.

She stood up and sat astride me again. Grasping my cock, she ran the head back and forth along her slit, my pre-cum mixing with her juices. She moaned as my thumb found the hard nub of her clit, guarded by the clitoral hood.

She fed me between her swollen pussy lips and into the sweet haven of her warm tight, velvety soft passage.

"Ohh, fuck," she gasped as I filled her up. "That feels so good."

She started riding me with a fast, sharp motion, grinding her hips when the base of my cock pressed hard against her clit. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, working hard for her orgasm. I pushed up into her, meeting her down strokes. She had one hand on my shoulder; the other was pinching her nipple.

She shuddered and cried out, her motion faltering as she came. Her heat clutched at my shaft. Her head fell forward to rest on my chest as she struggled to regain her breath.

"Fill.. me," she gasped.

I pull out of her, "Get up," I commanded. She moved immediately, knowing exactly what I wanted. She knelt, knees on the cushions, her forearms nestling her head as it pressed into the back of the sofa. Her thighs shook as they parted to receive my offering.

The sinuous curve of her back stretched out in front of me, and her cute buttocks framed the glistening puffy red, tinged lips guarding her pussy. I moved, and with one glorious motion, I filled her, thrusting deep until my balls slapped against her arse and my cock rubbed against her cervix.

I was thrusting hard, and she was pushing back against me. We were both panting with the effort. One of her hands reached back between her legs, and she rubbed at her clit, moaning at the growing sensations centred on her pussy.

The ache in my balls grew, signalling my impending orgasm. "I'm going to cum," I gasped.

"Fuck, fill me," she demanded, no longer the supplicant.

The last few thrusts and cum surged through my cock, filling her, coating her cervix, and triggering her second orgasm of the night.

We stayed joined, my cock throbbing as she squeezed her muscles and milked the last drop of cum from me.

We curled up on the sofa, gently caressing each other, but I couldn't help feeling that there had been an underlying hint of desperation in her lovemaking had

until a chill forced us to retreat to our bed.

We made love again in the morning, but I again sensed a vein of desperation in Zoe's actions, as though she was attempting to prove there was no problem with our marriage.

------------

Marcus wisely didn't turn up on Monday, and the tension between us seemed to ease. We relaxed as a family on Monday evening, and it felt almost normal.

It stayed that way until late Tuesday afternoon. We'd spent the day in our studios, stopping when it was time to collect Siobhan from school. Now we were all in the kitchen when Zoe's mobile phone rang. She looked up from the table where she was attempting to knead bread dough while simultaneously trying and failing to keep Siobhan from spreading the small ball of dough she was playing with all over the kitchen surfaces. She held up her messy hands, "Could you get that? It'll be Mum; she said she would call."

I put down my book on antique furniture techniques and picked up her phone. I didn't bother checking the caller ID; I just swiped and went to say hi. I hadn't said a word before Marcus's voice echoed in my ear.

"Zoe, darling, have you convinced hubby to let you finish the painting."

What The Fuck. "Hubby," I replied sarcastically, "hasn't made his fucking mind up, and this call isn't improving your chances."

"Sorry, Dave, I thought I was talking to Zoe; I didn't mean anything by that."

Zoe looked up, startled at the anger in my voice.

'It's not your mother. It's that fucking dickhead Marcus,' I snapped at her, not worrying if he heard me. I hoped he did.

"Shit," she washed her hands and took the phone from me. She started to leave the room but saw my face and abruptly sat at the table. Siobhan looked up curiously from the piece of dough she was playing with. I smiled at her and said she could go and watch cartoons while Mommy was on the phone. She jumped down from the stool and headed into the lounge. It amazed me that a child who struggled to put shoes on the correct feet could master the TV remote in the blink of an eye.

This was the opportunity I'd been looking for. I turned to Zoe and, taking hold of her arm, moved the phone away from her head. "How the fuck did he get your private mobile number?" I snapped.

She gave me an apprehensive glance, "Can we talk about that later; let me deal with this first," and eased her arm free.

She put the phone to her ear "Marcus," she said warily. "What can I do for you?"

She glanced at me, "No, I'm not alone; Dave is standing beside me."

Zoe saw the anger in my eyes as I reached out for her phone. She quickly said, "Marcus, I'm putting you on speaker. I think that's safer for all of us." She pressed the speaker icon and placed the phone between us.

"Ahh, okay, look, I need to know if I should bother to come down tomorrow," came his tinny voice from the phone.

She looked at me hopefully, and I started to shake my head.

"Give me a moment, Marcus," she said, pressing the phone's mute button.

She looked pleadingly at me, "Please, Dave, I know you think he's an asshole, and I know he can be arrogant, but so far, he's been a gentleman. Any lapses have been my fault. But something about this painting makes me want to finish; no, it's more than that; I need to finish it. You don't have to trust him. I'll agree to any restrictions you want, but I have to finish. It's some of the best work I've done in ages."

I'd seen what her lapse looked like, and I was convinced he'd been a willing participant. I wasn't inclined to give him a chance to create a further one. I began to shake my head again. Zoe took hold of my hand and said, "Please," in such an anguished voice that I agreed against my better judgment, but it was plain that I wasn't happy.

She took a couple of deep breaths before unmuting the phone.

"Marcus, are you still there?" She asked. I hoped he'd lost interest and ended the call, but no such luck.

"Yes."

"Dave and I have discussed the situation, and he's reluctantly agreed that I can finish the painting, but any repeat of Friday's behaviour and it's over, and I'll be the one to throw the canvas on the fire."

His voice was toneless as he replied, "That's fine. I'll be there at the usual time then."

Before he could end the call, I interrupted, "Marcus, all future calls will go through the office phone. Do you understand?"

"I thought this was her business phone."

Yeah, and pigs might fly, I thought. "It's not; don't call it again, or I'll have to insist Zoe blocks your number."

"Fine, fine." and he rang off.

