She’d been watching the house for over an hour now. Sitting all alone in the car with the rain thrashing against the windscreen. Cold. Dreary. Depressed. It was the third time in the past two weeks that she’d followed him to this part of the city. An area unfamiliar to her. Not the sort of place she would choose to live in. Old Victorian houses which had once been quite respectable but were now mainly converted into small apartments occupied by a variety of tenants, from old-age pensioners to young single girls.

Was that what Michael wanted? A young, single girl? Someone to help him recapture his youth and his sensuality?

After almost twenty years of marriage their lovemaking had become dull, routine. Almost non-existent in the last six months. Maybe that happened to most couples, but it still came as a shock when it happened to her.

At first she’d tried to pretend that things would change and they’d get back to normal.She told herself that it wasn’t that her husband had stopped loving her, it was simply a phase he was going through. Like many men over forty. A mid-life crisis. Maybe he was under too much pressure at work? His job in the city was very stressful; dealing with stocks and shares. Watching the prices of different shares go up and down; up and down. A nerve-racking experience for any sensitive man. And Michael was sensitive. And kind. And generous. Giving her everything that money could buy. A beautiful house, expensive cars and holidays in the Bahamas.

But she would gladly swop all those things for the deep love that they had in their younger days when they had little money to spare on the luxuries of life. She remembered having to save up enough to buy him a special present for his thirtieth birthday; a long gold chain holding a small medallion on which was etched both their initials and the simple word Forever. He had cherished that gift more than any of the expensive gifts she later bought him.

Suddenly Jennifer’s attention switched back to the house as the front door opened and a woman stepped out into the pouring rain and hesitated before moving off down the dimly lit street. She moved very slowly, almost painfully, as if her legs were incapable of carrying her frail body.

The tension in Jennifer’s body subsided when she realised this must be the tenant who occupied the ground floor apartment; an elderly lady whose name was written on a card fixed next to the bell on the front door. And just above that card was another more ornate one, printed in capital letters in dark red against a white background – MIMI CHARMANT.

Jennifer had seen that card the last time she spied on the house one afternoon while Michael was at work. No one had noticed her casually standing by the front door as if she were waiting for someone. She had been tempted to ring the bell for the first floor apartment and, if anyone answered, pretend that she must have got the wrong address. But no one did answer. And her heart had stopped thumping with a combination of relief and annoyance.

What would she have said if the woman had opened the front door? ‘Hi, my name is Mrs. Cooper You don’t know me but I believe you know my husband, Michael Cooper. In fact I believe you’re having an affair with him.’

It all sounded so ridiculous. So unbelievable. Like a third-rate movie.The two opponents come face to face, ready for the big showdown. A theatrical melodrama. Maybe that’s what life really is. A third-rate movie.

And if the woman had admitted the affair, had laughed in her face and asked what she was going to do about it, then what exactly could she do? Shout? Scream? Call her a bitch, a whore? – Maybe even threaten to kill her?

The thought had flashed through her mind and been immediately rejected at that time. But later, when she was at home alone, waiting for Michael to return after supposedly working late at the office, the thought returned again and again as she pictured her husband lying naked next to Mimi Charmant in that run-down house in the sleazy part of town.

Mimi Charmant? Was that really her name? Or had she invented it to make her sound more attractive to men – like some cheap prostitute ? It was meant to sound foreign. French. The word charmant meant lovely, adorable. The adorable Mimi. Was that what Michael called her in their moments of passion?

Jennifer wasn’t certain whether she would prefer Michael to be visiting a prostitute purely for sex rather than having a torrid love affair with this woman. But neither idea appealed to her. And why should it? Did it mean that Michael no longer found his wife sexually attractive and so was seeking consolation and excitement elsewhere? Maybe this professional slut knew all the tricks of the trade to satisfy a man. Tricks which she, Jennifer Cooper, would find unacceptable and degrading as a normal woman.

But why hadn’t Michael said something? Talked about it? Openly? Husband to wife? Or had their relationship simply drifted into boring, sexless middle age?

The idea of thirty or forty more years of routine, loveless marriage was too much for her to bear. She had to do something right now , before it was too late. She had to face this woman who had stolen her husband from her.

Which was why she was now sitting in the damp car with rain cascading down the windscreen, watching the window of that second floor apartment where the curtains were drawn and only the occasional silhouette flitted into view.

She had watched Michael go into the house almost two hours ago. She was sure it was him even though he’d hidden beneath his umbrella as he approached the front door.

She tried hard to remain calm but the image of two sweaty bodies straining to reach a passionate climax constantly invaded her mind.

Suddenly the light at the upstairs window was switched off. Darkness wiped out the occasional silhouette.

Had the lovemaking come to an end? Were the two bodies satiated? Or were they about to retire to the bedroom for the evening to allow their bodies to recover from the exertion before starting yet again?

Jennifer’s hands tightened on the steering wheel with anger. She couldn’t take any more. She made up her mind to ring the bell and kick the door of the upstairs apartment and shout and scream so the whole neighbourhood would hear her.

She was about to get out of her car when she saw the front door opening, slowly, cautiously. Was Michael creeping out furtively to avoid being recognised?

It was difficult to tell in the semi-darkness, so Jennifer stayed in the car with the engine switched on, ready to turn on the headlights.

When the figure moved away from the door and started to walk down the street, Jennifer heard the tap, tap of high heels on concrete and the short, sharp steps of a woman.

In the car’s headlights Jennifer clearly saw the ultra-blonde hair, the tight red skirt and the long slender legs – the typical outfit of the street-walker – hurrying away from her. As if by instinct, Jennifer slammed the car into gear and angrily pressed the accelerator down hard to give chase to her prey.

The chase lasted barely a minute. The car mounted the pavement and hit the victim with such force that the body was thrown against a brick wall where it slumped down into a bloody, lifeless mess.

Jennifer stayed in the driver’s seat, not really conscious of what she had done, waiting for someone to take charge of the scene, trying to convince herself that it was unintentional; an aggravated accident borne out of hatred and frustration.

But when no one came to help her, she forced herself to get out of the car and move towards the twisted body.

The mental shock had affected her brain and blurred her vision. But the first thing she saw was the blonde wig lying in the gutter getting soaked by the rain. And then she noticed the mascara already starting to run down that heavily made-up face and down the thick neck towards the bare chest where a long gold chain held a small medallion on which was inscribed the initials M.C. and the simple word ‘Forever’.