Three Way Street

By Jillian Ward

Bored to distraction with her lacklustre life, and in dire need of any stimulation to enliven it, when happenstance presented Louise Blackmore with an opportunity for a little harmless mischief, she took it. All she had to do was pick up the phone and call a complete stranger out of the blue.

Little did she realise how far reaching the effects of her rash action would be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Quill Books
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466178113

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THREE WAY STREET

Copyright @ 2010 Jillian Ward

Smashwords Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All rights reserved.

All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance between them and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

for details of current and future publications, visit

www.bluequillbooks.com

Cover design by the author.

For Derrick ♥

1

For more than twenty years the little box had adorned Louise Blackmore's dressing table, keeping her trinkets and tokens safe.

Expertly crafted in tortoiseshell and banded with finely tooled silver, it stood testament to Victorian elegance and beauty, and for the last ten months and two days its red velvet lining had been home to one of her most treasured possessions.

She cradled the box in her hand now, giving the contents one final wistful look before closing the lid and securing its fastener.

Ten months and two days. Not long in the course of a lifetime, but how things had changed in that short while. Back then she had been an ordinary suburban housewife with no aspirations or ambitions of her own, one who happened to possess a coat which had seen better days and all it took for her to take the first step on a life changing journey was a seemingly innocuous statement at the Monday morning breakfast table:

'I think it's time I looked for a new coat.'

Her off the cuff comment halted the progress of her husband Peter's marmalade laden toast, leaving it hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. He stared at her, not sure he had heard her right.

'I'm sorry, say that again.'

'I said I'm considering whether I should look for a new coat,' she repeated, moving cereal around her bowl with a spoon.

His empty hand smacked onto the table top, rattling his knife against his plate, startling her. 'Hallelujah! It's about flaming time! Do you have any idea how sick I am of the sight of the tatty monstrosity?'

'It might be a little past its best, Pete,’ she said, somewhat affronted by his exaggerated display of jubilation. ‘But it's not that bad.'

'Oh, believe me, it is! It's nothing more than a bundle of rags. How long have you had it now?'

'Five years, more or less. More possibly. Come to think of it, it might actually be nearer seven.'

Peter took a large bite from the slice of toast. 'Then it's definitely time to put it out of its misery,' he said, spitting crumbs. 'It's the kindest thing, trust me. You'll be doing it - and me - a favour.'

'I could try and make it last a bit longer.'

He shook his head emphatically and gulped down his food. 'It's falling apart at the seams!'

'I could stitch it up...'

'No!'

He licked greasy stickiness from his fingers, tugged his battered leather wallet from the seat pocket of his trousers and thumbed through its contents - two twenty pound notes and a grubby fiver. He pulled out the two twenties and slapped them on the table.

'Here you go. It's all I've got. Try to get something to last...and for goodness sake woman, don't go to that blasted charity shop.'

Lou reached for the notes; Peter got there first, giving her a stern yet gentle look.'Did you hear me?'

Lou smiled, nodded. ‘Yes dear. Of course.’

Peter lifted his hand and Lou took the money, pushing it securely into the deep pocket on the front of her apron.

Peter tucked the wallet back into his pocket and resumed eating his breakfast. 'Are you sure that will be enough?' he asked. A redundant question, but he had to show willingness, if not ability, to give her more. He hoped she would say yes.

'Yes, it should be plenty. Thank you.'

He sighed inwardly. He didn't begrudge her the money, quite the contrary, in fact he dearly wished it could be more, but her timing could not have been lousier. There were still two more weeks to go until payday and a recent series of unexpected expenses had given his delicately balanced financial applecart a serious wobble. If Lou knew, she would only make a fuss and give him the money back and they would both have to put up with her ugly, worn out bag of rags for goodness knew how much longer.

He deliberated on how far he would be able to stretch the remaining fiver and decided he would have to resort to managing without lunch for a day or two. He would compensate by having a bigger breakfast. She wouldn't notice. Who was he kidding? Of course she would. She noticed everything.

Although Lou promised him she wouldn't go to the Family Aid fundraising shop, he knew full well she would.

She'd found it by accident a couple of years ago and used it when she needed clothes or bits and pieces for the house. He found it difficult to call to mind the last time she bought anything brand new from a proper shop with tags and a receipt, or even sent for something from a catalogue, or as a last resort, off the internet.

