44 comments/ 66934 views/ 9 favorites Happy Landings By: Gale82 It was one of those small, regional airports that look quite foreboding on the outside but, once inside, are found to be surprisingly well-appointed. On the second level there was a pleasant, licensed restaurant with an excellent view of the planes arriving and departing. There was also a shop that sold books, magazines and newspapers as well as sweets and a variety of souvenirs. They probably did a fair amount of business during the daytime, but this was mid-evening when there was only the final flight of the day still due to land and there were only a small number of 'meeters and greeters' milling around. Not that it bothered me because it meant there was no waiting for the coffee I wanted and there were plenty of comfortable seats and tables near to the large, panoramic windows. The arrivals board told me that I had the best part of twenty minutes to wait – the plane had suffered a slight delay – but I was quite happy with that. I sipped the coffee and nibbled on the complementary biscuit (hard as hell and about the size of my thumbnail – but it's the thought that counts!) and watched some of the less-than-frantic activity on the ground below where the small plane would eventually come to rest and the passengers return to terra firma. "I don't know why it is, but the last flight always seems to be delayed." The words were spoken by the man in a chair to my right and just a couple of feet away. At first, I wasn't certain that he was talking to me but, a quick glance around the empty restaurant left little room for doubt; that, and the fact that he was looking directly at me. "I wouldn't really know, to be honest," I replied, awarding him a small, but not too-encouraging, smile. I'd already noticed him watching me, practically from the moment I'd stepped out of the drizzling rain and gusting wind into the comparative warmth of the building. In a way, it was rather flattering because I don't often attract looks from men, but I hadn't been exactly overcome by it. After all, it only took a brief look around the place to see that I didn't have very much in the way of competition from the other females in the place. In fact, apart from a couple of pretty elderly ladies, there was only an extremely overweight young woman with a young (and equally overweight!) child in tow and a middle-aged lady with glowering features who looked as if she could have modelled for the Medusa. Other than that, there was just the lady at the information desk who, being charitable, I would describe as 'matronly.' So, if the man was looking for some reasonably attractive female company to chat with for a few minutes, I guess that I was the obvious choice. Don't get me wrong; I don't think I'm especially good-looking. I'm 5'4" with a reasonable figure – nothing exceptionable – and a fairly pretty face although, approaching thirty-two years of age, what I refer to as the 'laughter lines' around my eyes (please do not say 'crow's feet!') are becoming more noticeable and I could probably do with attending the gym more often to tighten up some areas. Even so, I 'scrub-up okay' as they say in these parts and I happened to have made a special effort on this occasion. My make-up had been very carefully applied before leaving home, and checked and repaired in the airport's restroom as soon as I'd arrived. Although the wind hadn't exactly been kind to my shoulder-length blonde hair (not natural, but I preferred it to the mousey-brown that is) but it had only needed a quick brush to put it back into place. When I'd opened my coat before sitting down, it had revealed a turquoise-coloured sweater and a knee-length, green skirt. Okay, so the sweater looked fuller than nature would normally have allowed – a well-padded bra added a fair bit to my assets in that department – but my legs were okay. A sharp-eyed observer – and I was pretty sure that the man was exactly that - might have noticed the tiny bumps which revealed that I was wearing stockings rather than tights. As I've said, not exactly a vision of loveliness, but the lack of competition helped. "I take it you're waiting for someone?" he asked. "Yes... and you?" I volleyed the question back without really explaining anything, but he didn't appear to notice and replied: "Yes... one of the directors of the company I work for. It's a regular event. He flies in once or twice every month to tear through the office like some human dynamo; tells us all what we're doing wrong and what we ought to be doing... then he's off back to headquarters the next day. "Y'know, the really ridiculous thing is that he only stays at the hotel down the road." I raised my eyebrows in surprise and said, "But that's only...." "I know. You don't have to tell me," he said. "It's no more than a five minute drive! But he's so full of his own importance that he expects to be met on arrival and taken there. We don't even get paid any extra for doing it. All the way out to here... wait for him and take him down the road... then drive home to town. The whole evening's practically gone by then." Then he suddenly grinned and went on, "Sorry... I didn't mean to bore you. I bet you think I'm a right whingeing so and so!" "No, not at all," I answered, "I can understand what you mean." And I gave him a warm smile. Now that I'd turned to face him and could see him properly, I realised that he was much nicer looking than I'd originally thought. I'd already observed that he was much taller than me but I'd initially thought he was a fair bit