I sat beside her, "Zoe, what's going on? It sounded like you've been discussing this with him for some time."

"He called briefly on Sunday to check if he should come down Monday. I said no, and we'd contact him if you agreed I could continue. I haven't spoken to him since."

"Which reminds me, how did he get your mobile number? We don't give our private numbers to customers, and it's not on your business card!"

She stared at me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "I guess Linda must have given him my mobile number," she hesitantly suggested. "I did tell him at the beginning to use the office phone, but he insists on using this one."

I understood the reason; the office phone was shared and either of us could answer a call, nor could it send or receive texts. Then, there was the familiar way he had spoken, indicating that this was not an isolated incident. But for the moment, I decided to let it go.

Zoe sensed my concern as she pushed her phone into my hands, "You can check if you want, Dave."

That was pointless; I'd already seen what I needed to see. If I lowered myself to check, it would suggest to her that I didn't trust her, and her trust was something I wanted to maintain. And then, if she was that willing for me to check it, I doubted she had left anything incriminating on it. I passed it back with a shrug. Then I gave her a kiss I hoped she deserved, and she leant into it with a desperate shiver encompassing her whole body.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. Please give me a chance to finish the painting, and then I promise we never have to see him again. We can get over this, my love, and return to where we used to be." She hugged me, and I briefly hugged her back.

She added, "I don't deserve you, and you're so good to me. Can you fetch Siobhan, please; supper's almost ready?"

After we put Siobhan to bed that evening, we sat silently reading. Neither of us knew what to say. The silence continued even after we had gone to bed. We cuddled together for comfort, but it did little to ease the tension.

------------

The following morning, the atmosphere between us was still strained. We busied ourselves in our respective studios. Midday, Zoe insisted we break for lunch and that she would make it. While she was in the kitchen, I decided to take a closer look at the painting of Marcus.

As much as I hated it, I had to admit she was right; I could see the potential in the unfinished canvas. It could be one of her better pieces, and I could understand why she wanted to complete it.

She'd perfectly captured Marcus's arrogance while imbuing the painting with a sense of empowerment. Zoe had placed Marcus in a pose she had used previously, but never with this degree of suppressed power. Marcus was depicted lying semi-recumbent on a roughed-in outline of a bed, a pose reminiscent of a Roman emperor.

In the few areas close to finished, the oil paints glowed with an inner depth reminiscent of the old masters. In my opinion, in its current state, it would need another half-dozen or so sittings to reach a point where she would no longer need Marcus's presence to complete the canvas.

Marcus arrived after lunch with an uncharacteristic lack of fanfare. After a brief nod in my direction, he headed into Zoe's studio. Marcus was careful to let me see that he did not attempt to close the door to the point of being obsequious in his action. I had to trust Zoe, and I did, so I kept working for the duration of his sitting. Zoe came into my workshop after he had left.

"Thank you for giving me the space. He was a perfect gentleman and asked me to tell you he's sorry about last Friday."

"When's he due back next?" I asked, unable to keep the resignation from my voice.

She tried to keep a neutral expression, yet she couldn't hide a degree of anxiety, "Tomorrow morning."

That's worrying, I thought. "That's sooner than I expected," I mentioned.

Zoe shuffled uncomfortably, then said. "He's staying with the Patersons tonight as Lydia's sister is visiting, and they are all going out for dinner. So it was convenient for us to organise another sitting before he returns to London tomorrow."

Annoyingly, I could understand the logic of the decision, but I didn't need to like it. "I suppose so," I conceded.

Zoe fidgeted for a few moments; she obviously wanted to say something else. Finally, she said, "The Patersons have a table booked at the Hungry Monk tonight and have invited us to join them."

And, of course, it wouldn't only be the Patersons if he stayed with them. "You've got to be joking," I spat. "When was this arranged? I barely know the Patersons," I pointed out. "So why would they want us to join them, or is this another of his games?"

"Nothing like that. Lydia called him earlier to remind him they were eating out this evening. He mentioned he was at the studio and would come to their place after we finished; she asked to talk to me and invited us. It's the Hungry Monk; you know how much you like the place."

True, I thought; only if I agreed, she would be as safe as Eve had been with the serpent. I had no intention of going and racked my brain to think of an excuse that didn't sound like I was being petulant.

I said, "We will not get a babysitter on this short notice."

"Already organised," Zoe countered. "I called Jane's parents, and she's happy to watch Siobhan. She's willing to stay in the spare room overnight, so we don't need to hurry back."

Damn, talk about being ambushed.

"Please, Dave, the Patersons are a nice couple," she said. "They've always admired your work. Lydia's Sister has known Marcus for years and has a lot of nice things to say about him. If you got to know Marcus, you wouldn't be so worried about him."

"You're not giving me much of a choice, are you?" I retorted, wondering when she made the time to discuss Marcus with the Patersons.

Zoe looked anxious and held up her hands in an appeasing gesture. "Of course I am; if you don't want to go, I won't. But please don't say no; he's not a threat, and I think it would help you understand if you got to know him socially!"

"Christ, be honest, you are not giving me an option, are you?"

"Please, Dave, I want to finish the canvas, but I won't if it hurts us. I need you to understand he's not a threat; let's take this opportunity for you to see for yourself."

Shit, shit, if I disagreed, it would look like I was being petty. "What time are we supposed to be there?" I said resentfully.

"The table's booked for eight. Jane will be here by seven to help me put terror to bed."

I looked at her, and a thought flitted across my mind. "I wonder," I said, thinking out loud. What would you have done if I'd said no?"

She hesitated for several long seconds before answering. "Then I would have called the Patersons to cancel," she said firmly, which was a bit of a Freudian slip. She wouldn't be calling to accept, only to cancel, which meant she'd already accepted the invite for both of us.

I turned away, disgusted with myself, but I could not help but add, "Zoe, I warn you, if there's any funny business from either of you, I'm walking out!" What I didn't say, yet was implied by my tone, was, should I go and she didn't follow me, our marriage would be on life support.