He would never allow her to buy anything for him from the Aid. The thought of wearing other people's cast offs, no matter how well laundered, gave him the creeps.

'Supposing they're from someone who's died,' he'd said, affecting a shudder. 'I'd rather go barefoot and naked than wear a dead man's clothes.'

'Quite often they are,' she told him. 'But that’s no reason to be a nobby snob about it. it's got to be better than throwing them away if they can still be used. And I don't mind. Buying from there helps other people less fortunate than us.'

Typical, he thought, always thinking of others before herself. Very likely there were plenty of people worse off than they, but today, with his own wallet almost empty, he couldn't quite bring himself to care too much about them. Did that make him a horrible person?

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. 'Time I wasn't here,' he said, taking a last slurp of his tea and reaching for his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

He kissed Lou goodbye, clamped the remaining piece of toast between his teeth and left for work. He would no doubt find out where his money had gone when he got home that evening. With any luck, there may even be change.

A twenty minute bus ride took Lou into town and she alighted at the far end of the High Street. She walked its length and browsed the stores for a few needed odds and ends before crossing the busy road and making a bee line for the forbidden shop.

They always carried a selection of good quality second hand clothing at reasonable prices, and the previous evening an advertisement in the local paper had caught her eye.

End of Season Sale – 50%+ off all clothing and shoes!

It had been the notice which led her to take an account of the condition of her coat in the first place. She was wearing it now and had to admit it did look shabby and needed to be replaced, and the opportunity of a half price sale was one too good to miss.

In the virtual Aladdin's cave of bargains it took her less than half an hour to fill her basket with a selection of items. Eager to rid themselves of their surplus stock, some of the prices in the store were reduced considerably more than the promised discount, including a very nice sweater for Pete. The replacement coat however remained conspicuous by its absence.

Back home with her purchases, she took time to have a light lunch before hauling her plastic carrier bag upstairs. There she tipped out the clothes and laid them out neatly on her bed - a pair of jeans, two cotton blouses, a woollen sweater, a fine tweed jacket, a pair of stylish tailored bootcut trousers and some neat black court heeled shoes. She gave each item a cursory examination. Apart from there being a button missing from a blouse, they proved to be in satisfactory condition.

She stripped down to her underwear and tried on each item of clothing in turn. All fitted her well, except for the skirt. On closer scrutiny in the full length mirror, she found it to be unflattering to her hips. She removed it and put it aside to bag up and return to the shop as a donation. Someone else with a smaller backside could buy it and the charity would benefit twice.

The tweed jacket especially pleased her. It fitted neatly and looked expensive.

Finally, she pulled on the tailored trousers. These were the real bargain. The label inside told her they were from an upmarket fashion house and having been marked down to less than the price of a couple of pints of milk, they cried out to be bought and who was she to ignore them?

She pulled them on, fastened the button at the waist and zipped them up - they were a comfortable fit. Turning herself back and forth in front of the mirror, she paid particular attention to how the material clung to her rear.

Not bad, she thought. Not too tight, no tell-tale visible panty line.

She smoothed down the fabric, automatically holding in her belly as she did so. As her hand passed over the front pocket, it felt an odd stiffness within. Curious, she put her hand in the pocket and touched something with sharp corners and straight edges. She pinched her fingers around it and pulled out what looked very much like a business card. 'Hello, what do we have here?' she said, holding it by the edges.

It was indeed a business card, off-white in colour with cobalt blue highlights and lettering. The front face of the card bore a stylised flame and the boldly printed company title, MacOil, and a name – Henry C. Dixon. Beneath were listed various contact details – website and email addresses, direct dial telephone, mobile phone and fax numbers. She turned the card over to find another flame logo embossed in blue on the back.

She had never heard of the company and with her interest in and knowledge of the oil industry being less than nil, she screwed up the card and threw it carelessly into the wastebasket.

After changing back into her everyday clothes, she hung her new ones in her wardrobe and put on her apron ready to return to the normal drudgery of her day, allowing herself a moment before the dressing table mirror to tidy her mussed up hair.

