Catherine was overwhelmed and a fleeting look at the bedside alarm clock told her that she had less than an hour before her cab arrived.
“P.s.” the note concluded, “I assume that you are by now wearing my gift to you. Go dressed as you are.” And Catherine laughed out loud. How well he knew her. She skipped downstairs and resisted the urge to open the weekend bag — that much at least would be a surprise.
Daniel may have surprised her completely had he been a little more careful and Catherine grinned at her cunning in uncovering his plot. She’d found the main clue almost three weeks ago, a name, telephone number and date on the pad by the telephone, barely visible and yet not quite completely hidden; an impression from the missing page above, almost unnoticed on the page beneath. She trusted her husband implicitly and the thought that he might be conducting an affair never entered her mind. Instead, when she read ‘Alice, ext 57692’ and todays date, her date of birth, she was in no doubt that this related to his surprise birthday gift to her. Of course, she had had to investigate and try to beat him at this game and when she returned from her adventure she would take great delight in telling him how easily she had uncovered his scheme.
On finding the secret note, Catherine had telephoned the university at which her husband taught, asking for the extension she had found.
The phone buzzed a couple of times. “Good morning, Alice Simpson.” A woman said cheerfully.
“Oh Hi.” Catherine replied. “I think I have the wrong number. I was trying to call the Chemistry department.”
“Ah. This is Art.” Alice told her. “Would you like me to transfer you?”
“Thanks, but that’s Ok. I’ll dial again.” Catherine answered quickly, so as not to raise suspicion. “Thanks for your help.” She added as she hung up to end any further discussion. Catherine immediately reached for her IPad and typed ‘Alice Simpson, York University.’ She’d hit send and at once the device threw back Dr Robert’s biography.
‘Alice Simpson,’ Catherine read, ‘is a doctor of fine art and renowned figurative artist living and teaching in the north of England…’ There were samples of her work that took Catherine’s breath away and just as she was about to close down the page she saw a link to ‘up and coming events’ Catherine almost didn’t follow it, but she was curious and impulsive by nature and couldn’t resist. She tapped the screen and a list of exhibitions and workshops appeared, one, she noted excitedly, a life drawing class for experienced artists, beginning on her birthday.
Catherine smiled at the memory of her cunning and checked the destination of her train ticket, finding to her delight that it matched the location of the workshop that Dr Robert’s was holding this weekend. Catherine almost jumped for joy; she loved art of all kinds and was a gifted painter, though she had little time for hobbies these days. How wonderful of Daniel to feed one of her greatest passions. A car pulled up outside and a horn sounded and Catherine dropped her phone onto the dining table and grabbed her bag as she skipped out like a child.
The taxi ride was brief, no more than 20 minute, and Catherine noted that the driver spent as much time staring at her breasts in the rear view mirror as he did looking at the road ahead. Catherine was rapidly approaching forty and she was flattered that younger men found her attractive; but as much as she loved men and women admiring her, it was her husband that enjoyed a greater thrill in showing her off and feeling the envy and jealousy of others. She exited the cab and felt the driver’s eyes follow her to the entrance of the station and the car sat idling until she was inside, but Catherine didn’t look back.
Her heart was racing and her whole body was trembling beautifully with excitement. It was as though she had been released into the world this morning to be whoever she wanted to be. There was a life in her gait as she danced purposefully towards the turnstyle.
An elderly ticket collector stood by the gate, the station not yet sufficiently modernised to replace him with an automated access. The man smiled and punched her ticket and replacing the punch to his pouch noticed that she wore no shoes. “Did you leave in a hurry?” He asked, looking down so that she could follow his eyes to her bare feet.
“Its one of my fetishes.” Catherine said merrily, though in truth, while it did excite her, bare feet were one of her husband’s major turn-ons.
“Ah,” he replied casually. “Mine is breasts. I keep a journal of women’s breasts that travel on my trains, scoring them out of 10.”
Catherine laughed musically at his candour and dropped her bag to the ground, taking his hands in hers and stepping forward to guide his palms to her breasts. Rather than pull away as she had perhaps expected, the man didn’t flinch and indeed, gently massaged her through her dress.
“Very nice; beautifully proportioned and firm.” He complimented her. But his enjoyment was curtailed by a whistle blast and he sighed and let his hands fall away. “Your train leaves from platform 2.” He offered and Catherine recovered her bag and hurried away. “Over the bridge.” He continued.
“Thank you.” Catherine replied over her shoulder. “And if you score me less than 8 I’ll pee on your platform.”
It was the man’s turn to laugh. “You’re my first perfect 10.” He replied earnestly.
The train was almost empty and she found a seat at an unoccupied table near the buffet car. If she had packed her own bags she’d have brought a book for the journey, but her husband had instructed that she take only what he had provided. “Perhaps…” Catherine plopped the red leather bag onto her knees and unzipped it. She roared with laughter on examining the contents: A thick white bath sheet to fill out the case, her favourite vibrator and a bottle of lubricating oil. She closed the bag and placed it on the chair at her side.
The train began to move and a young man made unsteady progress towards her table, having boarded just as the doors were closing. He was perhaps 19 or 20, built and dressed like a scarecrow and with a face full of erupting pimples. He was not her type at all and he flopped into the seat opposite, having first asked her permission and almost at once pulled out a thick tomb to bury his eyes in. Catherine relaxed and closed her eyes and let her mind and imagination wander, finding herself in her art studio, or at least in the art studio she would choose for herself had she the means to afford one. It was large and spacious and examples of her work lay propped against three of the four walls. “Come in” She said absently as her model entered. “Leave your clothes on the chair and join me in the centre.” The model that arrived was the young man opposite her on the train, but as he tentatively undressed his weak, limbs grew muscle and sinew and the man evolved into her husband, becoming strong and confident. The model was wearing thick jeans and almost in cliché Catherine was naked beneath her paint stained denim dungarees.