The Bank Statement

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A story of love and betrayal.
10.5k words
3.87
234.5k
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Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 10/22/2022
Created 06/17/2008
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A pleasant little story of love and betrayal. Not for you if you like an uninterrupted list of sexual activities, but a tale, with a beginning and an end, and a twist or two.

*

I don't doubt that reading a bank statement has bought unhappiness to many people. It's almost certainly a common thing, probably caused disasters far worse than my own. But that didn't help -- not one bit.

I was just sorting through some papers on my wife's desk at home, trying to find whether she'd paid the phone bill or something similar, something quite ordinary and innocent. That's when I found it, lying there under a pile of bills and other things.

A bank statement, from Barclays as it happened, and I probably only noticed it because we do all our stuff with HSBC, and the blue colour on the heading just caught my attention. I guess she'd chosen another bank to keep it hidden, which was ironic really, as it was that difference that led me to taking note, and flipping through it.

First I checked the name at the top, and it read Jenny Mathews, so no surprise there, but the address I'd never heard of, somewhere in the West End of London, way south of Cambridge where we lived.

Next I checked the figure at the bottom, seventeen thousand five hundred and forty six pounds, a tidy balance, but where had it come from; I had no idea. Then I looked at the list of transactions over the last three months, and was staggered at the regular large sums of money that had been going into it. Six hundred pounds one day, over a thousand a week later, then eight hundred just six days later, and so it went on.

Now I make a good living from my business, and was used to largish sums of money, but Jenny only did a bit of part time work for some public relations company, an occasional afternoon, or more likely an evening, at the most a week end, standing in for someone at some function or other, and even then mainly only for the fun of it, as it didn't pay a fortune.

It was when I scanned the list of payouts that I was really thrown, as there; every month was the same sum of money taken out by standing order, five hundred and sixty seven pounds. The sum sounded worryingly familiar.

I walked over to her cabinet, a fancy old fashion rolled top affair from the late nineteenth century, opened it, and got out my wife's banking file. She was always very neat and precise Jenny, and I knew exactly where to look as we shared everything, no secrets between us. Or at least there hadn't been till then. I found the HSBC statements, and scanned through them quickly till I found what I wanted, having no compunctions about going through her bank details, as she showed them to me regularly.

There it was in black and white, her salary from the agency, five hundred and sixty seven pounds every month!

I was lost, absolutely lost. It seemed that Jenny was paying herself her own salary from her own bank account.

Why the hell would she do that?

Did she really have a job at all?

Where on earth did the money come from in the first place?

Was this something to worry about, and was it any of my business?

Like hell it was. What was Jenny up to?

I grabbed the Barclays statement again, and studied it in more detail, realising that virtually the only money ever withdrawn seemed to be the monthly payments, whereas the payments in, were sporadic, frequent, but with no pattern to them. It then occurred to me that there was an awful lot more money going in, than coming out, so I looked back at the balance at the bottom of the last page.

Bloody hell!

It wasn't seventeen thousand five hundred and forty six pounds. I'd missed a zero, and it was one hundred and seventy five thousand, four hundred and sixty.

Fucking hell!

----------------------------------------------------

My name is Jim Mathews, I'm thirty-eight, quite presentable, and run my own computor business, where I employ two other people. My wife Jenny is twenty eight, ten years to the week younger than me, and to my mind just about the right age difference. I give her my maturity, such as I have, my experience in life, and a very comfortable life style. She gives me her relative youth, her beauty, which she has in abundance, and all the fun in the world.

We both give one another our loving, both spiritually and physically, without reserve.

We are both, without doubt, after three years of marriage, still head over heels in love with one another, as I had been since our first date.

I'd been up in London for a meeting with a guy to discuss some deal with Google, and I was sitting in the Hotel bar afterwards, thinking about the possible advantages of going along with their idea. Then Jenny walked in, and my insides flipped. It's not that I didn't have a girl friend, in fact I probably had too many, but none of them were that special. Somehow I knew that she could be special, but only if I could get to know her.

