Fair Swap
Bill Newman
I locked the front door and sauntered toward the car. Even in my leather coat, collar pulled up, I could feel
the miserable dampness of a cold, rainy January evening. But in England, what could one expect at this
time of year?
As usual, on the way to parties, my husband John sat hunched over the steering wheel, engine running.
He knew this “subtle” hint of his annoyed me, but did it anyway. I opened the door, plunked myself down,
and slammed it shut. As I did so, the car moved off as though closing the door had released some invisible
braking mechanism.
“What kept you, Lisa? I thought you were ready.”
“I wasn’t, but we’re not late,” I said, as he accelerated away, hitting fifty miles an hour before we’d reached
the end of our street.
My definition of being early was to arrive at the time stated on the party invitation. Not that there had been
one. Jeremy and Pam had invited us to dinner with two other friends – Rita and Mike.
In spite of the informality of this particular affair, I had indulged myself by buying a very expensive dress.
This extravagant side of me peeved John. “Do our friends care if they see you wearing a dress more than
once?” he’d argue. “I care,” I’d tell him, and that would shut him up.
We headed towards Harwich and then turned east towards the sea. The mud from farm vehicles had
turned the B-roads, already slick with the rain, into narrow black skating rinks. Even so, John bombed
along at seventy miles an hour.
“I thought I mentioned we’re not late,” I said.
I hated it when he drove like a lunatic, but behind the wheel I was just as reckless. A year earlier, we had
joined a motor club, to participate in their car rallies. I drove and John navigated. We would tear around the
winding country lanes on the Essex-Suffolk border at midnight, with John screaming instructions at me
moments before every fork, crossroad or T-junction. Notably, the only time I permitted him to scream at me.
In our marriage, screaming was my specialty.
Our motoring partnership had proved to be unbeatable in the last three events, and we were now in the
lead for the club championship, just ahead of Jeremy and Mike who paired up because their wives thought
car rallying was just plain stupid.
I should mention that the car rallying had a produced a spin-off – my affair with Jeremy. The first time I
shared a bed with him was at his place, on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday party. In a packed house,
we managed to lose ourselves for twenty minutes. That may seem difficult, but John had been
preoccupied, rubbing himself up against Pam on the dance floor.
Even after that first “quickie”, I yearned for more of Jeremy. I fell for him, because in bed, he had a tender
side to him that John lacked. So the affair started, and our liaisons took place at Jeremy’s house during
lunch breaks. It had to be that way around, because of one incredibly nosy stay-at-home neighbor of mine.
But even at Jeremy’s house, tucked away in the countryside, it was risky. Wives tend to get suspicious if
they spot that the bed doesn’t look quite right. And back in November, Jeremy had mentioned that Pam
asked him why, as he put it, his equipment wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Our fears proved to be correct. A few weeks before Christmas, John came home and stormed straight
into the kitchen where I was preparing supper. He told me Pam had phoned him at work. I listened wide-
eyed to his version of Pam’s tale, trying to look as hurt as I could manage.
John ended his rant with, “Well, are you screwing him?”
“Of course not. When would I have time?” Not the best answer.
“You know I’d kill him, don’t you?”
“John, take your coat off and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
He remained standing and glared at me. “Why would Pam say that, then?”
“I don’t know; perhaps he’s not fucking her as often as she’d like.” That much was true.
I knew my use of the F-word would make him back off. “Well, if you say you’re not, then I believe you.”
I could manipulate John with ease, most times. I’m sure this side of his character doomed his career at the
Ministry of Defence. “Too soft on your subordinates,” his boss had told him at his year-end performance
review. Ironic, considering John’s background.
We dropped the subject of Pam’s presumed paranoia, although Jeremy and I continued to see each other
– the euphemism for our lovemaking. Jeremy didn’t care whether Pam knew or not, but I didn’t mention
John’s threat just in case it made Jeremy droop.