------------

The Hungry Monk was one of those 'off-the-beaten-track' restaurants serving excellent locally sourced produce. Locals love the place and unashamedly keep quiet so the tourists don't take over and push us out. It is nestled in a fold in the Downs and was originally an old Friary. It's about half an hour's drive away, down twisty country lanes. I was ready just before seven and let Jane, the babysitter, in when she arrived.

Zoe came downstairs ten minutes later. She looked amazing in a short red cocktail dress that was form-fitted to her top, had a deep cutaway back and flared at the skirt. It was less than a year old, and she'd bought it to wear at last year's New Year's party. This was only the second time I'd seen her in it. She wore four-inch heels and black stockings to complete the mind-blowing package. My immediate concern was she was dressed like this for Marcus or me.

My expression must have clued her into my concerns; she pirouetted and said. "This is for you and you only. I want you to be proud of me, love." She held her arms out as she stepped close to me. She hugged me tightly, and I gave in to the temptation of her lips,

Jane clapped her hands in appreciation. "You look gorgeous, Mrs Peters."

My anxiety grew the closer we drew to the restaurant. I had a sense of foreboding that matched the dark thunderclouds rolling in from the west, obscuring the sunset. As Marcus was involved, I was convinced there had to be an ulterior motive for this invitation. If the Patersons were complicit, we would soon find out. Zoe sensed my discomfort, tried to distract me, and chatted about inconsequential items. When we arrived, I didn't immediately switch off the engine, and we sat for a few moments. She turned in her seat to face me, took my hand, and placed it under her dress at the top of her thigh, at the junction of silky stocking and soft skin.

"This is my promise to you," she whispered, "My body is for you and only you. When you want to leave, we will, do you understand?"

I nodded and reminded her that if Marcus had an agenda, we would not be staying.

We were the last of the party to arrive; the restaurant's tiny bar and lounge were already full, so the others had already been seated at a table. As soon as I saw the table, it was evident that Marcus, or someone else in the party, had organised the seating to allow him to press his pursuit of Zoe.

The rectangular table was laid for six, three on each side. Marcus sat in the middle seat on the far side, with the woman from the golf club on his left; this must be Lydia's sister Sylvia. Lydia sat opposite him and Roger to her left, leaving only the two opposite corners for Zoe and myself.

Marcus obviously wanted Zoe to sit next to him. As soon as he saw us, he smiled broadly and announced, "I'm glad both of you could make it." He gestured at the place beside him and added, "If you sit here, Zoe, we can keep the boy-girl sequence going."

Zoe started to move towards the seat he indicated. My grip tightened, halting her motion. Under no circumstances would I let him isolate us, allowing him to monopolise her for the entire evening.

"Damn it, Zoe, that's not happening," I muttered under my breath.

Zoe gave me a concerned glance and tried to pull me forward. I gave her a brief shake of my head, "I warned you." I said, holding her still. "This is a game I'm unwilling to play; if you decide to stay, I'm gone! I didn't want to be here in the first place," I spoke softly but firmly so only she could hear me, my face stiff with repressed anger. I began to turn away. I knew where I stood if Zoe hadn't come with me.

Zoe stood motionless, turning her head to examine the seating arrangement. "Dave, I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it," she whispered, clutching my arm to prevent me from going.

Lydia came to my rescue. She saw the look of thunder on my face and that I was turning away. She stepped in quickly. "Marcus, you can't do that; you're separating our happy couple. Marcus, if you take this seat," she patted the vacant seat beside her. David can take yours and Zoe, the one beside him, and then everything is sorted."

Marcus had no choice; staying where he was would have made him look churlish. His lips tightened briefly, and then he stood gracefully and moved around to take the indicated place. Zoe looked relieved at me, and we took our seats. Though Lydia's quick response to the situation made me believe she knew I was a reluctant dinner companion, was she aware of the reason?

Lydia introduced Marcus's companion to us. "This is my sister Sylvia; I don't think you've ever met. She and Marcus are old friends; they were both at Cambridge at the same time." I knew their friendship, as he'd said so at the golf club, and Zoe had mentioned it earlier.

Sylvia said, "Zoe, Marcus's been telling us all about the amazing painting you're doing of him. I'd love to get the chance to see it?"

Zoe quickly shook her head, "Not until I'm satisfied it's finished; even the sitter doesn't see it until I'm done." She glanced at me, "I only let Dave see works in progress."

"You must be so proud of your wife, David," Sylvia said.

"It's Dave," I told her with a brief smile that belied my emotions, "And yes, I'm immensely proud of Zoe's achievements. She's an amazing artist and mother."

Zoe squeezed my hand and looked at me gratefully. She said, "Dave is the real genius here; I wish I had his skill."

Lydia said, "Sylvia, you've seen our lovely sideboard. Well, Dave designed and made it."

I smiled gratefully at her, "I should thank you, Lydia. It was one of the first large pieces I ever sold. It has a couple of flaws I'd love to get the opportunity to fix."

"Never," she said emphatically, "those little flaws make it such a perfect piece."

The evening passed reasonably smoothly from that point, with me ignoring Marcus as much as possible. The saving grace was that the food was up to its usual standards. The revised seating plan prevented Marcus from having any private conversation with Zoe.

The table was just the right size, and no one needed to raise their voices to be heard. I enjoyed getting reacquainted with Lydia and Roger, who tried convincing me to make a companion piece for their sideboard. I was satisfied, knowing Marcus could hear me when I said I would. Marcus seemed to take care that he spoke directly to Zoe no more than he did to anyone else at the table. He even tried to include me in his conversations. He was still hoping he could convince me to take up his commission as if I would!

Before the desserts were served, Zoe asked if I'd swap seats with her so she could talk with Sylvia without speaking over me. Both of them were interested in the local art scene, and she'd discovered they had several mutual acquaintances. She rubbed her thigh against mine and dragged her fingertips along my inner thigh as she and Sylvia talked. She discussed animatedly her plans to submit her work for next year's summer show at the Royal Academy. Her lips curled into a smile as she felt my fingers work up her stocking-clad thigh.