Jenny was five foot six tall, slim, with nice shapely, tanned legs that seemed to go on forever, from the dainty high heels on her feet, till they disappeared under the very short cocktail dress that she wore. She had longish dark hair, and deep brown eyes with a cute little turned up nose. My dream girl wasn't a classic beauty, but she didn't need to be, and every man in the place must have been eyeing her up, all no doubt with similar thoughts to my own.

She simply oozed breeding, elegance, confidence, fun and sex, and not necessarily in that order.

I'm sure everyone watched her as she looked around, nodding to the receptionist who obviously knew her, no doubt a regular resident.

Then she looked straight at me and my insides did a somersault, as her soft brown eyes melted away any doubts that I wanted her.

I smiled back, and acknowledged her, wondering what the hell to do next, but didn't have to worry about it. A smile that would have lit up the street outside flashed across her face, and she walked towards me, her hips swinging lightly to emphasize her shapely body, her breasts, ample, but not too large, swaying in time with her steps, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, she didn't have an awful lot on underneath that dress.

" Hi, you must be James," she said to my surprise.

"Jim, not James," I replied, my voice perhaps a bit hoarse.

"James, Jim, what's the difference?" She laughed, and I wasn't about to argue with her.

"May I sit down?" she asked, in her rather clipped very British upper class, but very sweet accent.

"Of course, of course," came my urgent response, leaping up to pull the chair back for her.

Even the way she sat down showed class, as if she had been taught how to do it at some posh finishing school.

I wondered, why me? What had I done to earn the attention of this dream on legs of a woman? How on earth did she know my name?

"I'm Jenny," she said. "Sorry I'm late, but I got held up. Thanks for waiting."

She then looked at me, and asked, "Are you OK Jim?"

I was. I was fine, but she later laughed as she told me that I had looked totally shocked.

I recovered quickly however, and within moments we were engaged in gentle banter, delighted to discover that we shared so many interests, the same music, tennis, Indian food, and believe it or not even rugby. Jenny was an educated woman, and could speak about a whole range of subjects, unlike the semi bimbos that I had been with lately.

Then her mobile rang, she excused herself and answered it. I heard her say, "No I'm here............ No he's here as well......... Couldn't be, he's here with me.......... Oh dear, Oh Golly....hang on a mo."

She looked at me quizzically, the smile returning to her lovely features, and I stared back.

"Were you expecting me by any chance?" She asked.

"No. But I'm very pleased you arrived," I replied cheekily.

"You're not James Green at all, are you?"

"No, I'm Jim Mathews."

"Oh shit," she said as she giggled, and lifted her mobile " Cock-up!" She said into it. "I was late and I've got the wrong James...or Jim actually."

Her use of profanities with her posh accent was wonderful. Sounded so out of place, yet so natural. She turned her head and half covered her mouth so that I could not make out the next few exchanges between her and whoever was on the other end of the line. I just knew I was going to lose her in the next few minutes, and desperately tried to think of something witty to say the moment she ended the call.

Then Jenny looked back at me, still holding the phone, that smile, verging on a grin, spreading back across her face.

"No he's quite cute actually," she said into the phone, but staring straight at me, making sure that I could hear. "Rather good looking in a rugged sort of way."

I think I may have blushed.

"OK then. Give him my apologies. Next time he's in the UK maybe," and she finished her conversation, slipping her mobile back into her bag.

"Well then," she said. "Looks like I've missed my appointment.... Never mind it'll keep."

The smile never left her face. "Assuming you're free this evening, what do you fancy doing, and how about we do it together?"

I refrained from telling her what my first choice would have been, and suggested that we had dinner. She readily agreed and that's exactly what we did. The best meal of my life, and I hardly noticed what we eat. I was already under her spell.

Jenny told me about her job in PR, how she set up meetings, arranged discrete functions, helped her agency to put people together in the right place at the right time. She obviously loved it, and I was already hoping that she could love me as much.

After the meal I walked her back to the taxi rank, overjoyed to see that there was a small queue, and that I would have more time to chat, and this time to hold her.