older. Now, in better light, I guessed him to be not much older than myself – late-thirties, perhaps. His dark hair was quite short, his features were lean and slightly tanned, and he had exceptionally clear, brown eyes that met mine with no hint of shyness. "And you're...?" he began the question but, before it formed, I said, "Oh... look! There it is!" as the small aeroplane suddenly appeared as if by magic on its approach to the runway. It was the usual Bombardier Dash 8 carrying about 50 passengers. We both stood and watched the perfectly smooth landing, and then we turned and went down the staircase to the arrivals lounge. He stayed beside me and we chatted quite happily, knowing that it would be several minutes before the passengers came through. I learned that his name was René Davies (his mother was French, he told me) and I introduced myself as Julie McClair. I also told him that it was my husband I was waiting to meet (which seemed to reduce the wattage of his smile for a second or two) as I explained that Duncan had been away on a business trip, that we'd arranged to meet up here for a long weekend together and, as far I knew, he would be on this flight. "You mean you're not certain?" he said, sounding quite amazed at the idea. "Well... as certain as I can be," I laughed. Gradually, the passengers from the flight began to filter through; at least, the ones who only had hand luggage did. I watched a man with slightly greying hair and a confident step come through the doors, heard a delighted female voice call "Larry!" and saw the glowering medusa suddenly become almost beautiful as a huge smile lit her face. With no care for anyone around her, she practically threw herself into the man's waiting arms. Okay, I shouldn't judge by appearances – you don't have to tell me. René grinned at me and whispered something about whether or not I'd seen the 'Transformers' movies and I tried not to giggle. Then there was a youngish guy wearing a Manchester United shirt that didn't quite manage to cover the spread of his waist. He greeted the woman with the child, handed her a Primark bag and said "There you go, My Lovely... a nice top to show off those 'puppies!" and I didn't know whether to laugh or throw up. I did notice that René seemed to be having a small coughing fit, though. Eventually, the carousel started up with no more than half a dozen items of luggage on it and I couldn't see anyone waiting for them that appeared familiar to me. René was also starting to look a bit agitated, but he turned to me and said, "Loads of happy people... loads of happy landings... but no sign of the bastard I'm supposed to meet." "I know how you feel," I said ruefully, "it looks as though we've both had a wasted journey." "I'll give him five more minutes," he declared with a firmly-set jaw, "Then I'm off! D'you want a lift?" "That's very kind of you, René," I smiled, thinking that he seemed like a very pleasant man and that, if things had really been as they seemed and not as they were, I might have enjoyed his company on the ride back to town. "But I've got my car with me." "Oh... okay," he said uncertainly, "well... it's been nice meeting you, Julie." And then he was gone. A few minutes later, all of the passengers had also melted away and the flight crew were making their way past where I stood. I stared straight ahead and felt the familiar prickle of tears, but this time I just sniffed loudly and wondered why I'd bothered. From the floor above came the sound of shutters being dropped into place as the facilities began to close up for the night and I became aware that some of the lights were being switched off. Slowly, I turned away and made my way to the exit. The rain had stopped, I discovered, but it was still chilly enough to make me fasten up my coat as I strolled past the one remaining taxi still optimistically hoping for a fare and made my way over to the car park. I slid into the driving seat of my Mondeo and switched the engine on, fastened the seat belt and waited for the windows to clear. I could still feel the tears that threatened to fall, but I knew they wouldn't now. The crying, the mourning for what might have been was finally over after five long years. It had been exactly that long since I'd last been to this airport; exactly that long since I'd stood and waited eagerly for a glimpse of my husband returning from his business trip. I'd been desperately nervous and anxious; excited, too, I suppose, because I'd reached a decision that I thought would help to secure our future together. I sat and thought for a while about Duncan, letting my mind drift back to the early days of our marriage and trying to recall the hopes, the dreams and the excitement of sharing our lives together. There had been so much that was good in those first few years. I remembered making the discovery that sex could be a much greater joy when it was accompanied by love. Both of my previous experiences had been, to say the least, somewhat disappointing but it was different with Duncan. He'd helped me to explore my feelings, enabled me to feel good about myself, to be honest and to share my thoughts with him. My career, though far from exciting, had also become more enjoyable as I advanced into administration rather than just teaching, while Duncan had qualified to pilot long haul flights instead of just the 'domestic' ones and, occasionally, we'd been able to take advantage of it to have exotic holidays that might have been beyond our budgets without the element of free, or cheap, travel. Life had been