At nine she walked in, looked around, and came over to join me. After getting her a Latte, we settled in. She looked uncomfortable, so I tried to put her at ease.

"I'm Peter," I said, holding my hand out for her. "Thank you for coming."

"I'm Sarah," she said shyly. "This is out of character for me, but I could tell last night that you may not have had a clue about what you were in for. You proved that to me tonight. Is that what this is about?"

I nodded. "It seems..." I paused, not sure how to say it. "It seems, my wife had sex with her co-star last night. She confessed after the opening night party. She was drunk, but the way she did it, I'm not so sure that was her motivation. It also appeared that others - employees at the theatre - knew about it, maybe knew a lot more based on some of the looks I got. I knew the play would be raunchy, and I knew that they had changed the scenes to make them more... provocative."

Sarah sipped her coffee. I could tell she was trying to sort out what she knew and square it with what I'd told her. She seemed a bit hesitant but I sensed she wanted to be thoughtful in her response.

"There is no opening night party," she said looking up at my face. "That only happens after the show wraps. Your wife left the theatre about an hour after you, with the director, Kingsley, and the director's assistant, Anne."

She let that sink in and then continued. "Peter, what your wife is doing - has been doing - during rehearsals, and then last night, just isn't right in my opinion. It was both hers and Kingsley's idea to turn up the heat on that scene. This director is a friend of Kingsley's from London and has a reputation for pushing the envelope. There was some scandal that pushed them both out of the movie business about five years ago. I don't know anything about that, but it is the rumor."

"Kingsley was in film?" I asked, a little stunned that I didn't recognize him, or hear that from my loving wife.

"Yes," she admitted, "stage name, Miles Bedford. He has the beard now and the blond tints in his hair along with a touch of grey."

"Miles Bedford," I said it more to myself than to her. "That must have been some scandal, for him to go to all that trouble. What did you mean, 'is doing' and 'has been doing?'"

"About four or five weeks ago, after the major changes to that strip-tease scene, both Kelly and Kingsley started rehearsing the scene nude. That would be okay if it were a few times. After all, actors need to get somewhat... familiar with each other for the sake of believability during the show. It's different in film, as you know, with all the editing. This is raw, and live, so a few times would have been totally appropriate."

"What did you say?" I asked, backtracking. "As I know? What should I know?"

"I know all about you," she smiled. "Some of your scenes at Uni were legendary. I've read your books, and any articles you write, when I come across them. I guess you could say, I'm a fan." She got a little embarrassed as she revealed that.

"Thank you," I replied. "And thank you for giving me this information. It seems my wife has some explaining to do."

"I'd say so," Sarah agreed. "Those two are more than friendly, and it's not hard for any of the staff or crew to imagine what else is going on. That's why you got those looks. I find it despicable."

I thanked Sarah again and then we changed the subject. I learned she'd gone to my alma mater, and studied the arts. She hadn't found any meaningful work yet but stayed close to the action hoping for a break.

We parted ways, exchanging phone numbers and she promised to keep me informed on my wife's doings with Kingsley. I went home and jumped on my computer.

During my search, it hit me when I heard Kelly talk about Kingsley/ Miles. Miles was a huge client of Kelly's at the brokerage. She'd mentioned him one night about three years previous. That sent a shiver down my spine. Could my seemingly loving, caring wife be playing me as her perpetual cuckold? Had the show been a set-up, just so they could fuck, spend time together, or both?

I searched several news articles about Miles Bedford, setting my search to 'images.' About forty minutes in, I found a photo from the London Film Festival, with a male actor being interviewed in the foreground, and there right behind him was Miles Bedford, holding hands with my wife.

I couldn't recall a time when I was that angry with a person. My wife, Kelly, had been carrying on, in some manner - emotional or physical, or both - for quite some time. She'd lied by omission - a lot. As I sat there thinking, I realized that I would never get the truth from the slut.

Then I had a darker thought - one I discovered had been lurking just below the surface, and I didn't even know it. I'd always let Kelly be her own person. I'd never complained about her high-powered job as a broker. I never made a big deal about the hours either. Did she feel superior to her author husband? Had she been mistaking my kindness for weakness? Maybe she was just a damned good actor.