Ready to go downstairs again, she picked up the bin, intending to take it with her and empty it. Her eyes were drawn back to the discarded card lying crumpled among the used cotton wool balls and tissues. She picked it out and flattened it against the dresser top with her hand, straightening out the creases.

'Henry C. Dixon,' she read, enunciating the name. 'Interesting name, it sounds quite posh.' She ran her finger over the smooth surface of the card. 'Good quality card too. This is a proper business card, not a cheap one from the railway station machine.'

She read all the details again and tapped the card against her lips as she mused, 'What are you doing in my pocket Mr Henry C. Dixon?'

She opened the trinket box and slipped the card into it for safe keeping.

2

'Did you go shopping?' Peter asked at dinner that evening.

'I did.' Lou set a plate of lamb chop and vegetables on the table in front of him, and a smaller one at her own place.

'And did you go to that dreadful junk shop?' He wrinkled his nose as he said it. 'Even though I told you not to.'

'Yes I did,' she replied, taking her seat. 'And it's not a junk shop; it's a second hand outlet, and it's what's called 'cheap and cheerful'.'

'It's nothing more than a rag and bone merchant's shop front,' he scoffed, cutting into his chop. 'And I don't suppose you got a coat?'

'No. Not this time.'

'Aha!' he exclaimed, pointing at her with his knife. 'I knew it! I knew you wouldn't get one!'

'They didn't have one suitable. I'll have to wear the black one for the time being.'

'I thought you were saving that for best.'

'I am, but it will have to do for now. I did get some other stuff though. Some of them were real bargains. I'll show you afterwards.'

'A fashion show?' He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She laughed lightly. 'Not the sort you're thinking about. Just jeans, a couple of shirts, a fabulous tweed jacket and…' She thought of the card she had come across in the trouser pocket. '…some nice trousers.'

'I don't suppose there was any change?' he asked hopefully.

'There was plenty, don't fret. I'll give it to you later.' With a mischievous smile, she added: 'We wouldn't want you to have to do without your lunch now, would we?'

Peter stared at her. How did she know? What kind of dark magic did she have that meant whatever he tried to keep secret, she always knew?

They fell silent as they ate their meal. Apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall, the only sound in the room was the quiet clinking of cutlery against pottery, until Lou offered a question.

'Have you ever heard of a company called MacOil, Pete?'

'Hmm!' He nodded that he had and mumbled something incomprehensible through a mouthful of meat and potatoes.

'Did your mother never tell you not to talk with your mouth full?' she said.

He swallowed. 'They're out on the new Deanhill estate on the edge of the city. We've passed it once or twice, remember? It's that humongous glass and steel eyesore with the fountain.'

Now he came to describe it, she felt she did recall it vaguely.

'They shelled out a fortune on it apparently,' he continued, keen to tell what he knew. 'Custom built of course, but a waste of money if you ask me. It's okay if you like that sort of thing, but it's not my cup of tea. I prefer good old fashioned bricks and mortar. We laid their car parks and roadways. Do you not remember? It was one of my first senior supervisory jobs – what will it be, about three, no four years ago. Five hundred spaces with room for expansion. Did you know...?

'What do they do?' she asked, cutting him off before he could ramble on any more. She had no particular desire to hear all the dreary technicalities of tarmac laying, but Peter would drone on about it in meticulous detail until bedtime, given half a chance.

'I dunno, but I think there might be a clue in the word oil,' he said.

'Don't be flippant.'

'Well it seems the most likely,' he said with a shrug. 'It is the main business around here after all. The city is floating on the stuff. Why do you want to know? You're not looking for a career change are you?'

'No, no reason.' She stabbed a carrot with her fork. 'Just curious.'

He didn't question her further or offer any more information, and the rest of the meal passed with trivial chit chat interspersed by requests to 'Pass the salt,' and, 'Is there any more gravy?'

Lou went through the usual routine of washing up the dinner plates and dishes, scrubbing out the pans and wiping down the stove top and table as Peter settled down in his armchair in the living room with his feet up on the footstool. He switched on the TV and tapped out the channel number on the remote for the evening news.

The gas fire, cleverly modelled to resemble a real fire with small flames licking through artificial coals, flickered on a low setting, comfortably warming the room. It didn't take long before the murmur of the newsreader's monotone delivery, the ambient warmth and a full belly lulled him into a doze, the promised fashion parade already forgotten.