good, but then something changed. It had been our sex lives that began to produce unexpected problems. Initially, I'd been prepared to try virtually anything he suggested. I'd accepted a little light bondage – and tried to pretend that it was enjoyable even though it did nothing much for me – and he'd certainly taught me how to enjoy both giving and receiving oral sex. I hadn't even objected when he'd suggested anal sex; and I'd occasionally found pleasure from that even though it was a bit painful and I wasn't entirely comfortable with it. Whatever he'd suggested, I'd been willing to try and to approach it with enthusiasm – even when he'd introduced 'fantasies' into our lovemaking. To be fair, they were pretty innocent at first – I won't bother delving into them – but it was shortly after progressing to the one in which I was having sex with another man that the problems appeared. It was soon obvious that this was a huge turn on for Duncan and, although I enjoyed exercising my imagination, it was no more thrilling than many of the others had been. In fact, as it became a more and more frequent visitor to our bedtime experiences, so I became steadily more and more uncomfortable with it. Eventually, of course, when my diminishing enthusiasm started to affect his enjoyment, his thoughts had turned to trying it for real. At first I tried to deflect him with concerns about the risks involved – especially from diseases – but he was so adamant about it that it led to our first real full-scale row. I don't mean we'd led some ridiculously blissful life until then, but this was the first time that either of us had got into shouting, screaming and swearing at one another, and the first one that was followed by several days of hurt and sulky silence. Several weeks had passed without any further mention of the fantasy (although the frequency of our lovemaking certainly decreased!), but I'd felt that we'd got over it and he'd come to accept that my refusal to contemplate anything like that was, quite simply, non-negotiable. That, however, was when he started to treat me to nice meals in the evening; arranging to meet up when my working day was over. The first few times I failed to notice what he was doing. He would ask me to meet him in a bar somewhere and, although I'd usually turn up on time, he'd always seemed to be late. I've always hated going into a bar on my own; and I particularly hated the fact that, having made an effort to look presentable, I was frequently 'hit on' by the men who were there. On at least two occasions I'd spent the best part of an hour fending off horny executive types before receiving a text message to tell me that my loving husband had been 'delayed by fog' or somesuch and wouldn't be back in town that night. Eventually, I'd decided to make a point of taking a quick look inside before going in and, seeing no sign of Duncan (as usual!) returned to my car to sit and wait for him. That occasion was a rainy night and I'd worn a new, dark raincoat that he'd not seen on me before. That was probably why he didn't recognise me and why I was able to spot him – sitting in his own car – watching the entrance to the bar. It didn't take a genius to work out that he was waiting to see me go in first, and a reasonable guess was that he'd wait to see if I got much attention from the male clientele! I'd been fuming with anger, realising that my own husband had tried to fix it for me to be picked up by someone in a bar! My first instinct had been to go over to his car and confront him – but then I'd had a better idea. I went straight into the bar, which belonged to a decent quality hotel, and quickly found the 'Ladies.' From there, I sent off a text to Duncan telling him that if he was going to be late he should at least let me know. The response was quick – he was held up, not sure of making it, would let me know. I went back to the bar and it was perfectly timed – a youngish, decent looking guy was just saying farewell to his friends and I quickly followed him to the entrance lobby and gained his attention. My story was that I'd been followed from work by a suspicious looking character. Could he please help by just walking me to my car? He was very gallant. He told me to take his arm and we walked slowly to the car, chatting in a friendly way. When we got there, I asked him where he was headed and found it was a works car park a couple of hundred yards down the road. Obviously, since it was raining, I gave him a lift there and dropped him off. He did tell me his name, but that was the only time I ever saw him and I really can't recall it now. What happened next, however, was that it flushed my husband out. Another text arrived telling me that he couldn't make it and wouldn't be home before midnight at the earliest! Remember, this was the man I'd seen watching for me outside the bar! Anyway, I drove home and the first thing I did was to draw the blinds in the living room and switch on some lights. After half an hour or so, I went up to our bedroom but, before switching the light on, I went to the computer. I knew there was a porno movie in the DVD section because it was one that we'd watched together the previous night. Unusually, it didn't involve a threesome just some energetic and rather vocal one-on-one action. I switched the screen off before booting up and, once the introductory part of the film was over, cranked up the volume a bit. The next thing I did was to turn on the light and quickly cross to the window to draw the blinds. As I did that, I half-turned my head