So I started making notes again. What did I know for sure:

I knew she lied about the opening night party and had gone somewhere with Kingsley and two others, for their own sort of party. I knew she lied by not telling me who Kingsley was. She could try to worm her way around that, but it would be a feeble attempt. She'd gone to a big deal film festival without my knowledge. She'd been heavily involved with choreographing that scene in the play, and the three culprits all knew each other well.

Things were not looking good for our marriage, and the more I thought about what I didn't yet know, but could easily connect dots to it got worse. I saw it was after ten, so I stopped my note-taking and went upstairs to get myself ready for bed. I was hoping to be sleeping when she arrived.

I took far too long, moving some of my things and preparing for bed, as I heard Kelly come bounding through the door. I took a deep breath and got myself psyched up for an acting gig of my own.

"Baby," she called out. "I'm home! Where are you?"

That was all she got out, as she figured out the light was on and noises were coming from the spare bedroom. She turned the corner and stopped in the doorway.

"What's going on?" she asked, somewhere between shocked and perturbed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed," I told her truthfully. I remained silent.

"Baby," she said, now a bit fearful, "why are you in here? Come to bed with me, so I can rock your world."

I just turned and looked her in the eye. It wasn't a look a husband who'd uncovered the mess I had tonight would have given. My look was sad.

"I can't," I said looking at the floor, "as much as I'd like to."

"Why not?" She asked, perplexed, but with an edge to her voice. "He didn't get inside me tonight. We worked something out, so the audience still thought we were... well, you know. With me on top, he put his, err, erection in my ass crack, and I just ground away on his leg. With him on top, we were simply more careful."

She acted exactly the same as always. I had to look away, lest I give myself up, with the disgust that was probably dripping from my face. Big deal, she did something, that she, the director, and Bedford should have done from the start. Something that any professional would do, and she was making it sound like some concession.

I summoned all my energy and turned to face her. "Thank you for that. It means a lot to me, that you cared enough to listen to me and understand."

"Of course," she made it sound so sweet, the bitch. "I love you, baby. Now let's go to bed. I need a good going over."

"Umm," I stammered, "I can't. Not until we're tested. I'm very worried about picking up some disease, and I can't trust myself being that close to you. You'll just have to give yourself some relief."

I said that last part without wanting to. I was doing everything in my power to seem remorseful, badly wanting her... charms. The little dig just slipped out.

"Come on, baby," she cooed. "I'm clean, and we didn't have intercourse tonight. If you're that worried, we can just cuddle. I won't like it, but I understand."

She didn't understand at all, and I intended to keep it that way. "No, I'm sorry baby," I replied sadly, acting a bit unsure. "I can't take the risk. You'd be totally beside yourself too, if I caught something. I know you. You'd feel very guilty and it might affect your performance."

She tried to act caring, thoughtful, and accommodating. Now that I knew some of what my wife was really like, it made me sick. I walked over to her, forcing myself to give her a tender hug, and apologized again. Kelly gave me an 'I'm so sad' look and turned towards our bedroom - her bedroom.

I did go to the clinic the next day, and not to our primary doctor. I told them to take their time getting back to me, which got me a curious look from the doc. Then I set about doing all the things I suspect most husbands do after learning their wife is a liar and a cheater. I moved some money. I took some savings because I planned on getting an apartment as soon as possible. I talked to three solicitors and picked the one I was most comfortable with, making an appointment for two days later. We'd been married long enough that she'd get half, regardless of what she'd done.

A plan was starting to formulate, though. I called a friend of mine from an entertainment rag and invited him to lunch.

I also called Sarah and told her I needed seven tickets for Friday before closing night. She took care of that and also invited me to coffee the following night. I told her I was grateful and wanted to meet with her, but we had to wait until Thursday night when Kelly would be acting, or fucking her boyfriend. She understood.

My week was incredibly busy. I was happy that Kelly said she had to go to the theatre that night. It meant I only had to bugger off sex on Tuesday and Wednesday. She'd have to find satisfaction with her filthy bloke.

