In Search of a Mistress — “Vera, what’s going on?” blurted out Roman as his wife handed him gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Nothing. But while you’re lazing around, all the mistresses will be snatched up!” Vera yanked off the duvet, sending goosebumps marching across poor Roman’s unsuspecting skin. “What are you on about?” “After what you said last night—that it’s only a matter of time before you get yourself a mistress—I’ve made a decision. The hour has come, Roman. It’s half past five: time to get up and head to the frontlines of philandering.” “I was joking, honestly! We argued, remember? I’m sorry, I was wrong.” “No, no, you were right. I’m the one at fault. I let the fire of passion in our marriage die out. Burnt up all the petrol on myself! Now there’s only ashes—not enough for a spark, not even to bake a potato. I’m fixing it. Up you get.” “You’re kicking me out?” “I’m sending you out! You’ll start working out every day till you shake off that belly. Mistresses don’t put up with Michelin mascot husbands lying around. Up now!” Realising his wife wouldn’t let up, Roman obediently rolled out of bed and struggled into his shorts to atone for his sins with righteous exercise. “Remind me to buy you proper trunks. In parachutes like these you’ll get swept off the lover’s bed by a breeze.” After ten minutes of running laps around the house under the sharp eye of his “coach,” a half-dead Roman staggered indoors, collapsed, and began dragging himself toward the bed by his teeth. “Where do you think you’re going?” his wife asked sharply. “I want to die in my sleep.” “No dying allowed—we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower! You’ll need to use it twice a day at minimum. You never spared me from your natural aromas, but at least spare your future companion. And now twice-daily brushing!” came the command from outside the door. “Wash your hair properly, we’re off to the photo studio today.” “What for?” “To get a proper photo for your dating profile. I can’t take a decent picture, because I know you too well—I’ll only see the scaffolder, the beer king, and the connoisseur of fried macaroni and butter rather than a real alpha male. We need a stud!” “Vera, isn’t this enough already?” “Save your vocabulary for a new ear! Let’s pick your candidates.” Roman brightened: he’d always enjoyed innocent window shopping on dating sites, but now for the first time he could do it without guilt. He started pointing at photos. “What about her?” “Are you joking?” “What’s wrong with her?” “Roman, I should be ashamed of myself—not for you—when I see your mistress. Look at her! Your old Fiat looked better before you sold it. There should be a hazard sign on her: ‘Handle with care—façade detachment possible.’” “Then this one.” “That? Really? Roman, how am I meant to look my friends in the eye if my husband cheats with a ‘whatever-will-do’? This one! See? Perfect!” “She’d never answer me in a million years!” “Heavens, what did I ever see in such a self-doubting Pinocchio? What drew me to you for these fifteen years?” “My sense of humour?” Roman tried. “Oh, please! If laughter really extended life, I’d have been widowed right after the honeymoon. Let’s stop tempting fate. We’ll buy you a decent suit and go fish for a mistress in the big pond instead.” “That’s enough, Vera—let’s just make up.” “Who said we’re fighting? Having a mistress is a sign of a successful man. And being the wife of a successful man means status! One will never be enough.” At the shopping centre, Vera whisked her husband to the most expensive shop, where they stripped the mannequins of their best threads. “Vera, these trousers and jacket cost more than a full set of winter tyres,” protested Roman as she shoved him into a dressing room. “That’s alright—we’ll buy you ‘rubber’ at the chemist’s, winter or summer, with extra protection! Don’t want any exotic bouquets brought into the house.” “Vera!” “What? Safety first! We’re not choosing scooters—we’re picking out the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle. Have you rung your boss yet?” “About what?” Roman asked, wriggling into the jacket. “Money, of course. You’ll need a raise—can’t afford two women on your current salary. I can survive on cabbage soup, but a mistress? It’s concrete: one dinner, three glasses of wine, five-star hotel—scrimp and your foundation collapses.” When Roman finally emerged, tie adjusted, Vera wiped away a tear. “Handsome—like on our wedding day.” “It suits you,” agreed the woman in the next changing room. “Would you like to take him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.” “No thanks, I’ve got three lovers already,” the woman grinned. “Don’t pick her,” Vera remarked sternly. “We need loyalty—like a bank card for transferring funds out of sight.” Perfumed and prepared, Roman was declared fit for the free market—even without the photoshoot. “You’re ready, Roman—just remember what I’ve taught you: confidence and charm, just like you had when you sold off our old Fiat.” Vera went home to her soup, and Roman set off on the mistress quest he’d been trained for all day. An hour later, the intercom buzzed in Vera’s flat. “Good afternoon, young lady. Is your husband home?” The velvet voice was unfamiliar, molten with desire. Even the crackly speaker made it sound seductive. “Oh!” Vera gasped, dropping her ladle. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.” “May I come up? I have a proposition….” From the suggestive tone, Vera flushed hot then cold; she nearly took some medicine, but instead she buzzed the stranger in. Three minutes later, Roman appeared at the door, hand clutching a lush red bouquet. He gently drew Vera close; the narrow hall was suddenly sizzling. “Have you been crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes. “A bit. I thought I’d messed everything up—but now I realise we needed the firewood for the flame.” “Well, would you care to spend this evening with a charming companion?” There was passion (and a modest dose of brandy) glinting in Roman’s eyes. “I’m taking you out for dinner to tell the true story of your beauty—it may be factual, but I swear you’ll like it.” “I—I’d love that,” Vera murmured, entering into the game. “Let me just take the soup off the stove and fix my lashes.” “I’ll book a taxi in the meantime,” Roman nodded. “Where are we going?” Vera’s silly smile was glued to her face. “To a five-star restaurant!” “We don’t have those—just ‘Five Cheeses’ pizza.” “Then that’s where we’ll go. For my mistress, only the best.” “Aren’t you worried your wife will be jealous?” “That’s the goal!” Roman winked. **In Search of a Mistress: Vera’s Perfectly British Boot Camp for the Married Man Who Threatened to Stray — A Comedy of Spouses, Side-Flings, and Shopping Centre Showdowns**