With her chores done, Lou came into the sitting room to join him. He was slumped down in the chair, his head resting on the back, mouth slightly open, snoring like an outboard motor.

‘Pete!’ she hissed, gently tapping him on the arm. ‘Shush!’

Peter grunted and shifted position, smacking his lips. ‘Wha’?’ A sigh and a snort and he quieted.

He worked long hours and was of course entitled to his rest, but Lou had long suspected his routine of falling asleep in the chair every evening after dinner might stem more from a developed habit than from necessity. She sat on the sofa and took her embroidery from her sewing bag and in the post-prandial tranquility, began to stitch.

Half an hour later, Peter woke from his nap, sat up and stretched himself taut, yawning in a more than necessarily wide and noisy manner. He looked at the clock on the mantle and changed the channel on the television to a documentary on the Second World War. 'Do you mind if I watch this? I missed it last time. It looks interesting.'

'Do you think you can stay awake long enough?'

'I was just resting my eyes,' Peter said in all innocence.

Of course he would always deny he had been asleep because only 'old men' dozed off after dinner in front of the television didn’t they?

Lou smiled. 'You watch what you like, pet. I'll go and have a play around on the computer for a while and see if there are any emails. I haven't heard from anyone in a while.'

The documentary already had him fully absorbed and he hardly noticed when she left him.

3

In the privacy of the conservatory Lou switched on her laptop. Peter had given it to her last Christmas, second-hand of course, but it worked reasonably well, if at a snail's pace. Through trial and error, frustration and cursing she taught herself how to use it with a small measure of proficiency. Tonight the machine was lethargic, grumbling and grousing itself awake, leaving her plenty of time to water her plants. She always left the best until last; an Easter cactus resplendent still with a cascade of bright pink flowers. It lived in a Willow Pattern pot atop a waist high mahogany jardinière, partially hiding in its leaves a small photo frame decorated with teddy bears. The picture inside the frame was that of a little boy; cheeky smile showing tiny baby teeth, hair so blond it was almost white, bright blue eyes shining with delight.

'Hello darling,' she said, running her finger over the glass, over the child’s face. ‘Are you being a good boy?’

A beep signalled the laptop had finally completed its boot up and was ready for her password.

Lou replaced the photo frame, took a seat in the comfortable chair, and rested the humming machine on her lap. She wasn't entirely surprised to find no emails from her old university friends. She hadn't heard from either of them for weeks despite sending regular mails herself. She didn't have much to say, but thought at least an acknowledgement of her news would be nice.

She visited few other sites; Etsy, Amazon and Audible, purchasing the latest James Oswald Inspector McLean audiobook with her credit, before returning to the Google home page. What could she look at next?

Then she knew.

With Peter safely occupied with his TV program, now would be as good a time as any to take her chance to find out about Mr Henry C. Dixon.

She slipped unnoticed through the living room and made her way quietly upstairs to her bedroom to retrieve the business card from its hiding place in the little box on her dresser. She dropped it into her apron pocket and returned downstairs.

As quickly as two finger typing allowed her, she entered the website address from the card into the box at the top of the screen. After a second's pause she connected to a sophisticated professional looking site detailing every aspect of MacOil's involvement with the search for and extraction of black gold.

There were photographs and links to videos, acres of text and comprehensive and colourful charts and graphs. It all proved far too complicated for her to navigate with any competence or understanding, so she settled for the easier option. In the search box she simply typed 'Henry Dixon'.

The screen immediately changed to an information page; Henry Dixon, subsurface reservoir engineer; thumbnail photograph, a list of his numerous and impressive sounding qualifications, his previous employment experience and his contact particulars within the company. They matched those on the business card. She had the right person. She clicked on his image and enlarged for more detail.

A surprising frisson of excitement tickled her just under her ribs. 'Well hello, Mr Dixon. How very nice to see you.'

She guessed him to be in his mid to late forties, certainly no more than fifty, with neatly trimmed brown hair peppered with grey. He had intelligent grey eyes with a few fine crows' feet, and a smile showing a set of white, even teeth. She thought she perceived the smallest hint of shyness in that smile, as if the knowledge of his likeness being displayed for all the world to see caused him no end of embarrassment. She didn't blame him.