as if I was saying something to someone. Then I stood with my back to the window, so that my outline could almost certainly be seen from outside, and removed all my clothes other than my underwear.. Then I went into the darkened guest room and sat on the edge of the bed to wait. I'd reckoned on 20 to 30 minutes, but I was wrong – it was less than ten before I heard the front door being opened and closed again very quietly. Our stairs don't creak much, but I was so attuned to my surroundings by then that I could actually hear his breathing as he reached the upper landing. I peered out and, just as I'd anticipated, Duncan was trying to peer through the door of our bedroom – which I'd deliberately left open a fraction – to try to see the action he thought he was hearing. He already had his zip pulled down and had just taken his erection out when I stepped up behind him and, in a loud voice, asked. "Ohhh... What are you watching, Love? Is it something good?" Okay, I won't go into the detail of what happened immediately after that. Suffice it to say that we slept in separate rooms for a while, and there was a minimum of verbal communication for a few weeks. When we did start talking again, Duncan tried to come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his behaviour – but it was such utter bullshit that he quickly gave up and confessed that he had been trying to get me to take a lover and that, thinking he'd finally succeeded, he'd been too excited to wait outside until my phantom sex companion left. All totally predicable, I'm sorry to say. We'd talked about it, just as we had so many times before – and with the same result: Duncan was absolutely desperate to see me coupling with another man while I was adamant that my wedding vows were sacrosanct. He showed me all the sites on the Internet (including this one) that were filled with people doing and enjoying exactly what he wanted us to do. The discussions (for which, read 'arguments') continued for several months and, of course, our relationship deteriorated. Although I couldn't know for certain, I'd soon begun to suspect that he was seeing someone else. He was flying regularly to the USA and I felt sure that he'd started to see someone else when he was there. One of his 'friends,' another pilot named Pete, kept dropping hints about it; but I didn't take it as certain because I was well aware that Pete was one of the people Duncan had hoped to get me into bed with – and I'd never doubted that the two of them had talked about it. The thing was that I was still very much in love with my husband. I still wanted to please him and I still wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I suppose the writing was on the wall during our final conversation on the subject. It was in my car (he'd lent his to Pete for a couple of days), as I was giving him a lift to the airport for an early morning flight. I hadn't relished the thought of getting up at such an ungodly hour because it was the half-term holiday and I'd have preferred a lie-in. The good thing about it was that he'd woken me up very nicely indeed. Gentle touches, a slow massage of my shoulders that had easily spread to more intimate areas until, still partly fogged by sleep I'd become even more aroused than usual. Eventually, he'd teased and tormented so much that I'd ended up climbing on top and making love to him with a kind of desperation that was beyond control. It had ended up being something far beyond normal lovemaking and much closer to pure, demanding and incredibly satisfying sex. We'd barely had time for a quick shower before dressing and heading out to the car. My legs had still been trembling slightly and I was glad there was so little traffic around because my attention wasn't entirely on the road to begin with. Happy Landings "That was a hell of a way to start the day!" Duncan said as we reached the motorway entrance and a quick glance told me that he had a huge, contented grin on his face. Trying to concentrate on my driving, I just grinned and nodded my assent, but then he went on; "It was a truly amazing, fuck, wasn't it?" I agreed because it happened to be perfectly true, but then the conversation changed direction completely. "It was great for me," he'd said, "because I was imagining you being pounded by another bloke...." 'Shit... that again!' I'd thought, but I didn't say anything. "...And you were so far gone that I don't think you'd have cared who it was... as long as you got a good hard cock inside you." "I don't...." I began, but that was as far as I got. "Come on, Julie... admit it. It was pure sex and you were happy with it. It didn't have anything to do with me being your husband... you just needed a really good fuck. At that moment, it could have been almost anyone!" I hadn't known what to say. There was some truth in what he'd said and I couldn't have completely denied that. In fact, there had been a couple of recent occasions when he'd asked me to fantasise about it that I'd been able to conjure up a picture of his friend, Pete – there were even some times, when he was away, that I'd had Pete in mind when I was satisfying myself. During that morning's session Duncan had made me so aroused that, if Pete had walked into the bedroom at the right moment, I don't think I'd have been able to deny him. I guess Duncan saw something in my face; maybe it was just hesitation, or maybe it was a feeling of guilt that my thoughts did, occasionally, drift in that direction. Whatever it was, he was quick to press home his advantage. "Look, Julie... I'm