After the meal, we withdrew to the lounge for coffee and liquor and were lucky to find space by the inglenook fireplace. With one eye on me, Zoe waited until Marcus chose his seat. He sat down on one of a pair of cosy old sofas. Then she seated herself on the other, next to Lydia, leaving enough space for me to sit on her other side. Sylvia sat beside Marcus, and Roger was comfortably enthroned in an armchair.

I was right that the Patersons had an ulterior motive for our invite to join them, only not the one I was expecting. It turned out that Roger and Lydia's eldest daughter was due to attend the Brighton College of Art in the autumn, and they were keen to discuss her options with the pair of us. Zoe offered to speak to her and, if interested, would take her on as an assistant over the summer. The relief on their faces confirmed my suspicion, which was why they had extended the invite to include us. They were seemingly unaware that Marcus had decided to hijack the occasion for his reasons, although Lydia's reaction when we had first arrived made me wonder.

This was confirmed when Lydia confided that she and Roger had been worried about their daughter's education choices. When Marcus mentioned that he was seeing Zoe, they suggested that he invite us to the meal.

"Adding two more to the reservation wasn't a problem," Lydia enthused. "We are old friends with the owners; in any case, we've wanted to talk to Dave for some time. It's such a happy coincidence that Zoe was working with Marcus."

Yes, it was, I thought sarcastically, but I managed to smile at her.

On the other sofa, Marcus and Sylvia appeared as thick as thieves, murmuring to each other. I wondered what they were discussing as Marcus kept glancing in our direction. A few minutes later, I got my opportunity after returning from a bathroom trip.

They had moved away from the sofa and stood in a corner by the bar. My route back to the group meant I passed close by, hidden behind a half wall and a thick ancient Oak post beam. I paused to eavesdrop on their conversation. I hadn't considered taking my phone to the bathroom, which was a pity; recording them would have been nice.

Marcus was telling Sylvia about a business deal he was involved with in Eastern Europe, which sounded dubious at best but more likely highly illegal.

When he finished, Sylvia, her head bent close to his, said in a low voice that I had to strain to hear. "Now tell me more about her; from your description last night, I was under the impression she was a stunning beauty, eager to fall into your bed. She's cute but not your normal style, and she doesn't seem that infatuated with you."

I froze, not wanting to breathe in case I couldn't hear his reply.

"Oh, she's pretty enough. I'm going to enjoy her soon enough. Don't let her act tonight fool you; I can guarantee her interest. I'll admit I wasn't interested in her body to start with. It was her skill at painting I wanted, " he said, keeping his voice low.

"That's what I still don't understand. Since when were you interested in art?"

"Since I saw a couple of her canvases, portraits of a nude husband and wife, I was shocked by how good they were."

"Just came across," Sylvia mocked.

"They were on the wall in a bedroom," Marcus dryly conceded. "I was fucking the wife, and when I paused to get my breath back, I realised how good they were."

Sylvia laughed, "In what way?" She asked.

"There was such a sense of raw power in them. One of the women with me oozed with sexual promise, and it made me want to dominate and ravish her all over again. Yet it was the one of her husband that got to me. Christ, I'm not that way inclined, but if he'd been there in person, I'd have let him have me."

"Jesus Christ, it was that good?"

"Christ, yes. She can bring out the raw sensuality of the subject, but I don't think she understands how potentially powerful her paintings could be. I want my painting to possess those same qualities. With something like that hanging on my wall, I shouldn't have any problems getting women into my bed, if only to see if reality matches the artist's viewpoint."

"You sly old dog, but you said she's not your type to start with, yet you seemed to have changed your mind. Do tell."

"She's sweet and fun to be with, and she has that 'grows on you' type of personality. She's so trusting and easy to manipulate. She won't even know what I'm doing until I'm cock deep in her."

Sylvia giggled a little at his comment, "And it's such a great cock, I should know. You had me screaming last night."

"And again tonight," he growled. The bonus will be when that arrogant little shit of a husband finds out I've fucked her. I can't wait to see his face when he learns I've succeeded."

"Have you?"

"It's close, but not yet; she's ripe for the taking."

Sylvia didn't sound as confident as she responded. "I'm not so sure; it looks like he's not as naive as you hope based on what I've seen tonight."

"Maybe, maybe not." He conceded, then continued, "It shouldn't be a problem. I'm very close to convincing her that his negative attitude toward her success is why he's so jealous. As more people hear about that jealousy, it will soon stop people from wanting to commission paintings from her."

"And it's working?"

"Hell yes, you know how good I am at the subtle dig, and I've been giving her my A game. I even got an old girlfriend of mine to contact her inquiring about a commission. Then, a week later, she called back and said she'd heard some disturbing stories about how her husband treats her and that she didn't feel comfortable being painted at a shared studio."

That was disturbing; Zoe hadn't mentioned anything about this to me, which worried me. I cursed inwardly that I'd left my phone in my jacket pocket; a recording of this conversation would have gone a long way to upset his game.

Marcus added, "It won't be long before I will have convinced her that his irrational dislike of me reflects his jealousy of her. It's a win-win for me."

"Ohh, you sneaky bastard, Marcus," Sylvia said admiringly.

I'd heard more than enough, any more, and I doubted I'd be able to control my temper and hit the arrogant son of a bitch, which would only benefit him in the long term as Zoe abhorred violence. I backed away and approached the group from the other side. A few moments later, Marcus and Silvia reappeared and took their seats.

I was surprised to see that it was gone eleven by the time we rose to leave. Roger and Lydia tried to invite us to join them at their place for a nightcap. Sylvia and Marcus were staying the night at their place, and I could see Zoe was interested, but I wasn't, especially after what I'd overheard. I caught Marcus's expression of hope as he heard the Patersons trying to change my mind, which firmed my resolve to refuse their offer.

