Neither of them has any hobbies, and they spend all their free time trying to avoid each other in the house. Jane says she has tried to improve her appearance, and even bought some skinny jeans, but Tom told her she looked like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’.
How can people live like this? Why do they do it? Tom has told her every day for years that he wishes he could divorce her, but he hasn’t. I wonder why? Is she financially a lot better off than him, or is she hiding a secret of his? And why doesn’t she walk out on him? Either way, it’s very strange.
On the other hand, my own divorce is still an immense battleground. I’ve tried the polite and civil route for the sake of Paris. When I first decided to divorce James, I had visions of my future life. I would live on my own with Paris in a nice home, not extravagant like I’ve been used to – but normal, easy to manage and lovely. Think picturesque cottage with roses around the door! I’d work a normal job, he’d come and pick her up and spend time with her. All would be friendly and amicable. No hard feelings, just a marriage that didn’t work and we could both move on like adults. Wrong!
He won’t agree to the divorce, legally or financially, and we keep going round in circles with solicitors and courts. In my opinion he’s certainly not kept up his duties to his daughter either.
So I know from my own experience that divorce is traumatic but I really think that, rather than hire a private investigator, Jane and Tom would be better off just spending the money on divorcing each other. For some reason, though, neither of them has taken any steps towards this, so here I am, involved in this messy situation. After over ninety minutes on the phone, Jane has utterly drained me.
After I hang up, I log back onto Facebook and see that Tom has accepted our friend request. I have a look through his profile, all the way back to when he joined. There’s absolutely nothing of any interest. Not a single clue. There are only a few odd status updates: ‘I love my wife so much, I am very lucky’; ‘My family mean more to me than anything’; ‘Jane has been the making of the man I am’.
Clearly Jane herself wrote these status updates! He’s definitely not written them off his own back given what she’s told us about their marriage. Why would she do something like that? If he is up to anything, and was using Facebook to conduct an extramarital affair, he certainly won’t be using it now that he knows she has access to it! This is why clients’ DIY detective stuff is simply a pain. It does nothing but raise suspicion and make our jobs harder. If she hadn’t done that, he would be a lot less suspicious and we could perhaps have found out something interesting through his profile. I huff, puff and place the order for the body fluid detection kit – something else I had found by Googling. Then I slam the laptop lid down and retreat back to the kitchen, and particularly the kettle … I need a cup of tea!
A couple of days later, I’m sound asleep in my bed. This time in my dreams I’m up in the Scottish Highlands, staying in a beautiful castle hotel. The spa facilities are amazing, and I’m sat by the tranquil pool while Paris is splashing in the children’s pool, giggling away to herself. I’m even smiling in my sleep, this little scene makes me so happy. I hear a buzzing, a bit like a fly but bigger than that. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it’s getting louder. It’s ruining my happy place. I’m flapping my hands around my ears, trying to swat the fly. But it’s not a fly. Now it’s sounding almost like a song. A tune. I can’t make it out … and then it clicks. I grab the pillow from the cold side of the bed and hold it tightly over my ears. If I ignore it, it will go away … But it’s not going away. It stops and starts again. It’s my stupid Mission Impossible ring tone. Boy, do I need to change it!
Huffing, I sit up in bed, a bit like a princess having a very pathetic princess-style strop. My arms are crossed, and I don’t want to answer the phone … but I do anyway.
‘Hello.’ I’m sounding a little grumpy about answering, considering it’s (have a look at the clock) 7.30am! What on earth!
‘Rebecca? It’s Jane. I have the kit. What do I do now?’
Oh my goodness. How do I tell her politely to go away?
‘There are instructions in the box. What do they say?’ Reading instructions would be far too easy for her. Instead she picks up the ‘let’s piss off Rebecca hotline’. I fall sideways onto the pillows and close my eyes. Jane may be on the other end of the phone, but if I block her out this could all be part of a bad dream. Squeeze my eyes shut …
‘They say to run the stick over the item, followed by some liquid stuff that’s got to go on it.’
My eyes are wide open and, nope, she’s still there! She’s on the end of a phone, but she may as well be sat at the bottom of my bed poking my feet for how annoying she is.
‘OK, so do that then.’
‘I’ve done that already. Now what?’
‘How long does it say the test will take?’ If I stay matter-of-fact, these conversations could possibly last less than an hour. I don’t need a repeat of the ninety-minute marathon one.
‘Thirty minutes.’
‘How long has it been on?’
‘Two minutes.’
‘OK, so wait another twenty-eight minutes and see how it goes. Any problems, ring me back, OK?’
‘Of course, thank you.’ And she hangs up. I can breathe a sigh of relief.
My eyes close again and I’m being transported once more. I’m on an aeroplane, on my way to New York. A boy from school is sat next to me, and I wonder if that’s a sign?
The phone … ringing … Mission Impossible … again … and it dawns on me. Mission impossible. I’ve jinxed myself. This is mission impossible.
‘It’s negative,’ Jane tells me, and I’m not surprised.
‘Ah,’ I say. Very productive.
‘I know. But how accurate are these things? I was so sure.’
Oh dear no, please no, don’t let me have to go into an hour-long conversation about how accurate the tests are. There’s no pleasing the woman; she won’t believe me.
‘Very accurate. I spoke with my equipment supplier yesterday,’ I tell her, dodging the question neatly.
‘Oh really, what did he suggest?’
‘He said that the best thing would be an audio device, and I’m inclined to agree. You can’t get into Tom’s office, and neither can we, but if you place this item somewhere you’ll be able to hear everything that goes on in the vicinity. Or else you can leave it entirely up to us and we’ll monitor it for you and document the findings.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’ After that she was on the phone for at least an hour wanting to know how the audio device works, how long it works for, how much it will cost. Followed by what a miserable life she has because of him, and all the rest of the things we’ve gone through a thousand times since I took on her case. Suddenly it dawns on me why solicitors charge for phone calls.
The same constantly needy Jane calls me goodness knows how many times over the next three days, which is how long it takes for her audio equipment to get to me. Chai, thankfully, is amazing at shipping quickly. Goodness knows how I’d have coped with this woman if he wasn’t.
At this stage I can honestly say I think she’s crazy and that her husband isn’t up to anything. The things she’s worrying over are, for want of a better word, pathetic.