Jonathan Wilkes was a writer for "The Daily Gazette," an entertainment magazine with a medium-high following. Wilkes also had his own blog, and the story I was about to relate to him would ensure his number of followers would likely double overnight.

"Hey up, Peter," he said convivially as I sat down. "Alright?"

I greeted him in return, ordered a beverage, and started in on my tale of woe. Jonathan listened very well. He didn't say a word until I finished.

"Wicked," he said as much to himself as me. "How are you going to handle this dodgy shit?"

"The more time I have to think," I replied, "the more I want to divorce the slag. I have a lot of circumstantial evidence, but no concrete proof that she's been seeing this fucker for a long time. I need your help to get some level of revenge. I'll give you the exclusive if you'll take it."

Jonathan sat looking intently into my face. I think he was trying to decide if I was all in or not.

"I'm in," he announced. "Tell me your plan."

We left, after he bought my meal, and listened to what I wanted to do. The smirk he wore as I told him, said that he liked my idea. Now I had to play a waiting game. We'd see who the better actor was.

Kelly wanted to cuddle on the sofa Tuesday and Wednesday. I thought I pulled that off pretty effortlessly. After all, we were watching the telly and only conversing during the commercials. When I decided I was tired and announced I was going to bed, Kelly used her sex appeal to try and persuade me to come to our old bed and mess around.

"Bloody hell, Kelly," I said with an edge to my voice. "Stop being such a tease. That's fucking miserable of you. You know how much I love and want sex. This is your fault, for not being careful in the first place. Goodnight."

Kelly looked distraught. I'd never turned her down for sex, not even once. I guess she thought I was playing about the STDs. She didn't bother the following night.

At seven-thirty, I was sitting in the same café with Sarah's drink already bought and paid for, when she arrived. She came straight to me and kissed me on the cheek. Sarah seemed far less nervous than the first time we went for coffee.

"How are you feeling?" she asked genuinely.

"Well," I opined, "my doctor says I'm going to make it, and my stockbroker agrees." My attempt at humor fell flat with her.

"You know what I mean," she smiled. "I've been worried about you. I know you're hurting terribly."

It felt immediately great to have someone in my corner. The truth was I'd been hurting, and feeling betrayed and abandoned for the last five days, and when I wasn't planning so sort of revenge, I was feeling empty and viciously shat upon.

"I'm doing as well as can be expected," I told her honestly. "I've been making some plans and acting on them," I told Sarah what I'd been up to the previous few days. When I told her about my apartment hunting, she finally said something.

"You can stay with me," she said entirely too quickly. Her face got slightly red realizing what she'd said and implied. "I mean, you know, until you can find something and get settled. I don't have a roommate. At least think about it."

I nodded to quell her embarrassment. "So, you have some information for me, I suspect," I said.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Sarah began. "Yes. Before I go into the box office, I help as a stagehand, doing set up. While backstage, I heard Kings... Bedford and your wife talking. You aren't going to like it."

She paused momentarily. "I heard the middle of a conversation, where your wife was telling him, that she was worried about you. She told him that you've done a one-eighty from your usual. That you're now 'paying attention to details,' I think is how she put it. She told him they would need to cool it for a while until she could get you back into the fold, or quell whatever was bothering you. That last part was exactly how she said it."

"Does it seem to you," I stopped for a minute, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "That they have been... intimate, before the play? Or any other time, I guess."

"That's hard to say," she admitted. "I only heard that one brief discussion, but as a woman, and crikey, as a human, I'd believe they have cheated together, either off stage or at some time in the past. That's how it sounded to me. Otherwise, why say cool it?"

I agreed. We talked about a few other things, and I got to hear some of Sarah's history. We didn't talk further about me. We said our goodnights, and I promised to consider her offer, at least temporarily.

It would be several weeks until the first of April when I'd be able to move into anything I found. I could move into her spare room for the second part of my plan, while actively looking for my own place.

She was right, in her assessment. I wished she wasn't. Kelly and I had been a good team, or at least I thought so. But the other nagging thoughts of the past week were recurring. Kelly had a drive to do things. She was a go-getter. She'd also never criticized me for not being one. But as time had gone on, and now that I was alert, it dawned on me that Kelly could easily see herself as the person in control of our relationship.