I put my arm around her and she snuggled up, sliding her arm around my waist, and cuddling up to me. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and she returned the favour, just the sweet smell of her sending my senses into overdrive.

Then she looked round, manoeuvred me between her and the others in the queue, put her arms up around my neck, and pulled me down till our lips met.

Heaven!

Just the briefest of touches, but it was like discovering the land of milk and honey. And I had the honey in my arms.

I got carried away, and almost disgraced myself, as I kissed her more hungrily, running my hands over her back, feeling the soft curve as it descended down to her bottom.

"Hey! Hang on. Hang on," she cried, and then laughed. "Give a girl a chance can't you. We've only just met."

I drew back, disappointed, but not really. Frustrated, but not really. This was some special girl and worth the effort, worth the wait.

"Sorry," I apologised. "Got carried away," and she giggled deliciously yet again.

"Slowly," she said. "Kiss me slowly. It'll be worth it in the long run."

Christ I was lost, and I think it was then that I fell in love with Jenny, my wife.

That was it on our first accidental date. I suggested we might go back to my hotel for a nightcap, but she'd have none of it, teasing me that I was after a little more than that, and that a first date was just too soon.

"Can I see you again?" I asked, and she teased me again, humming and haring about whether it would be worth it, all the time holding on to me, holding me against her beautiful slim body, and sending me crazy with desire.

"OK." She relented at last, shrugging her lovely shoulders. "I'll ring you; what's your number?"

"I don't trust you," I said, a bit boldly. "You give me yours and I'll ring you."

"No can do Jim," Jenny replied quietly. "I don't give my number out, especially to hansom strangers I'm afraid. I'll ring you."

We made a compromise and agreed to meet the following Tuesday, too long for me, but the earliest she could manage.

-----------------------------------------------------------

What was I going to do about this newfound knowledge about my wife's affairs? Why did she have all this money, and where did it come from. Sure her parents were rich, owned an estate down in Kent. Hunted, shot pheasants, and owned a fair share of one of the smaller merchant banks. One that had survived the aftermaths of the big bang as well, so obviously the family was well connected. There was no reason why my wife wouldn't have money, even sums like that, but where had it come from, and why in obscure if substantial sums?

It had to be something to do with the public relations company she worked for, but really, I had no idea.

I'd ask her.

I just knew I couldn't. If she was hiding it from me, then there was a reason, and I had to find out that reason whatever it cost. I have to admit, it frightened me a bit. Though it seemed impossible, it seemed that Jenny seemed to be mixed up in some shady deal or something.

I had to go down to London a few days afterwards, so I looked up the address on the statement.

It was a swishy area, and reeked of money, old money, just the sort of place Jenny's family would feel comfortable in. At least that relaxed me a little.

I looked at the brass plates on the door, but none of them meant anything, just a couple catching my eye, 'Corporate Agency' and 'Golden Circle Agency', the others all being accountants or stockbrokers by the sound of them.

I waited around for a while, but nobody arrived or left. No joy there.

I had drawn a blank and didn't know how to proceed. All I could do was confront her, but that didn't appeal at all. She was hiding something from me, and now it seemed possible her family were involved. I had to find out what, and perhaps more important, why.

---------------------------------------------------------

Our second date was memorable, and I remember quite clearly what she wore. The tight denim jeans and white sweater would have looked good on any attractive woman, Pierre Cardin just has that ability, but on her it was stunning. I'm sure it was for women like my wife that designers like him got their inspiration. It was a woman like my wife perhaps that launched a thousand ships.

We went to the theatre, then on for a late dinner. It was superb again. No idea at all what we eat.

Afterwards the two of us strolled down the banks of the Thames, arm in arm, like lovers have done throughout time, and I sort of assumed she would come back to my hotel. She did, and I sort of assumed she would come up to my room. She did, and I sort of assumed that she would join me in bed. She didn't! She wouldn't!

Not that we didn't enjoy ourselves, and not that I didn't manage to persuade her out of her sweater, her beautiful firm breasts being everything and more than I could ever have hoped for, as I squeezed them gently, played with her nipples, licked them and even sucked them, till she gasped out in pleasure.

