My Wife's Li'l Secret Read Online Free Page B

though I was at the dinner table or in the room. It was downright rude and I brought it up with Liefie.
    First causally, in a sing-song voice, a smile on my face, “I’m in the room guys. English! English! English!” Big smile.
    Then a little firmly, sounding wounded, “It’s not polite to talk in Russian when I’m in the room, Liefie. Makes me feel excluded from the conversation, okay?”
    Then with my arms thrown out in the air, my face a mask of anger, “Jayzus! D’ya want me to leave the room? Huh? Want some privacy so you can talk about me? Just tell me straight, will ya?”
    “It’s just so good to converse in my mother tongue,” Liefie snapped. “Like you and your sister sometimes speak Afrikaans. What’s the big deal?”
    She had me there.
    Sometimes Arena and I spoke in Afrikaans, but unlike Viggo and Liefie, we just exchanged words , a sentence at the most, then hurried to explain to everyone around what had been said.
    But Liefie had a point, so I quit my whining and sulked.
    As if all the above wasn’t enough, Viggo found a fresh new way to annoy me – he began to emulate me.
    He started to wear his hair like mine, wear formal shirts similar to the ones I wore to work (even though he was not gainfully employed), he stole my aftershave, used my shaver without permission, draped my fluffy burgundy towels (Liefie had my name embroidered on them for father’s day) around his naked waist so I could no longer use them, and drove my wife’s Ford Explorer, even though he did not have a valid driver’s license.
    Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? No.
    Everything Viggo had was supplied by Liefie. Which really meant that all his indulgences, every bit of his luxuries, all his fucking extravagances were supplied by me!
    I was desperate to ship his arse back to Ukraine. Via uninsured cargo.
    But he had drawn my wife out of her depression.  And when he left, he was going to give me back my old wife.
    So I swallowed my anger and quietly counted the days till his departure.
    We had two weeks more with the arsehole.
    Just two more weeks.
    Fourteen days.
    Three hundred and thirty-six hours only.
    Not that I was counting.
     
    ****
     
    “We’re unable to reach Mrs. MacMillan, so we’re calling you,” the voice on the other end of the line said, a trace of irritability in the person’s voice. “Mrs. Macmillan hasn’t picked up your daughter Ally from preschool. Are you able to?”
    My forehead creased. “My wife hasn’t …?” A quick glance at the silver Tag Heuer on my wrist caused me flinch –  5:25 p.m.!
    Liefie’s been involved in an accident!
    “Look, I’m sorry,” I said as I dashed to my Jeep. “Be right over, okay?”
    Liefie had never failed to pick up our daughter on time before. Something had to have been wrong. Another accident? Crap!
    As I weaved my Jeep in peak hour traffic, I dialed Liefie’s mobile phone.
    Hi, this is Liefie. I’m unable to take your call …
    My anxiety peaked. Without leaving a message, I ended the call and dialed her phone again.
    Again, all I got was voicemail. Where the hell is she?
    I dialed Viggo’s number. Yes, the fucker had a mobile phone too, purchased with my money, who else’s?
    To my relief he answered. “Hallooo?” God, I hated his voice, his accent.
    “Viggo, is Liefie with, eh….Olga, is she with you?”
    Without a word, he handed the phone to my wife.
    She’s okay. Whew!
    “Liefie?”
    “Ritchie? Hallooo?” She’s even started sounding like him. God!
    In the background I could hear talking, men’s deep voices, women’s high-pitched laughter, the tinkling of glasses. They were either at a party or a very lively bar.
    “Liefie, you didn’t pick up Ally.”
    “Ally? Oh, fuuuuck! I forgoooot, Ritchie. I forgoooot!”
    She sounded drunk. Could she be drunk, I wondered? No way!
    Liefie had never been much of a drinker. I’d never even seen her drunk, so for her to be slurring? No way.
    It was a Wednesday – Liefie would