Since I was driving, I'd limited myself to a couple of glasses of wine with the meal and a small brandy afterwards. Zoe had drunk considerably more and was in a happy mood, seeming pleased at the way the evening had gone, totally unaware of the swirling undercurrents.

In the car, Zoe reclined her seat back and slowly ran her hands along her stocking-clad thighs, idly caressing herself. She stood by the car and straightened her dress when we arrived home. She looked at me with her loving eyes. "I told you that this was just for you," she said, running her hands down her body.

Jane was half asleep on the sofa when we walked in, so Zoe showed her to the spare bedroom next to Siobhan's room and quickly checked on our sleeping daughter. In our bedroom on the other side of the house, I stripped her naked except for her garter belt and stockings. Worked up from her playtime on the drive home, Zoe was eager for me to ravish her, and we ravished until we were ravished out.

------------

I dropped the babysitter home on my way to take Siobhan to kindergarten the following day. When I returned, I tried to talk to Zoe about the situation with Marcus and tell her that she needed to be careful around him, but I couldn't get her to understand my concern. She wasn't interested and got upset that I kept bringing it up.

"I'm sorry, Dave, but that's not the Marcus I see," she insisted. "He was the perfect gentleman last night, and he's far more interested in Sylvia than me."

He damn well not, I thought. He will charm you until you've finished the painting and seduce you, just another notch on his bedpost. I cursed that I'd been unable to record his conversation with Silvia last night. He'd have condemned himself. But I had no proof, and continuing to harp on about him was playing into his hands.

"Just be damn careful, you step over the line, and there will be hell to pay," I snapped. I left before I said anything else I'd regret. I drove down to the village post office to collect a parcel. On my return, I went straight to my workshop, not wanting to listen to her defending the arsehole actions further. I delayed starting to work on the bookcase and switched on the computer. I wanted to see if there were any more messages between them. I was hoping that there wouldn't be any, that Marcus had taken my threat to block him if he called her phone to heart. But no such luck and that put me in the horns of a dilemma. I would have to admit I was able to read her messages to force her to block him.

The message Marcus sent soon after we left the restaurant was predictable. She must have had her phone on silent, as I hadn't heard an incoming message alert.

►Hubby was extra boorish tonight, wasn't he? I told you he's jealous of you.

Her reply was time-stamped this morning when I took Siobhan to kindergarten. ►He wasn't jealous, just bloody annoyed with you. Do you blame him? What were you thinking?

►What do you mean?

►I warned you he wouldn't be happy about the invite. I had to work hard to get him to agree. Then you went and played that stupid game with the seating arrangements. It was such an obvious setup. He would have walked out if Lydia hadn't stepped in to defuse the situation.

►And would you have gone with him?

►I wouldn't have had a choice.

There were no more messages between them after that. I logged off and started working, barely conscious of what my hands were doing, as my mind raced. I struggled to understand how everything had gone so wrong in such a short time. It felt like I was fighting a losing battle in a war of attrition.

I was busy when Marcus arrived. He looked somewhat worse for wear; they must have carried on drinking well past the wee hours after they had got to the Patersons. Zoe kept both sets of doors propped open, and it took me a moment to realise she'd adjusted the position of the couch, so now it sat in line-of-sight from the doorway, ensuring I had a clear view of them. Her actions confused me; she seemed to give with one hand while taking away with the other.

I retreated into the depths of the workshop; I had so much to do to prepare for my latest project if I was going to deliver it on schedule. I was nervous after what I'd overheard the night before and read this morning, so I tried to keep the noise down to try and hear what they were saying. I glanced in several times, but I heard or saw nothing untoward. There seemed to be very little interaction between them, possibly due to the hangover from which I was sure he was suffering.

I wasn't aware of him leaving. The first I knew was when Zoe tapped me on the shoulder. I switched off the router, and she brushed the sawdust from my hair.

"He's gone," she said.

"Did he give you any problems," I asked.

She shook her head. "Nope. Other than being worried that we won't finish on time, I've slotted another appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

"Don't forget the plans we have for next week."

"Umm, yes. I'm going to prepare lunch. We can discuss our plans for next week then. Fifteen minutes, okay?"

I nodded, and she left, but her response worried me. Why would we need to discuss our plans? They were already set up, mostly centred on indulging Siobhan. I checked her appointment diary; she was still old school, and hers was a leather-bound day planner.

The afternoon session the following day she'd mentioned earlier was there, but turning to the following week caused my anger to spike. She had sittings booked every afternoon for the week, but that couldn't be right! We were going to be away most of the week.

Since Siobhan started at the school last year, we had agreed to keep the half-term-week free so that we could indulge her. I took her diary with me when I went indoors for lunch. Marcus and the painting had become an obsession with her; he was working his charms on her.

When I placed the diary on the table, I didn't need to say anything.

She looked up from the salad she was mixing and saw the book on the table. Her hands stopped moving, "Dave, I know what you will say, but I had to put the extra sessions in for next week. I've only got ten days to finish it. I must get it done, and I did promise Marcus it would be finished on time."

"So neither your daughter nor I am important?"

"That's not fair; you know the pair of you are important to me. Please, Dave, you could keep Siobhan occupied, and I'll join you later in the day."

I said, "It is fair, and you damn well know it. You've known for weeks that it's half term next week, and we'd made plans. I've kept my schedule clear, and I'm closing the workshop for the week as we agreed."

I was seething; there was just no way I was letting him be with her on his own. I could kiss my marriage goodbye as if left to his own devices. Marcus would surely be successful, and infidelity was the one thing I couldn't accept.

"I need to finish the painting; I'm sure she will understand." Zoe gave me a beseeching look, praying I would understand.

I shook my head, "She won't, and you know it. She's been talking about it for weeks. The hotel in London and the Euro Disney stay is booked and paid for. So just how the fuck do you think you are going to join us? Look, if you don't tell him, I will. Our contracts have no penalty clauses, so it doesn't matter if you take next week off."