Jeremy had already confessed to me that he’d had extra-marital sex a couple of times previously. Pam
had forgiven him those dalliances and probably would this one, too, provided she thought it wasn’t going to
lead anywhere.
After the frightening drive, we arrived at Jeremy’s house, without John having put the car into a ditch. Pam
greeted us at the door. “New dress, Lisa?” she said in her usually cheery tone. “Can I ask where you got
it?”
I simply wanted to answer “yes” and “no” respectively and leave it at that. Funny how I’d lost any respect I
might have had for her. I sometimes wondered what Jeremy had seen in Pam when he proposed marriage.
Her IQ must have been twenty points below his, and she showed no interest in any of his other pursuits.
However, this wasn’t the night to antagonize dear Pam, so I replied, “In Bab’s Boutique in the High Street.”
“Next to the cinema?”
“Yes.”
Before we’d left home, and somewhat out of character, John admitted that the dress looked positively
stunning on me. It did – knee length in a pale pink, cotton knit, and tailored to fit my size six. At the front,
the dress was cut in a V showing off my cleavage. “If I half close my eyes, you look naked,” John
commented. Good, that was the effect I hoped it would have on Jeremy.
Pam didn’t ask any more questions about the dress, like how much it cost. John didn’t ask either – I knew
he’d figure it would trigger an argument.
Jeremy joined us as we unloaded our coats onto Pam. He made no attempt to help her. “Put them in the
spare room,” he said. It came out as a command.
“Mike and Rita here yet?” I asked, as Jeremy showed us into the living room.
He didn’t need to answer. They were already seated, wine glasses in hand. Jeremy took our orders for
drinks and dashed off to the kitchen.
“We’ll beat you next time,” Mike said.
He was referring to the fact that John and I had pipped him and Jeremy by a mere two points in the last
car rally.
“Maybe you were unlucky,” I replied. “Or maybe you need an ace navigator like John.” I hoped the
audience would interpret the compliment to my husband as confirmation that I couldn’t possibly be
screwing Jeremy; I guessed Pam had almost certainly shared her suspicions with Rita – they were close
friends.
Jeremy returned with our drinks. As he did so, Mike laughed out loud. “Hey Jeremy, Lisa said they beat us
because you’re a lousy navigator.”
Jeremy opened his mouth, but before he could say anything I winked at him. He changed the subject,
something else I liked about him – the ability to hold a conversation on topics other than football and cars.
And, unlike John, Jeremy wasn’t the kind of guy who would fall asleep in the middle of a ballet at Covent
Garden.
Mike and John had managed to steer the chat back to rallying when Pam arrived to announce that dinner
was ready. “There’s two types of sauce for the salmon – white wine in butter, or lemon and parsley for
those who want to stay relatively sober.”
“White wine in butter for me,” John said. “But don’t serve up too much; I want to leave some space for
your delicious desserts.”
John was right about Pam’s culinary skills, and I knew he’d be happy if she’d served up just desserts. He
never seemed to gain weight on them, but that was hardly surprising as he still followed an exercise
regimen left over from his days in the Special Air Services.
The rest of us made our sauce selections.
Pam made eye contact with her husband and nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Can you
help me, dear?” With the emphasis on “dear” it didn’t sound like a question, and she wandered off. Jeremy
followed behind.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Rita said, and she disappeared, too.
I felt duty bound to join them, leaving John and Mike to take their places at the dining room table, no
doubt pleased to have nothing to do except be waited upon.
Pam had placed six plates on the counter. They were already full except for the sauce.
“This one’s yours Lisa,” Pam said, pouring sauce on the fish. “Lemon and parsley, right?”
I picked it up and hovered, holding it in my right hand. “Shall I take John’s as well?”
Jeremy handed her a different jug, and she poured the sauce onto the salmon. I carried both plates
through to the dining room.