Before she could find out more about Henry Dixon, Peter called through from the other room. 'You there, Lou?’

‘I’m here.’

‘You making a cuppa. I'm parched.'

'In a minute. Let me finish this first.' One last glance at Dixon’s picture. ‘Goodbye, Henry, see you later.’ She cleared her browser history, logged out of the internet and closed the laptop down, before ambling through to the kitchen to attend to her thirsty husband's request.

The now ignored TV played on in the corner of the room, the sound muted to barely audible.

Peter had his briefcase open on his lap, his attention now taken up with reading through a bundle of paperwork. He loved his job, although considering the way he continually grumbled about it, no one would ever know.

Four years after his promotion to one of eight Senior Project Managers at McLafferty and Soames, one of the largest road builders in the country, he still went out in the field to oversee his team and keep a weather eye on the job in hand, but more and more of his time seemed to be taken up with paperwork of one form or another. He frequently brought it home, and much to Lou's chagrin often spread it out on the dining table to read as he ate his dinner. More than once the papers had returned to the office decorated with a ketchup stain or ring from the bottom of a tea cup.

He put the papers away, closed the briefcase and placed it down the side of his chair and took the offered cup from her. ‘Ta.’ He gave her a sideways look. 'What have you been up to?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You look a bit rosy.Your cheeks are all pink. You having a hot flush.’

No way could she tell him that looking up a stranger on the internet had brought a glow of clandestine excitement to her face.

'It's too warm in here,’ she said quickly.’The fire's on too high.'

'It's only just ticking over.'

'It's the middle of spring, Pete. It doesn't need to be on at all. It's wasting gas. Turn it down or better still, off.'

Peter did as he was asked. Immediately the flames stopped dancing, vanishing into the faux coals. 'Happy now, Milady?'

Her reply equalled his in its glibness. 'You’ll thank me when the bill comes in.'

The theme music from a comedy show from the 1970s played out from the TV. 'Oh, I like this,' Peter said and turned up the volume. He settled back in his chair while Lou took her customary seat on the sofa, from where she regarded him as he blew on his tea and watched the TV screen.

It was the serendipitous coincidence of a shared birthday which originally brought them together and over the course of the twenty three years of their marriage she had come to know every inch of her husband, both inside and out - every line, every freckle, every hair and every thought - voiced or not.

He looked older than his forty five years. His neatly trimmed hair had turned almost wholly grey while his face had acquired more lines than it should. Even when he slept he carried a worried expression, his brows drawn together in the slightest frown. Behind his rimless spectacles, his eyes were an unusual shade of brown - she always described them as 'oak coloured' - the whites of which were often shot through with fine red blood vessels, synonymous with weariness. Sometimes, she thought, they seemed clouded with fatigue.

He reminded her much of her own father. He too had worked long, hard hours and he too slept in a chair after dinner.

One evening he settled down for a nap in front of the TV, and as he slept his tired heart simply stopped beating and he slipped quietly away. He had attained a mere sixty-five years of age and was just six months short of retirement.

Eight years on she could recall, as clearly as if it had been made yesterday, every detail of the hysterical telephone call from her mother that turned her world upside down for the second time:

'He's dead, Lou. Your daddy's dead. What am I going to do? Dear God help me! What am I going to do without him?'

She often feared, when Peter dozed in the chair, that one day she might be making the same call herself…but to whom?

A sudden outburst of raucous chuckling at the TV made her smile. Peter was still handsome and it showed above all when he laughed. He had a broad boyish grin which revealed a slight unevenness to his front teeth and when the smile reached them, it creased the fine lines around his eyes, emphasising the character in his face. His laugh had always been ready and infectious and genuine, but sadly had become more infrequent of late. She wished he would do it more. She missed his laugh.

He scratched idly at his stomach and she noticed for the first time the little belly paunch he had begun to develop. Nothing major at the moment, but likely to get worse if she didn’t do something about it.

Peter had always possessed a good appetite, and when he had been doing hard manual, physical work on the roads it hadn't been a problem. Then he could eat what he liked and burn it off and maintain a healthy, strong muscular figure. But now his role was primarily supervisory and involved spending too many hours sitting behind a desk or in a