Michael

Remind me again why I put up with Connie?

Yes, she's my girl. Yes, I love her more than life itself but she's also conniving, insane and a complete whore to boot.

And yes, I know that's no way to talk about my wife but you don't have to live with it. The lies, the manipulation, knowing that you're being played for a complete fool but being incapable of doing anything about it because it would mean hurting the woman you love, a woman who you know has already been hurt enough.

Take yesterday. To all intents and purposes she and I played the Board like a pair of pros, a few leading questions on my part, some very clever words on hers and 'Goodbye Zubin Kahn'.

She did it I have no doubt, out of some personal vendetta. Professor Kahn dared to cross her, and you don't do that more than once.

I did it because it was what my girl wanted. To keep her happy. To make her smile.

Dominic Fryers death didn't come into it for either of us.

Neither much did the reputation of the hospital, no matter what Connie told the Board.

A life lost, a career in tatters and all it really comes down to is Connie getting her own way.
I shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't let myself be manipulated. But I'm scared of losing her, in any which way she could choose to leave my life, be it with a suitcase or in a coffin.

And don't think there haven't been threats…
On both counts.
On more than one occasion.

So against my better judgment I went along with it, she got her result and I closed the door on the whole sorry affair. Thought we could put it behind us and get both our personal and professional lives back on track.

Shame I forgot whom I was married to.

She doesn't do back on track. She lurches from one little mind fuck to the next. It's a miracle that the outside world has never sussed her out.

I decided to surprise her by taking her out to dinner. Wine her, dine her, treat her like the princess that she is. If there's one thing Connie reacts well to its attention. She craves it. Other people crave sensible things like food and oxygen. I think she could possibly live without them providing she had a crowd of adoring fans.

Oh, and a packet of Bic Razors.

The reservations were made. The champagne on ice.
The reservation time came and went. The ice melted.

No Connie.

I was disappointed but not overly concerned. Con's always been a workaholic. Even on our first date I got hijacked into helping her write an essay on medical ethics (ironic now I think) and for the first few years of our marriage I only seemed to see her when she was asleep. As the husband of an eminent surgeon I'm used to coming second to the job – it's the nature of the beast.

I called her direct line.
No answer.
Her mobile.
No answer.
Darwin Ward.
Finally, a human voice… well Nurse Jackson anyway.

"Oooh no, sorry Mr Beauchamp Mrs Beauchamp left for the day. About 4 hours ago. Is she not home yet?"

Or, as she really wanted to say, "How can you think you're capable of running a hospital when you clearly can't control your wife."

Any other man might have been concerned by this turn of events. Any other man might be running all the terrible possibilities through his head – a car accident, an attack, their wife in danger.

Any other man isn't married to Connie.

I knew exactly where she was.

I know she cheats. It's usually in our own backyard and the whispers usually come back to me. I ought to hate her for it but deep down its part of her, built into her by her childhood. She HAS to know men can't resist her; she HAS to know that they want her. She HAS to feel important.

Sex is her way of confirming that.

And it is just sex. That's how I comfort myself. Yes, she fucks them, but there's no intimacy involved, and certainly no love.

Not on her part, nor on theirs.

She does it to control them.

They do it because they want to get laid. One or two have probably fallen in lust with her over the years but they can't love her because they don't know her.

Not like I do.

She doesn't let them see her like that.

I know this because she's told me so. She broke the differences between 'my her' and 'their her' down into painstaking detail during a fight ignited by her sleeping with my boss not long after our wedding.

'My her' was made love to.
'Their her' got fucked.
'My her' loves to be held afterwards.
'Their her' can't get out of their quick enough.
'My her' watches me sleep and can't believe she's lucky enough to have me.
'Their her' looks down at them and wishes they were dead.
'My her' would tell me anything even if it means leaving herself vulnerable.
'Their her' tells them nothing, and if they ask they get told to fuck off.
'My her' is loving, giving and cries at Bambi.
'Their her' is a cold hard bitch who doesn't even know what crying is.
I'm special.
They're not.

Its all true you know. Except the Bambi part. She's never seen it, even the idea upsets her. Her lovers don't know it, her colleagues don't know it, I don't even think our friends know it, but Connie is adorable. Needy but adorable.

That's why I'm like I am.

Certain friends have tried to take me aside, suggest I'm being used. Suggest that maybe I ought to "divorce the bitch".

But they're not the ones who have Connie fall asleep in their arms. They're not the ones who wake up in the middle of the night and find Connie clinging to them, her nails digging in their shoulders like she's scared they'll leave her if she lets go.

Dominant bitch?
Scared child?
It's a thin line.

Listen to me. I was telling you what a cow she is. How she makes every second of my life Hell, and I get distracted by how loveable she is.

It figures I suppose, it is the point I'm trying to make.

So, back to the point, I assumed she was off on another fuck and run and it doesn't take a genius to know that I didn't like it. I went running for my 'stash' determined to block out the mental images of another man crawling all over my darling Connie.

Touching her.
Abusing her.

Because that's what it is. She pulls the big control thing, pretends she screws around because she can, but deep down she IS just that scared child. That scared child who'll will let anyone do anything just to ensure she gets the attention.

I'm making excuses for her again.

And I'm trying to stop. I want to stop.

Especially after today.

Today, started, at least in effect, for me at 2am. I woke up on the sofa, the after effect of my last coke hit pretty much in evidence. The light was off, and as I recalled I'd left it on.

Feeling pretty groggy I went upstairs and…

Well I wasn't groggy for long.

There's something fairly 'sobering' about finding your wife passed out your bed, apparently in 'sleep' but looking anything but rested.

The duvet was pulled back. She was slumped in a heap, like she'd fallen asleep sitting up. There was a patch of dry blood on her shoulder, a gauze on her right breast, an almighty mess of cuts all over her thighs.

And asleep she might have been, but my Swiss Army Knife was still clutched in her hand.

I know I've said this before, but I wanted to hit her. I wanted to slap some sense into her. I love her more than I've ever loved anyone but she would rather screw around and cut herself to ribbons than let me love her fully.

People would die to be loved as much as I love her.

But what could I do? I took the blade from her hand, crawled into bed beside her and held her.

Essentially together but infact a million miles apart.

And this morning, well, same old story. Same old games. She was in the kitchen when I got up. I cornered her at agar, asked her where she was last night.

The answer was at work naturally.

And when I confronted her, told her how I wanted to take her out and how I knew she was lying, she claimed she was out with an old friend.

Crap of course. Women like Connie don't have friends. Other women are the enemy not the confidante.

And I meant to argue. Wanted to. But then Connie used her greatest weapon.

Sex.

And I quote…

"Oh baby if I'd known of course I'd have been home…"

One hand on the crotch. The other running through my hair.

Manipulative cow.

The gentle push which had me leaning against the pantry door.

What man would say no?

So I traded the sex for no further mention of last night. Of the missed date. Of the dubious anonymous friend. We parted for work on good terms. Her PROMISING to be back early tonight. For a repeat performance. For an early night.

All of which hardly explains why when I went to collect her from her office tonight she was gone.
It also doesn't explain why when I headed down to the bar nearest the hospital to drown my sorrows I saw 'my baby' and Ric Griffin in the car park.

It doesn't explain why I saw 'my baby' and Ric Griffin in what can only be described as a 'passionate clinch'.

But it's not the passionate bit that worries me.

It's the fact my baby was crying.
It's the fact he reached out and stroked the tear from her cheek.

I hate to sound petulant, but isn't all the intimacy suppose to be mine?