* * * *
Back in September, I had broached the topic of what to do about John. At first, Jeremy entertained the silly
notion that I could simply leave my husband and then divorce him. But I had no grounds for divorcing John,
although the converse was not true, of course. The only way open to me was to legally separate from him.
Then, two years later I could file for divorce, citing the separation as the reason.
“Why don’t we go the separation route?” Jeremy had asked.
“Because, dearest, I want you in one piece. John is likely to rearrange your face so that I’d barely be able
to recognize you, and then there would be the fortune we’d have to spend on your dental bills.”
“Come on, now. He could be arrested for that.”
“Maybe, but that might not bother him. He’s ex-SAS remember, a hero of the Northern Ireland conflict.
What judge is going to send him to jail for beating up a guy who’s cuckolded him?”
Jeremy digested this tidbit. John’s army history wasn’t new information for him, but he hadn’t extrapolated
it far enough to reach the same conclusion as me. Nor had I related John’s various SAS tales about how he’
d been trained to kill people with everyday objects like a shoelace, and make it look like an accident. Well,
okay, that’s a slight exaggeration.
“I’ll think about it,” Jeremy said.
For a moment, I thought he meant he wanted to reconsider our relationship. “Think about it?”
“How to get rid of him. If you’re sure.”
“I’m open to ideas,” I said.
And I was. John was definitely a pain in the ass. Ever since we’d got married, he’d always preferred
getting drunk with his ex-army pals rather than spending time with me. He only agreed to the motor rallying
because I threatened to leave him if he didn’t take up something we could do together. Naturally, he
wanted to drive but quickly realized I couldn’t read a map. He used to give me the rolling-eyes look when I
turned the map upside down to align it with the road. Nor had I any idea how to navigate – expertise he’d
acquired in the SAS. If I was honest, the only reason we won those rallies was because of his mental agility
under pressure in determining the fastest route between two points.
Why then did I marry him in the first place? Good question if you’d never met him. Absolutely charming,
multi-lingual, and my girlfriends all swooned when I introduced him.
“It’s not that easy to kill someone and get away with it,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I’m with you so far.”
“I suppose it would be a bit too obvious if I tinkered with the brakes on his car.”
I sighed. “I don’t think it would take the police too long to discover that you have an advanced mechanic’s
certificate.”
He smiled. “We need to sleep on it.”
I wasn’t in the mood for sleep right then. We were at his place enjoying a long lunch break, one that didn’t
include the partaking of any food.
* * * *
The police didn’t show any interest in John until he died in hospital a day after the dinner party. Rat poison,
the autopsy report said. Rat poison wasn’t something that is normally found in salmon, and besides, the
rest of us were okay.
The detectives at the station must have held a lottery to see who would get the juicy case. House party,
cold, dark, rainy night, one dead man, five suspects, no butler to blame it on: it came straight out of an
Agatha Christie novel.
The day after John died, Detective Robinson called round to our house – actually, my house now. He didn’
t at all look like the stereotypical BBC detective I’d expected. Blond hair, no mustache, baby face, although
he did wear the standard raincoat and refused to take it off. A uniformed policewoman accompanied him,
but Detective Robinson didn’t introduce her. He extracted his notebook and pencil from the raincoat
pocket. Ah, that’s why he’d not parted with it.
I showed them into the living room, and we sat down. After offering me his “sincere condolences”
Detective Robinson waded in. “Take me through the events of last Saturday evening,” he said.
“Well, there’s not much to tell. Pam and Jeremy invited us over for dinner, along with two other friends, Rita
and Mike. We’d just finished the main course when John complained that he didn’t feel well.”
“And the rest of you? No one else was sick?”
“We were fine. I drove John straight to the hospital. I remember joking with him that Pam had boxed up the
dessert for him. She knew he liked her sweets.”
Detective Robinson exchanged glances with the uniformed officer, who, lips pushed tightly together,
seemed to be suppressing a smile. “What had you all eaten that evening?”
“Salmon. We thought John must have got a bad portion.”