"But can't you see it from my point of view? I've promised to finish it on time, and I don't want to let him down," she said.

The anger that I'd barely holding a lid on burst out. I slammed her diary down on the table, and she shrank back. "For fuck's sake, Zoe, so it's okay to let your family down, but not him. What's more important, your family, that bloody painting, or is it something else?"

I'd had enough; the scale of this latest betrayal pushed me over the edge. I walked out of the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to say. "I'll be in the workshop. Let me know what you decide to do. But I will take next week off to be with Siobhan, with or without you. If you decide to stay here and prioritise him over us, I think it would be better off all-round if you weren't here when we return."

She moaned in disbelief when she heard what I was saying.

I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing by giving her that ultimatum, but I knew I needed to give her a good stiff dose of reality. I honestly didn't know what else I could do. I sat in the office and found the bottle of whisky I kept tucked away in the filing cabinet. Alcohol and sharp tools don't mix, but this was one time I needed a stiff drink. I poured a decent measure into a glass and sat on the sofa, sipping at it. The stupid thing was that I was sure she loved me, but the combination of that damned painting and Marcus seemed to have mesmerised her, and she couldn't see past them.

It must have been a good hour and a half before Zoe's tear-stained face appeared in the doorway.

"Can we talk, please?" she said. I nodded, and she came and sat down beside me.

"Dave, I love you; please tell me that you love me," she said, holding her hand out. I took it and squeezed it, but I couldn't say the words. She wrapped her arms around me, and we kissed.

After we had pulled apart, she said, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I know what I should be doing, yet I make the wrong decision whenever I talk to him."

"So, did you come to a decision?"

She whispered, "Yes."

"Did you talk to him?"

Again, she whispered, "Yes."

I sat there twisting my wedding ring around my finger. Her eyes were drawn to my motion, and she went white. "And?" I said softly.

"I told him I'm sorry, but we have plans for next week and won't be here." I felt the breath I didn't know I'd been holding escape my lips in relief. Then she said, "He wanted to know where we would be..."

"It's none of his damn business where we will be," I retorted.

She gave me an embarrassed look, "Sorry, I didn't think it mattered if he knew."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I'm not going to change our family plans for next week. I explained that we would be staying in London from Sunday, taking the Eurostar to France on Wednesday, staying at Euro Disney, and returning on Sunday."

I knew her so well that I instinctively knew that there was something more she wasn't telling me, and she didn't know how to broach it.

"Zoe, there's more, isn't there?"

"Please, Dave, don't get mad, but he called back a little while ago with a proposal. A suggestion, really," She stammered.

Which is?"

"He wanted to know what our plans are for London."

I had a sinking feeling, and I knew where this was going. "What's his suggestion then?"

"He says he has access to a studio in London I could use. He suggested I could spend a couple of hours each afternoon while we were in London working on the painting and maybe one evening after she's gone to bed."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Zoe!" My anger was unmistakable.

"I told him it wasn't a good idea; I didn't say yes. I said I'd ask you." She looked at me with a hint of desperation.

I counted to ten in my mind; I needed to because I was so close to telling her to fuck off.

I could almost hear what he'd been saying to her. If he loves you, then, of course, he'll agree. If he doesn't, it just proves he's jealous of you. Fuck, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't. He proved a master manipulator, and I needed to fight fire with fire.

"Christ, is this damn painting that important to you that you want to risk our family, our marriage? I don't understand why this week is so important to Marcus. Sure, I understand you want to finish it, but there's no reason other than his made-up timetable for you to work next week."

I paused and made her look me in the eye. "Or is it more than the painting, Zoe?" I asked coldly.

"No," she almost screamed, "Nothing is more important to me than you and Siobhan."

"Then prove it! I don't know why you are asking me. This is your decision; I've told you mine." As far as I could see, this was my only option. I needed her to make the decision.

Her face fell, and she took several deep breaths. "Then I'll tell him no."

"If that's your decision." My voice was full of sarcasm.

"It is."

I looked at her and said in a clipped tone, "Thank you."

She threw herself into my arms, kissing me. "I love you so much it hurts."

------------

The following day, after the school run, Zoe was doing the laundry. I took the opportunity to check the backup folder to see if there was any new activity. Her call log showed that she had called him soon after I had walked out, and the call had lasted less than two minutes. He phoned her back an hour later, which lasted ten minutes. In between those calls, Zoe called Geraldine's office and her mother.

Before his second call, he texted: ►Please answer my call. I have a compromise that should work for both of us. I will call in a few minutes to explain.

A shortcoming of the backup data was that it only registered connected calls. A missed or unanswered call failed to show up. Regardless, it was interesting to be able to fill in some of that conversation.

She replied: ►What part of I'm not risking my marriage for a painting do you not understand? Dave is adamant that it's over for us if I don't go with them.

►It's a solution that will work for both of us

►Fine, I'll answer, but I make no promises.

After the call from him, he texted again: ►I don't understand why you won't ask him; it's the perfect solution. How can arranging for you to spend a couple of hours each day working on the painting while hubby looks after your daughter be risking your marriage? Or is it that shaky?

►It wasn't until I met you. You're nice, but I'm not interested in you like that. I hadn't realised how much you and the painting intrude into my marriage. Stop texting me; it won't happen. I love Dave.

►At least ask him, or I will.

►No, that could make the situation worse. He won't change his mind, but I'll talk to him if you insist.

Her reply after our heated discussion was brief and to the point: ►I asked, and he said hell no. Please don't bother to ask me again.

His unwillingness to accept her answer was evident after he turned up early Friday afternoon. He arrived, arrogance epitomised, interrupting our lunch of soup and grilled sandwiches in the office.