being honest about it," he told me. "I love you to pieces... and I want us to be together for the rest of our lives... but it isn't going to work when there's something missing that I definitely need... and I think you do as well." "Can't we talk about this another time?" I'd asked, probably sounding more aggressive than I'd meant to because I was approaching the turn off onto the road to the airport. "We've talked about it enough!" he answered, his tone of voice responding to mine. "It's not as though I'm asking for something weird or unusual. You've seen all those Internet sites... it's something that thousands of people do... and as long as they both agree, they have a great time...." "They're all American sites!" I snapped "Not all of them," he replied, although he seemed a little bit less sure of himself but, before I could take that any further he went on, regaining confidence, "Some of them... quite a few... are British... but so what? It just shows that Americans are more open about things like this. Maybe they just know how to enjoy life more than we do." "Another example of American culture?" I almost barked my reply, feeling that a wonderful start to the day had been ruined "...Like McDonald's or...." "Oh, for Christ's sake!" he almost shouted. It was a low blow because he'd spent most of his childhood living in America and only settled in England when his father died and his mother had returned to her home here. "What does it matter? Just because you've had an uptight British upbringing you think anything out of the ordinary is a perversion. Simple fact... we've got to change... you've got to change... because we're going to drift apart." "Bloody hell!" I answered, "You mean it's that important to you? You're sick! All I want is a normal, happy married life... a decent home... maybe a couple of kids... a loving husband. But you can't be happy unless you can turn your wife into some kind of bike for all your friends to take a turn at riding! Don't you understand? I can't do that! I don't want to do that!" And so the argument continued, with him desperately trying to persuade me that what he wanted was perfectly natural and life-enhancing. It was, I suppose, the worst argument we'd ever had, with him hinting, quite strongly, that our future together might very well depend on me agreeing to join him in the kind of lifestyle he longed for. When we got to the airport, he grabbed his small overnight bag and turned to me, saying: "Think very carefully about it, Julie. I can't go on being denied what it takes to me happy... especially knowing that it will add so much to your happiness, too. I'll be in America for the next three days, and I've been offered a better paid job flying out of Los Angeles. If I take it, I'll be moving there... and I want you with me. You've got to think seriously about our future, Julie. I love you more than you'll ever know... but some things are so important that they can't just be ignored. I need an answer from you before I come home because I have big decisions to make. You can call me any night after 7pm west coast time." And then he was gone. I hadn't even remembered to wish him 'happy landings' the way I always did when he left. I don't even remember the journey home. I know that I cried and sobbed almost the whole way until I'd finally pulled into our driveway, stumbled into the house, and thrown myself down on the settee to cry myself to sleep. The rest of that day had simply passed in a blur. I remember that I switched the TV on to try to distract myself, but I've no idea what was on. Over the following days, I couldn't think of anything else. I knew, in my heart, that I didn't want to share my body with anyone but Duncan, but I was beginning to realise that I could very well lose him if I didn't. We'd arranged a few days together when he returned. I was to fly to our holiday destination, arriving in the afternoon and booking into the hotel and he would join me there when he landed on the last flight of the evening. It was a quiet place that we were going to, somewhere that we could spend 'quality time' together and I'd really been looking forward to it. I felt that a phone call was too impersonal and that I should wait until we were alone together to talk it all through – without the anger – calmly and rationally. I did, though, send an email to confirm that I'd be at the airport waiting for him when he arrived. On the evening before my departure, Pete turned up to return Duncan's car. As soon as he saw me, he knew that something was wrong and, although I wouldn't normally have been comfortable about being alone in the house with him, I allowed him to come in and talk to me. He was a good looking man; a little older than Duncan and separated from his wife while he waited for the divorce to go through, and he also had a very pleasant and sympathetic personality. It didn't take long for me to break down in tears and tell him about our problems. He was sympathetic, at least to begin with; so much so that I was happy to let him put his arms around me and offer me some comfort. I was still sobbing – I remember seeing the wet patch my tears caused on his shirt – but then he started to tell me that what Duncan was saying was perfectly true. That 'wife sharing' was both natural and fun, and that it certainly couldn't harm a relationship as long as both partners were able to be honest with each other. Then, as I tried to take in what he was saying, he placed a hand beneath my chin, raised my face upwards, and gave me a very gentle