IN SEARCH OF A MISTRESS

“Emma, what on earth are you doing?” I stared at my wife as she handed me a pair of old shorts and a vest.

“Nothing much. While you lie-in here snoring, all the best mistresses will be snapped up!” she declared, yanking away the duvet, sending a shiver across my bare back and making me curl up.

“What are you even talking about?”

“After what you blurted out last nightthat the day isnt far when youll pick up a mistressIve made a decision. The time has come, Tom. Its half five: up you get and off you go to the field of adultery.”

“I wasnt being serious! We were arguing, remember? Im sorry, I put my foot in it.”

“No, no, you were absolutely right. I was at fault. Neglected the fire in our marriage. Burned all the petrol keeping myself going. Now theres just a heap of ashbarely enough heat to bake a jacket potato, let alone rekindle a spark. Time to sort it out. Up.”

“So youre kicking me out?”

“Im getting you in gear. From now on, exercise daily till you shake off that spare tyre. A mistress isnt a wifeshe wont put up with a Michelin mascot slobbing about. Move it!”

Knowing Emma was only going to get louder, I slipped reluctantly out of bed and, dutifully penitent, tugged on my shorts over my old boxers.

“Remind me to buy you some trunks. At this rate, one gust of wind and youll be off the love-bed like a runaway kite.”

Ten minutes of running laps round the garden, under her eagle-eyed gaze, and I staggered back into the house, half dead, crawling towards the bed on my hands and knees.

“And just what do you think youre doing?” Emma cut me off mid-wriggle.

“Wanted to die in my sleep, if its all the same.”

“Die later. Right now, were searching for a mistress, not ringing the coroner. Off to the showertwice a day from now on. If you couldn’t spare me your natural scent, maybe spare the other woman. Youll be brushing morning and night too!” her voice echoed through the door. “Wash your hair as wellwere going for a photoshoot.”

“What for?”

“For a halfway decent profile photo for a dating site. I cant do the jobI know you far too well. Through the lens all I see is a stevedore, a lager lout, and a man who loves fried pasta with too much butter. We need to capture the real alpha male.”

“Emma, havent we gone far enough now?”

“Stop wasting wordssave them for whispering in some dainty girls ear. Come and help pick a candidate.”

This, admittedly, cheered me up. Id always liked sneaking a guilty browse through online dating photos when my mind wandered, but now I had immunityand official sanction. I started jabbing at profiles.

“How about her?”

“Youre joking, right?”

“Whats wrong with her?”