I was a stay-at-home writer. She was a big-shot stock broker, who'd climbed a male-driven ladder to get where she wanted to go. I always respected and complimented her drive. That was sincere. But what did I really know about that high-paced job of hers that was two hours away? What did I know about the long hours? Could she possibly think so little of me, that she considered me her unwilling cuckold? Did she see herself as the authority figure in our marriage? It sure did seem that way.

I thought about possible missed signals since she'd left that world and gotten a job closer to home. In my cloud of security, I'd always seen the goal as setting ourselves up financially. Still, I couldn't say that Kelly had acted any differently once that move was made. She'd always been and still was very attentive to me - in all ways. That was what made me challenge my thinking. I had to remember, no matter the motivation, Kelly had crossed a line, and she seemed incapable of understanding where she'd crossed it, let alone my feelings. Or she was simply a liar and a cheat.

That night I was in bed when Kelly came home. I'd forgotten to ask Sarah to keep me posted on the exact times the play let out, so I could keep track of any late nights. She found me with the lights off, and as far as she knew, I was asleep.

"Nothing happened tonight," she said to my back at the door frame and then turned to go to her bed.

In the morning, Kelly was up before me, and when I stumbled downstairs, she had a cup of coffee ready for me. She didn't look like she got much sleep.

"Did you go get your tests?" she asked, in an irritated tone. I nodded.

"Well?" she was even angrier that I didn't answer her.

"Yeah," I said nonchalantly. "They said it might take a few weeks. They're pretty backed up."

I could see the wheels spinning. The last time we'd discussed this, I'd acted like I couldn't go without sex for long and admonished her for teasing. Now, I was behaving differently.

"So can you at least move back into our bed?" she sounded desperate. "I hate sleeping alone."

"I suppose," I used the same drab tone. "If you promise not to get frisky."

Desperate moved on to distraught. "Of course," she said with a squeak in her voice. "You had better be ready for one bloody hell of a randy wife when those tests come back."

I smiled. I was acting. I didn't want to smile. I wanted to hit her, or just leave. I'd have to keep this up for three more weeks.

The next night she got home late. I knew because I'd asked Sarah to text me when patrons started leaving the theatre. There were thirty minutes unaccounted for. I was in our bed, with the lights off and faking sleep. Kelly went into the bathroom, and then the shower. That would have been unusual before she signed on for that bloody play.

When she slid into bed, Kelly cuddled up to my back. I tried to control my breathing. She reached around my waist and started rubbing my cock. My tallywhacker wasn't responding or acting. That was good. I stirred, as if waking. I turned towards my wife and gave her a playful kiss on the nose.

"How was your night?" I asked.

"Good," she played it simple. "I thought I'd give my man a little gift - a little bit of relief for being such an understanding husband." Damn, she was good.

"I'm pretty beat," I lied. "Plus I got a bad headache earlier from too much time staring at my screen. I had to pop a few Ibuprofen. We can give it a shot."

Her hand hadn't moved during the exchange, and neither had my parsnip. She rubbed my balls, squeezing them a bit too tight for my liking, before going back to stroking the shaft. Then she sighed and removed her hand.

"You're going to need to get your head out of your arse," she admonished, "or start talking to me about what's really going on with you. I'm doing everything to prove my love to you, and, no, I haven't let Kinsley have sex with me on stage. But I'm horny as all get out, and this is silly. That's me being kind with my words."

"Sorry," I squawked, "geez, I'm not doing anything wrong. He's just not cooperating. Goodnight."

I rolled over and pretended to go back to sleep. Several minutes later, I thought I could hear Kelly crying. She was trying to hide it. I guess I'd hurt her fragile ego.

The next morning, my wife asked if I had anything I wanted to talk about. I told her I was sorry about the night before, and that I had had a piss poor day, plus the headache. She asked if she could get me off when she got home that night, and maybe I could at least use my fingers on her. That's when I ran out of excuses.

"I'm sorry, babe," I said solemnly. "With all what's going on with us, I forgot to mention that I'm leaving for four days to meet with my publisher in London. He has a three-book proposal for me and wanted to discuss the details in person."