kiss on my lips. I can't recall being shocked – I think I'd more than half expected it – and I was in such a highly-charged emotional state that I didn't even think of pulling away from him. The second kiss lingered and, if I'm honest, it felt really good to be held close and kissed so softly in that way. Gradually, it seemed as if my mind went from total confusion into a weirdly neutral state, before deciding that this was nice and telling my body to just enjoy. I began to respond to his kisses and I could feel myself becoming aroused. I put my arms around him and, when his hand came round to take hold of my breast, I didn't think about it at all because it seemed so perfectly natural. The thin top I was wearing (I didn't have a bra on because I'd just been 'slopping around') meant that he was able to feel my nipple which immediately hardened in response to his attentions. I've no idea how many times we kissed, but I do know that they became increasingly frantic. I was clinging to him fiercely by the time he slid his hand up inside my top, raised it, and lowered his face to begin kissing and gently suckling on my nipples. As he was doing that, I realised that his hand had found its way to my thigh; that it was gently stroking the flesh beneath my skirt and slowly moving upwards and my breathing was almost racing out of control. When his tongue manoeuvred its way into my mouth, it was almost as if I'd been pre-programmed to respond. Without any thought for what I was doing, I eased my right hand down to the front of his trousers and found what seemed to be a huge swelling beneath the material. Just for a second we broke from the kissing and gulped in deep lungfuls of air and then I brought my left hand from around his neck to caress his cheek and draw him to me for another kiss as his eager fingers reached the material of my panties. I guess that his dreams – and Duncan's – were on the way to being realised. But then I caught sight of my wedding and engagement rings on my left hand and it was as if I'd suddenly been plunged into an ice-cold bath. Instantly, my hand released the erection that now seemed to be threatening to burst through his zip and pushed his hand away from my crotch. "No... stop!" I commanded, but he still tried to carry on, still tried to kiss me again, and still tried to get his hand between my legs. Genuinely frightened, I pushed him away with all my strength and managed to break free for long enough to stand up. "I don't want to...." "Yes you do!" he grinned, "I can feel that you do. Come on, Baby... you know you want it... and I've got a lot more to give you than Duncan has... believe me!" "Enough!" I almost screamed at him, "Get out... now!" I thought he was going to be nasty. Certainly the look he gave me was threatening to say the least, but then a slow smile had spread across his face. He'd stood up slowly, which made me take a nervous step backward, but he went to the door and as he opened it, he turned and said; "You just wait 'til you're in America, Babe. We'll open your eyes... and then you can bet I'll get my turn with you. "What is it with you Americans?" I'd yelled, "Land of the free and home of the cuckolds?" but I didn't give him a chance to reply as I kicked the door shut and quickly turned the key in the lock. "Hey! What about my lift to the airport?" I heard him yell, but I'd just yelled back, telling him to call a cab. That night I cried myself to sleep again and I wasn't desperately happy as I headed towards our holiday spot the following day. It was horrible to realise that I was vulnerable; that in the right circumstances – no matter how difficult they might be to find – I was probably capable of being unfaithful to the man I'd married. It made me feel dirty and ashamed. Throughout the day, I'd desperately tried to put my thoughts in order. I knew that I didn't want to have a sexual relationship – even the brief and meaningless ones that Duncan fantasised about – with anyone else; but I also knew that if I simply refused, I'd be putting our future together at risk. The best I could was offer a compromise; I'd go to America with him, but we'd have to start our family before I could think of doing anything like that. I could offer him a 'definite maybe' if that would be enough to keep us together. So that had been the decision I'd made five years earlier. I'd accepted that, no matter how wrong it seemed, I would eventually have to let at least one other man have sex with me in order to keep our marriage alive. Now, as I sat waiting in the rapidly warming Mondeo, I recalled how I'd sat in this airport and waited for him to arrive; desperate to see him and to talk to him; desperate to explain that I was willing to let him have his greatest desire if he was willing to be patient about it. Then, as tonight, I'd watched all the other passengers come through off the last flight until, just after the last of them had disappeared and I was becoming desperately anxious, I'd heard an announcement summoning me to the information desk. I'd rushed there in a state of panic wondering what was wrong; wondering if there'd been an accident but, when I got there, the lady behind the desk just asked me for ID and, when I'd nervously produced my passport, she'd just handed me a large envelope with my name on it. The letter that was in it was in my hand now, but I didn't need to read it. Over the last five years I'd read it so many times that I could recite it by heart. There was no address on it, and not even a 'dear Julie.' It went straight to business: "I've done my best to make you see that there is just one small thing missing from our marriage, but I'm afraid your British reserve has defeated me. We could have been so happy. You could have been so happy because you're absolutely made for the lifestyle I've dreamed of. You've got the looks, the sensuality, everything! But you don't want what I want and I've finally had to accept that and realise that I need to move on. "You've probably guessed that I've already started seeing someone else – a very beautiful lady who's perfectly happy to indulge me in the way I want her to. Therefore, I'm going to arrange a quick, blame-free divorce so we can both get on with what we want to do. "As you're reading this, I'm actually at our house, packing my belongings. I'll be gone first thing tomorrow. I know it probably seems a bit cowardly, but I think its best this way. I won't be in touch with you again. The name of the lawyer who's handling the divorce is at the bottom of the letter. You can contact me through him if you really need to, but I'm hoping that you won't. I'm not taking anything other than my personal stuff. The house and everything in it is yours to do as you wish. The finances are no problem as we both kept our own accounts. "I wish you well, my darling and there'll always be a place in my heart for you." And that had been it... the end of the marriage. I'd left the airport in a daze... totally stunned and disbelieving. Once the taxi had returned me to the hotel, I'd frantically tried to ring his mobile, but I kept hearing that the number wasn't recognised. How much did I cry? Well, I'll leave that to your imagination. The divorce went through with astonishing rapidity – it seems that it's a lot easier in some parts of America than it is here – and I was eventually informed that it had been finalised. All the efforts I made to get in touch with Duncan were wasted. I haven't seen him since the last time I drove him to the airport. A few weeks after the divorce, I met Pete when I was having my lunch break in a small café near the school. I asked after Duncan and he told me that he'd remarried and was doing fine. "You could have had it all, you know," he'd said, "as a matter of fact, you still could if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight." And he'd given me what he appeared to think was a winning smile. "No, thanks," I'd told him. "It's a bit like being offered a hankie when you're crying... nice to be offered but you just don't know where it's been." Then I'd smiled politely, left, and headed back to work. I was now trying to work out why I'd kept that letter for five long years. Then I held my left hand up to the light from the streetlamps and saw the glimmer of the new engagement ring on my finger. It wasn't anything special to look at, but it meant so much to me. It had taken me over three years to accept a date again. A teacher from another school – a rather shy, but very gentle widower in his early forties – had stammered his way so painfully through an offer of a night at the theatre that I would have felt terrible about refusing. I was now glad that I didn't because, once we started going out together regularly, I realised that he was actually a beautiful man. It was almost a year before we had sex. It wasn't spectacular; the earth didn't move for either of us, but it was gentle and it was genuinely loving. It made me feel totally contented when we cuddled up together and fell asleep in the bedroom of my new apartment. The following morning, now that the ice had been broken, it was better; much better. And it has continued to grow better each and every time. For all his shyness, he is a truly caring person and, although I wasn't overcome with love instantly as I had been with Duncan, love has found the two of us and it has grown. I wanted him to be aware of the reasons for the failure of our first marriage, so I told him about it. It was a terrifying thing to do, believe it or not, but he listened patiently and without interrupting. I even showed the letter and, after he'd asked what I now felt for Duncan, and I'd told him that he was no more than a fading memory, he'd said. "I love you, Julie. I want you to deal with the ghosts of the past. As soon as you've done that, I'd be deeply honoured if you'd be willing to become my wife. And I promise that I will never ask you to do anything that repels you; I will never ask you to sleep with anyone and I swear on my life that I will never sleep with another woman." They were the first tears of happiness I'd shed for a very long time. Duncan's letter, wrinkled and stained to the point where it was virtually unreadable, was still in my hand. I looked at it, smiled with no more feeling of regret, and slowly tore it into small pieces. Just after I left the car park, there was a waste bin, and I dumped the pieces in it, then I parked up for a moment, took out my mobile phone and pressed the speed dial. "Hello, Julie," "Hiya, Mike." There was a short silence as each of us waited for what came next, and then I said: "You gave me good advice. Coming to the airport tonight did the trick... no more ghosts, Mike... no more ghosts." "Then...?" "Can we start making arrangements?" I said. "I want to get my hooks into you before anyone can!" I heard his lovely, gentle laughter and felt a powerful wave of wonderful emotion wash over me. I said, "I'll have to go now. I'll see you in the morning. I'm going to sleep well tonight because I know I'm going to be your loving wife." "Oh, yes... yes, please," he whispered.