She grabbed me, kissed me passionately, forcing her tongue in between my lips, twirling it around mine, the very taste of her sending me into a trance. I caressed her breasts, rubbed them, squeezed them, and played with them unmercifully, relishing the silkiness of her skin, the hardness of her nipples, and the exquisite perfection of her body. I slid my hand down, over her breasts, down past her flat tummy, and found the top button to her jeans, so tight round her hips, but so inviting.

My fingers started to undo the top button, and she gasped, cried out, her hips already gyrating, thrusting herself up to my hand.

Then she stopped.

Just like that, realising perhaps how far we were going, and what it would lead to.

" No, please no," she whispered, holding my hand, but without the resolve to actually push it away. "I'm not ready. Not yet, please don't."

It was maybe the most difficult decision I ever made in my life till then. I stopped, pulled back, but left my hand where it was, hovering over her pubis, not daring to lower my hand down onto it even though it was still covered by the denim crotch of her designer jeans.

She made no attempt to stop me, almost daring me to defy her, looking at me imploringly however, trusting me not to.

Then the moment was over, and we cuddled up, kissing and holding one another tightly.

Bloody hell, we were adults, me in my thirties, and her into her twenties, but she wasn't ready, not yet.

I asked what the problem was, if there was indeed a problem, and she nodded, whispered yes, and then burst into tears.

What can you do?

If you love the woman, and by then I undoubtedly did, then you accept it. I held her tightly, stroked her hair, spoke to her calmly and told her that everything was OK.

We lay there like that, and my passion died slowly down, only my love for her remaining. A good hour later she sighed, and eventually got up, apologised, and tears started to run down her cheeks again.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm in such a mess, such a fucking awful mess, you've no idea. No idea at all."

I pulled her tight to me, the tighter the better, to make all her problems go away, and eventually, for the time being at least, they did.

"Thank you Jim," she said at last. " You are the most wonderful man."

She kissed me, and everything seemed fine.

We stayed there cuddling for some time, but it had to end, and I found myself escorting her out to the taxis yet again. One in the morning and still no sex, but I'd never felt so bloody good in my life.

--------------------------------------------------

I thought about confronting Jenny with the problem of where all the money had come from, and why was she paying herself.

At best it could be from her family, maybe cash they were stashing away from the taxman. That took my fancy for some time, but it was too easy, too convenient, and I knew there was more to it.

I had no other explanation, nothing at all, just a knot building up in my stomach that not all was as it seemed, and that I was in for a major shock, though even then, I did not imagine how big a shock I was in for.

I followed her one evening, all the way to London, when she was off on one of her jobs for the PR firm, keeping her Audi carefully in my sights to see if she really did go to the hotel where her company had set up some meeting or other, or whether she would slip off to meet someone sinister.

But no, there she was, pulled up outside the correct hotel, good as gold, elegantly stepping out of her car, and handing the keys to some attendant. Nothing to get upset about, and several hours wasted by following her all the way down from Cambridge.

What a bloody fool I had become. I resolve to just ask her, the explanation would surely be quite simple. I'd ask her that very night, when she got back, however late it might be.

But she didn't come back that night, and woke me in the morning, the ring of the telephone bringing me back into the real world, away from my tormented sleep, as I raised myself from the sofa where I had spent the night waiting for her return.

"Hi Jim," she chirped, as happy and bright as a lark. "Sorry, got really tied up in some discussions last night, and the company paid for a room at the hotel for me. Went well though. Be back before lunchtime. How about lunch at the bull, and I'll tell you about it?"

"Why didn't you ring me last night?" I demanded. "I've been worried."

"I did," she said with concern. "But there was no answer.... I left a message."

I looked down and sure enough the message light was flashing on the phone. She must have rung when I was on my way back from London, and I hadn't noticed when I'd come in, with all the other things on my mind.

I agreed to meet her at the Bull, but I was still confused. I felt the world closing in on me. I didn't know what to do, or what else to say.

The next week I followed her again, feeling like a traitor, hating myself for the distrust that I felt, and the thoughts that were permeating my brain.

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