“Tom, at the sight of your mistress, Im meant to feel ashamed of myself, not you. Look at her! Your old Fiat looked healthier when you sold it. Id hang a sign on her: Cautionbits may fall off unexpectedly.”

“Alright, what about this one?”

“THIS one? Good grief, Tom, how would I ever look people in the eye if my husband strayed withthat? Look, heres a lovely one!”

“Shed never talk to me in a million years…”

“Oh, honestly! Tell me again what drew me to such a hopelessly uncertain Mr Pinocchio. Why did we last fifteen years?”

“My sense of humour?” I hazarded hopefully.

“Lets be real, Tom: if laughter really kept you alive, youd have made me a widow by the end of our honeymoon. Best not to tempt fate. Come on, time for a decent suit. Well fish for mistresses the proper way.”

“Enough, Emmalets just make up already!”

“Wheres the quarrel? Having a mistress proves youre a success. And being the wife of a successful man is a status symbol of its own. Actually, lets not limit ourselves to just one mistress.”

At the shopping centre, Emma marched me straight to the priciest menswear, stripping every mannequin bare along the way.

“Emma, these trousers and jacket cost as much as a set of winter tyres,” I protested as she thrust me into the changing room.

“Youll cope. Well get you tyres from the chemistsummer, winter, whatever protection you like. No unexpected bouquets appearing in our home, thank you very much.”

“Emma! Really.”

“What? Safety comes first. Were not buying a scooter, but the missing angle in our marriage triangle. Have you rung your boss yet?”

“My boss? What for?” I asked, pushing my arm into the jacket sleeve.

“About a pay rise, obviously. How are you planning to maintain two women on your salary? Id muddle by on soup at home, but with a mistress its three courses, fine wine, and boutique hotels, or it all falls apart like a sandcastle in the rain.”

Finally, I managed to dress up, straightening the new tie.

“Handsomejust like our wedding day,” Emma dabbed at her eye, suddenly sentimental.

“It looks good on you,” agreed a lady from the next cubicle.

“Would you like to keep him? Hes on the hunt for a mistress,” Emma teased.

“No, thank you. I already have a loverthree, in fact,” she replied shamelessly.

“Tom, steer well clear of her,” Emma said in her strict teachers voice. “We need someone reliable, faithfullike a card from a different bank where you can safely tuck your savings. Now, straight to the fragrance shop, well spritz you with cologne and then youre free to go.”

We traipsed around the shopping centre for another hour before Emma finally nodded in satisfaction.

“Right, Tom. Now youre ready. Even without the photo. Off you go, remember everything I taught you: be persistent, charming, and brimming with confidencejust like the day you sold your Fiat.”

Emma walked home to put the soup on, while I headed off in earnest to search for the mistress Id been so carefully prepared for all day.

An hour later, the intercom rang in Emmas flat.

“Good afternoon, lovely lady. Is your husband at home?” The voice was unfamiliar: smooth, silky, and so full of seduction that even the crackle of the speaker made it seem more alluring.

“Oh” Emma gasped, dropping her ladle as a wave of feeling rushed through her. “No, hes off to see his mistress.”

“Perhaps youd invite me inId like to make you a little offer.”

The tone was so thick with implication that Emma blushed, goosebumps racing up her arms; she nearly made herself a Lemsip, wavered, and then jabbed the door buzzer three times. Tom arrived at the door three minutes later, clutching a huge bouquet of red roses. He nudged Emma by the waist, and suddenly the cramped hallway grew hot.

“Have you been crying?” Tom asked, noticing her reddened eyes.

“A little. I thought Id gone and ruined everything, but now I see the wood was needed for the fire.”

“Well then, would you mind spending the evening with a pleasant and interesting gentleman?” There was a wild spark in Toms eyeand another fifty millilitres of brandy for nerve. “Im inviting you to a restaurant where Ill spin you the most amazing tale about your dazzling beauty. A true storyI think youll enjoy it.”

“I-I-Id love to,” Emma replied, jumping wholeheartedly into the game, “let me just take the soup off the stove and pop on a bit of mascara.”

“Ill book us a cab,” Tom nodded.

“Where are we heading?” Emmas silly grin would not leave her face.

“Five-star restaurant!”

“We havent got any here, just the Five Cheeses pizzeria.”

“Then its pizza! For my mistress, only the best.”

“And you dont think your wife will get jealous?”

“Oh, lets hope so,” Tom grinned and gave her a wink.