As he walked in, he said without an apology for interrupting us, "It's all arraigned, Zoe. Let me give you the address. It's a flat that belongs to a good friend; she's an amateur artist and converted one room into a studio. She's in the States now and let me have a set of keys. I've arranged for a van to come later this afternoon to collect the canvas and whatever else you need and pick up and deliver everything to my friend's studio."

And how convenient it was for him to have a studio with an attached bedroom! I looked at her, and I saw her glance at me. She saw my expression, shook her head, and squeezed my hand.

She said almost too dismissively, "I told you I wouldn't do that. You need to cancel the van."

Marcus gave me a sly smile, and I clenched my hands. "But of course, you will. It's the best option for all of us," he said. She hadn't seen his expression.

"Not for me or my family, it isn't," she said with a shake of her head, but I noticed a wistful look that she hid quickly. "I won't ruin next week for Siobhan."

"Wh...." then he added smoothly. "Oh yes, your delightful daughter."

Zoe gave him an odd look, "Yes, my daughter, who, as I explained, Dave and I are going to take away on vacation next week."

Marcus looked carefully at both of us, "Do I take that to mean you couldn't make Dave here see the advantages of my proposal."

"I think that's a fair assessment of the situation, "she replied, shrugging. "And you're far too early for our session. You can either wait here or go and come back at the correct time."

Marcus looked put out. "I'll wait. If that's OK with your husband," he added with a hint of sarcasm.

Zoe picked up our plates and left. Marcus stood contemplating me, and I could almost see his mind working overtime to devise a way to overturn this apparent change to his plans. It was frustrating watching him, understanding that he was a master manipulator skilled in his seduction methods.

I knew Marcus would spend the next few hours manipulating Zoe, and how impotent I felt led to a sinking feeling. Under Marcus's steely gaze, I racked my mind, desperately trying to come up with a solid counter to the full-court press that I could imagine he would put her under.

Then I had one of those cartoon lightbulb moments. I would need to show tangible evidence of what she was risking, and I might have exactly that! I'd constantly told her I loved her, but I wondered if she understood my deep feelings. Tucked away in the back of a locked cupboard, I had physical representations of how I felt about her and Siobhan. Once before, she'd been among the few people to understand how I translated my emotions into a physical form. I was sure as an artist, she would appreciate the symbolism.

Leaving Marcus glaring at me, I entered my workshop and, without hesitation, retrieved a single cloth-wrapped object from the cupboard. Then, I hesitated and picked up a second bundle. I placed the still-covered objects on top of her box of paints. There was something else I wanted to do, but I needed the computer for that.

Marcus was still waiting in the office. When I reappeared, he said, "I can't believe that you are as narrow-minded as this; I can help her career in a way you never could."

"Help her career," I said sarcastically, "or is the reality that you want to help her into your bed."

"Now you are being narrow-minded and ridiculous!"

"I don't think so; do please correct me if I misheard what you said to Sylvia. I believe what you said was, 'She won't even know what I'm doing until I'm cock deep in her'. I do hope I'm not misquoting you."

His expression froze before his face flushing as he worked out when I must have overheard the pair and recalled what else I probably heard him and Silvia discussing. He turned on his heels and entered Zoe's studio to wait for her, and I switched the computer on.

His arrogance got the better of him as he returned to the door of her studio. Standing upright, he said harshly, "You stupid little man, what do you know about how the real world works; she deserves better than you, and I can give it to her."

He looked up at a crunch of gravel on the path outside and froze; a fresh-looking Zoe had just appeared at the entrance, and he couldn't be sure she hadn't heard his exchange. She hesitated, sensing the tension in the air, and looked from Marcus to me, and for one of the first times, I could not read her expression. Then, she ushered Marcus into her studio. I lost myself to the intricacies of the web as I quickly searched for what I was looking for.

Minutes later, I smiled in satisfaction at the last page displayed on the screen, and in the corner of the office, the printer chattered into life. Looking up, I saw Zoe standing in the doorway. Tears streaming down her face, she clutched the pair of objects I'd left on her paint box to her chest.

She walked around the desk and spun the chair I was sitting on to face her. She couldn't speak through the sobs. A tear fell from her face and landed on the surface of one of the objects in her hands. It trickled slowly down the polished surface.

"They're... beautiful... when... did... you... do... them..." She said between sniffles.

I took the first from her, "This one, a few weeks ago, I could see the shape hiding in the wood."

Of course, it was the zebra-wood carving of Zoe when she was pregnant. I've always sensed that the person my carving was destined for would immediately know what it represents, and Zoe had just proved me right yet again. Others would most likely see it as a simple stylised outline.

Her fingers delicately traced the curves of the second piece as she fought to control her emotions. "And this one?"

"One of the first I did after Siobhan was born." It was a mother with a baby at her breast caught in mid-feed; it was one of my more abstract pieces.

"Are these the only ones?"

"There are a few more," I admitted.

"Show me!" She demanded.

"Wait here," I told her. I placed the rest carefully into a convenient box and brought them to her.

I sat down again, and she sat beside me, reverently lifted each piece, and freed it from its cloth shroud. She managed to unerringly line them up in a chronological representation of our relationship that the pieces recalled and I'd carved them. She delicately stroked the surface of the pieces; some were smooth, and others showed evidence of the tools I'd used. I had highly polished a number; the others were waxed or oiled--the sinuous curves highlighting the grain.

"Me," and she pointed at the first one. "Me again, me, me, a pregnant me, another pregnant me. Oh, that's where this one goes." She placed the second of the two I'd set out for her in its rightful place." She continued describing each piece until she set the last in its place.

I suddenly realised I hadn't seen Marcus leave, "What have you done with Marcus?"

"Oh, he's in there, probably sulking, hopefully getting dressed. There didn't seem to be any reason to carry on today. I told him I'd finish the damn thing from the photos I've already taken when we get back."

Marcus appeared at the door and saw Zoe sitting on my lap. He said, "Zoe, can we talk about this next week? Maybe we could all meet up for lunch one of the days you're in London."

