I’m proud of my wife and what she does for a living. I also think it’s a little badass that she goes to work in boots and a helmet. Some of my friends tease me and ask if I would prefer it if she wore dresses and short skirts like some of their partners when they go to work, but I just laugh and tell them that I don’t care. I love my wife no matter how she looks. All I care about is that she is happy, and I know she is much happier on a building site getting covered in mud than she would be sitting behind a desk looking prim and proper and trying not to break a nail on her keyboard.
It’s the thought of Rebecca’s happiness that makes me feel that knot of anxiety in my stomach again as I sit here in this heavy traffic and wait for something to move. Seeing my wife crying in front of me yesterday was devastating, and I know that she was still distracted when we went to the pub and had our meal. I wonder how she has got on today at work. I really hope she hasn’t been thinking about that bloody woman who came to our door and told a vicious lie. I also hope she hasn’t got too wet out on site today.
I always think of my wife when it rains because I know that she hates it in her line of work. But it has been drizzling all day, and the raindrops are coming down harder now, bouncing off my windscreen and forcing me to increase the speed of the wipers as they try to fend the water off so I can see where I am going. Not that it matters where I am going because this road is still gridlocked, and I’m no nearer to getting back to my warm house where a fully-stocked fridge is just waiting to be raided.
I’m just about to turn on the radio and see if I can find some good music to help pass the time when I hear the ringing alert that is built into my car that lets me know that somebody is calling me. I press the button on my steering wheel that activates the hands-free system, and it automatically answers the call for me, allowing me to talk without picking up my device and keeping me on the right side of British law, which decrees that drivers of cars are not allowed to touch their phones when at the wheel.
‘Hello?’ I say as I watch the raindrops bouncing off my windscreen.
‘Hey, Sam. It’s Maria. You okay to talk?’
‘Yeah, go for it.’
I’ve not exactly got anything else to do while I’m sitting here in traffic, have I? So why not take a call from my colleague who I have just spent the last three hours sitting in a meeting with as we tried to figure out the payment terms on a new deal that our business is brokering with a client.
‘I was just looking at the figures again, and I’m not sure we’re going to be able to make clause seventeen work. I can put it all on an email, but I just thought I’d give you a heads up before you see it and start to cry.’
I laugh at Maria’s joke. I definitely won’t be crying, but she’s not far off. From what she is saying, she has just found another problem in the initial problem that we have spent all afternoon trying to solve.
‘Great. Send it over to me, and I’ll grab a box of tissues before I start reading,’ I reply, and I hear the sound of Maria’s laughter at the other end of the line.
She is from Spain, and while she speaks good English, her accent can mean it can be difficult to understand her sometimes. It’s usually worst whenever she is presenting, probably because she gets nervous and talks really fast, meaning it’s even harder to decipher what she is saying. At least that’s the polite explanation for not hearing her sometimes. The more impolite version that many guys in the office claim to be true is that she is so attractive that it’s not her words they are paying attention to.
As a married man, I’m not going to speak too much on the beauty of any woman who isn’t my wife, but there are plenty of guys in my office who are happy to do so, and the general consensus is that she is smoking hot. But that doesn’t matter, at least not in the workplace anyway. What matters is that she is a damn good consultant and does a great job for our company. She must be because how else could she have risen to such a good position by her mid-thirties? She knows her stuff, and she actually knows more than me, although I try not to make that too obvious in our meetings.
‘I’ve just sent it,’ Maria says in her Spanish lilt. ‘Let me know what you think. Have a good evening.’
‘Thanks. You too.’
I push the button on my steering wheel to end the call, and now the only sound in my vehicle is the rain hitting the windscreen again. I guess I’ve got an email to read over when I get home. Great. And there I was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of the TV with Rebecca. At least the traffic has started to move again. I should be home soon, and then I can do something about my growling stomach. I can also do something to set my nerves at ease a little. I can see if Rebecca is really okay after the events of the weekend. I really hope she