“And you’re sure everyone ate the same?”
“Er… yes, apart from the sauces. Pam had made two types.”
“Who put the sauces on the salmon?”
I blew out my cheeks to indicate that I was making every effort to plumb the depths of my memory. At
length, I said, “Pam. Yes, I was in the kitchen and can picture her holding the jug.”
“Did John collect his own plate from the kitchen or did someone serve it to him?”
“No, I mean yes. I took both plates into the dining room, mine and his. He was already seated at the table
with Mike.”
“Is there any chance you might have mixed up the two plates?”
“Er…” I paused, closed my eyes and pressed my knuckles into them.
“Take your time,” he said, as though he was prepared to stay all day.
I opened my eyes, hoping they were now bloodshot. “Actually, yes, when I started eating, I did realize that
I’d given him the wrong one, but by that time John had already started on the salmon.”
“He didn’t notice the difference?”
“John? Not a chance. He wouldn’t have mentioned it even if there’d been tomato ketchup on his salmon.”
“And you didn’t say anything either.”
“God, no. I didn’t want to upset Pam. To be honest, either sauce was okay with me.”
“Now about Pam. Were you good friends?”
Oh, oh, he’s finally getting there. “I met Pam because John and I knew Jeremy through the motor club. In
the last year or so, we’d socialized with them quite a bit.”
“And with Rita and Mike Smith?”
“Yes, them too.”
“Rita Smith told us that Pam had confided in her that you and Jeremy were having an affair. Were you?”
He made eye contact – a copper’s most reliable lie detector.
“Yes.”
My bluntness seemed to throw him off. He paused for a moment as though I’d negated his follow-up
question. “Did your husband know about it?”
“Pam phoned John at work and told him.”
“And I assume he told you?
“Yes.”
“What was his reaction?”
I made a face, to indicate this was excruciatingly painful for me. “He thought she was making it up,” I said.
Detective Robinson exchanged glances with his colleague. “Why would he think that?”
“Perhaps John thought Pam had the hots for him.”
“And you didn’t put your husband straight about your affair with Jeremy?”
“No, but he later told me that if it was true about me and Jeremy he’d divorce me.” I avoided embellishing
the lie. He was the detective; he’d deduce the implication of my mentioning divorce.
He closed his notebook. “Well, that’s all the questions I have at the moment. Once again, I’m very sorry
about your husband.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll let you know if I need to speak to you again.”
“Of course.”
The two officers stood up, and I showed them to the door. The policewoman strode off to their car, but
Detective Robinson turned as though he’d forgotten something. “You had a lucky escape, ma’am.”
“Oh?”
“The poisoned food might have been intended for you.”
I hoped my expression transmitted shock and fear, and a look that said: Poisoned food? Who could
possibly want to kill me? But I said nothing.
He seemed satisfied that he’d made his point. Or had he wanted to see my reaction to his zinger?
* * * *
Poor Pam, but things weren’t as bad for her as they might have been. The charge of murder was later
reduced to manslaughter. I guess the prosecutor couldn’t prove that she hadn’t simply intended to scare
me in an attempt to warn me off, but had overdone the dosage. Ten years was pretty stiff for manslaughter
but, as the judge said, “Here’s a man who’s served his country…” Blah, blah, blah.
Adding to Pam’s woes, the court ruled that her crime was sufficient grounds for Jeremy’s divorce action – I
should hope so. I don’t feel too sorry for her, though; she’ll be out in five years or less, and still has half the
proceeds of their house with which to start afresh.
I’m married to Jeremy, now. My clever man had devised the brilliant scheme. Especially ingenious was the
third jug containing the rat-poison sauce. It would be washed and cleared away with the rest of the dishes
while John and I were on our way to the hospital. And I marveled at his legerdemain in being able to switch
the jugs without Pam noticing. I lost the bet with Jeremy that she’d get life, but you can’t have everything.