"Sorry, that won't be possible," I said. "We won't be there. I've just cancelled everything."

Zoe stiffened, "Dave, what have you done?" She looked at me with fear in her eyes. Had she stepped over the line? Was I walking away from her? Had I decided that enough was enough?

Marcus gave me a puzzled but slightly hopeful look. Not a chance, asshole, I thought. I'm not going to make it easy for you. I collected the printed page from the printer and gave it to her. The sheet was headed a summary of trip details, and across the bottom in large letters were the words 'payment confirmed'.

"What have you done? She repeated tentatively as she tried to scan the document.

"Booked the three of us into Disney Florida for a week. Our flight is on Sunday."

Marcus's face was like a picture; Zoe froze and threw her arms around me.

"Thank you. It will be a perfect holiday; Siobhan will love it," she sobbed into my neck. Her lips sought mine, and we descended into a long, passionate kiss that seemed to go on forever. Her expression went from scared to elated.

Marcus was forgotten by the doorway until he coughed, and we both turned to look at him.

He said, "Zoe, I'll call when you return to reschedule."

"No need," she said, "I'm sure I have all I need to finish it. I will call your office when it's ready to be collected."

She stood up and went over to him. He started to bend his head to kiss her, but she shook her head and held out her hand.

"It's been interesting working with you, but not an experience I wish to repeat," she said.

I recalled something else that Linda had said about Marcus. Once you see the real Marcus, he loses his charm and never gets it back. It appeared that, at last, Zoe had seen that side of Marcus.

He looked startled at her words. "Zoe, are you sure this is what you want? I thought you wanted to submit the paintings to the Academy?"

"I do, and I will, just not yours," she said. "I know there's a much better one coming soon," and she looked back at me with a content smile.

Marcus turned on his heels and walked out of our lives. He left with an excessive flourish of scattering gravel.

Zoe sat on my lap and held on tight to me, sobbing. Occasionally, one of her fingers would reach out and gently caress the physical evidence of years of my love. We sat for over an hour until she struggled off my lap.

She kissed me and said. "I'm just going to pack my paints away; then we can go and collect our daughter and tell her the great news."

As she cleared up, I opened her cloud folder on the computer, intending to delete the contents and change the settings. As I did so, a new text from him appeared in the folder. Looking up, I could see her in her studio, picking up her phone and frowning as she read the message. I opened it, curious to see what it was about. ►Zoe, I can't go a whole week without seeing you. I think I've fallen in love with you. You deserve so much better than him.

Her reply appeared a few moments later. ►Marcus, what are you talking about? I liked you, but you could never have been more than a friend. I love Dave, and that's not going to change; he's my soul mate and the father of my child. I think it's best if you stop trying to contact me. If Dave knew you were still texting me, he'd go ballistic. I'll contact your office when the painting is ready for collection.

I watched her look at her phone, delete the texts, put it down with a sigh, and head out. Half an hour later, she was back; she must have told Siobhan about our plans as the little girl bounced all over the place singing songs from her favourite Disney films. It took us a long time to settle her down enough that she'd eat, and then it took an extra story to get her to sleep.

Zoe was in the lounge when I came in, half watching something on the television. She looked up, saw me, and shuffled over to give me space to sit beside her.

"I've been a fool, haven't I," she said. "He was after me all the time, wasn't he?"

I nodded, "That's what I think; the painting always was a means to an end for him."

"Pity, I thought he was nice. I guess that was all part of his act."

"My best guess is that everything he did was calculated to get you into bed with him."

She pulled a chair up and sat down on the other side of our daughter. "I've just blocked his number. If I'd had any sense, I should have done it earlier."

I nodded, but I was glad she hadn't. The side with the best intelligence usually wins the battle. She sat thinking, and you could almost see the gears engaging.

"The affair with someone in his office, that was Linda, wasn't it?" she said. "That's why he knew about me, she told him. Did she tell you? Is that how you knew what he was up to?"

"She only told me after I mentioned his attitude around you. She didn't call it an affair. He just took her when she was vulnerable," I said. "Marcus piled on the charm and used his influence over her at work to seduce her, and she bitterly regrets everything about it. She begged me not to say anything, and I wouldn't unless things became too close to the point of no return. I tried telling you as much as possible but was loathed to break Linda's confidence. I guess as I didn't want to tell you how I knew, half the time, it sounded like I was being petulant."

She gave me an embarrassed look. "I need to call her and clear the air. Does Paul know?" she asked.

"She says not. He's nice enough, but I don't think he'd be willing to accept her betrayal. I don't want to be the bearer of the news that breaks up their marriage."

"God no," she emphasised. "She's my closest friend. I knew her long before she met Paul; she had never acted like that. She was always a one man, woman."

"Not now," I pointed out.

She shook her head, "I doubt if she stood a chance. He's a master manipulator, and I've seen how charming he can be. He had a seemingly simple and logical explanation for every issue you mentioned."

"I can't see the marriage surviving if he ever found out," I said. "Marcus managed to seduce her. He failed with you, partly because of what Linda told me, and I had a chance to scupper him, yet I wasn't sure I'd succeed," I admitted.

She gently caressed the side of my face. "We need to start packing for our holiday, and then it's time we have a second child.

------------

Postscript.

The vacation was a roaring success, and ten months later, we were the proud parents of a baby boy.

Zoe's paintings increased in popularity and became highly valued--some of her early paintings sold for tens of thousands--all except Marcus's. Zoe finished the painting, and it was one of her better pieces. However, she refused to sign it and wiped all mention of the canvas from her records.

Years later, when Marcus needed to sell the canvas, she refuted any suggestion that she was the artist. Without the artist's signature or provenance, that painting was worth mere fractions of what her other contemporary paintings could command. Marcus may have benefited from its influence in the bedroom, but he failed to gain from it monetarily.

THE END

(of Dave and Zoe's story,

But I fear that we've not seen the last of Marcus.)