Hell Hath no Fury

                                                     2,936 Words

Hell Hath No Fury

Claire Swanson had just turned fifty-five when she became the office manager of Prouty Classic Car Sales & Leasing in Manchester. She was confident in her abilities to run a small office, although aware that she was older than any of the other girls in the office. She was tall, with dark eyes and short black hair, but the feminism in her clothes was not there or ever had been. Sensible dark suits, blouses buttoned up to the neck, business attire. Always. She had never married and she was not one to socialise much, she had always put work before pleasure. Formally, she had worked with a large company as a personal secretary to the CEO in London, but the stress of all the rules and sometimes the irregular hidden agenda attached to the job gave her sleepless nights and the need for a change of location and job. Now, instead of her own office she shared her boss’s large space behind a glass partition.  

When she looked after Paul Prouty’s office while he was away on business trips, which occurred quite often, she had the freedom to work at her own pace and enjoy whatever the rest of the office was involved in. Paul was not around much because much of the time when he was around town schmoozing with prospective clients and buyers of expensive classic cars. Claire was now the signatory for one of his banks, wrote the cheques to dealers, calmed the girls in the office when clients became too pushy. Only the payroll was done by a local Chartered accountant, Steve Hansen.  

It seemed to Claire that everyone knew Paul. Billboards lined some of the major roads with his logo and his business headlines: Prouty Classic Car Leasing and Sales. He was big broad-shouldered, six two, with easy attitudes towards life, and a flair for making folks feel at ease, particularly the women. His clothes were purchased from the very best tailors, so he knew he looked good, and it showed in the photos on the front page of tabloid magazines. At age sixty, he was the perfect bachelor salesman.

Paul dated pretty women, so it surprised Claire when he asked her out to dinner. After ordering a cocktail for her, he said, “I’m going to Hawaii on a business trip. Honolulu has a new dealership and I need to see what’s going on. I’d like you to come too.

Claire was flattered. “Well, I think that would be great. Sure.” At fifty-seven, not many men had given her a chance to be a secretary on a business trip.

“I’d like to keep it sort of secret from the outside world,” Paul said. “No one needs to know around the office about us, or at the parties. I know you understand?”

Claire had dated as a teenager, and had a love affair which turned sour, so she had made a decision that marriage was not for her. Since then, she had taken very little interest in men, but Paul made it easy for her to feel wanted again and she fell easily under his spell. He was a breath of fresh air for her, good-looking, alert, optimistic and she was more than eager to go along with him to his elaborate apartment in Hawaii.

He seemed to think it perfectly acceptable that because they were together in his apartment that she shared his bed. Now it was just routine to skinny dip in the private pool, make love on the balcony and Claire loved every minute. He was generous with gifts and lovely jewellery, and more importantly he promised her that they would marry in the not too distant future. Claire had never experienced a man quite like it. Her social life had certainly been dull compared to what this man offered her. 

Her new blouses showed a little cleavage. She let her hair grow to shoulder-length and loved it. She even had her nails done every two weeks. One or two of the girls made complimentary remarks about her new appearance, but most just smiled, almost condescending, Claire thought. She rationalized that they were jealous. Although, nothing had ever been mentioned about she and Paul being together.  

The letter arrived along with all the others. She opened it without a second thought. A letter from the Tax Office. She read it over three times. Delinquent taxes! So much money now needed to settle this. So much! How could that have happened. For a moment she was stunned and then angry. For some reason it felt that she was being let down, disappointed. The man would most certainly go to jail. After a sleepless night, she knew she must talk to him about it. Was he unaware that he owed so much? Why hadn’t Steve stepped in as his advisor? When she finally had the opportunity to ask Paul what was going on, he said. “For God’s sake it’s not your business to delve into my tax affairs. You were not supposed to open mail addressed to me personally.”  

Claire was horrified that he could talk to her like that. He apologised an hour later and said that he’d talked to Steve and it was all okay now.

Car leasing was still brisk in Paul Prouty’s office. The office staff were all girls. When the newest girl, Susan Bishop, was hired as a receptionist six months ago, Paul said she would be an asset to the office, and she was. In her early twenties, blond and blue eyed she epitomised the cover-girl persona that seemed to draw male customers into the office more than ever before. Paul Prouty had a harem of pretty girls to work for him. His sales room was always busy, if not with car ordering from the Blue Book and sales, it was like an old boy’s club, men were in and out all day long.

Claire was happy to think that this wonderful man had her interests at heart, but the nagging thought that he was not always truthful about his tax situation had made her uneasy, although she could see no reason why he and Steve had not sorted it out.

Saturday dawned sunny and exceptionally warm for early September. Paul called at eight, just as Claire was getting ready for her half day at the office. He asked her if she would mind going to Bristol to pick up a BMW Sports car from the dealer there. “I promised it for Monday, and I think it would be prudent to get it here on time. Would that be okay with you?”

Paul liked to keep the inventory of new cars in the gated courtyard up to speed, even if it meant that one had to collect some exotic imported car from another dealer out of town. It was a service he provided to keep his wealthy impatient customers satisfied. All dealers swapped cars if they were the same as customers had ordered, especially if they didn’t mind the colour.

“Okay, yes, sure.” Claire enjoyed flights out of town and the drive back no matter how far. For the last three months she had been asked to go out of town for a car pickup. She always stayed at a hotel and drove back the following morning. A nice break. Although this was happening every month now and some of the cars that she’d driven back from dealers out of town were still on the lot. Not sold. If they were ordered and delivered earlier than promised because she’d found them elsewhere, why were they still there.  

First, she called the BMW dealer to make sure someone was going to be there who could sign the necessary paperwork and permission for her to pick up the car, and to make sure it was prepped and had petrol. It was a disaster to discover that those things had not been done. A day wasted. She made a plane reservation online for late morning. If she hurried, she could make it. 

She suddenly realized it was Saturday, the party for Paul’s long-time friend, Bryan. His fiftieth birthday. She’d miss it if she stayed over in Bristol, or maybe not… if she could get back by seven thirty. The party started at eight. It was a five-hour drive back, but all motorway driving, so maybe less time. Perfect. Paul would be happy she could make it to the party with him, she was sure of that. He’d probably forgotten about it because he didn’t mention it when he’d called. She quickly folded her blue silk blouse and wide-leg floaty pants, the ones she wore for parties and dancing with Paul. She placed the blouse and pants carefully in her overnight bag, she didn’t have time to take them to the office, where she often took a change of blouse or jacket. But she couldn’t go to the party in a suit, and it would be too late to go home to change. 

The new Beamer Z4 drove like a dream. After a delicious lunch provided by the dealer in Bristol, she set off along the motorway which for a Saturday wasn’t too busy, so she was able to get up to 85 mph most of the journey. A hundred miles per hour would have suited this car.

She drove into the private carpark where all the new cars were kept before selling and parked the Z4 close to the backdoor. It was just past eight. The party would just be getting going. Lots of time to change and drive to Bryan’s. The office had one night-light left on, and she saw immediately there was a box propped against the door of their private office. Flowers. How nice. They were lovely; pink roses and Alstroemeria, Stocks, some greenery. The card read, “Happy days, Cutie. Love Paul.” 

Claire laughed, tickled that he would call her cute. Not a word she would use to describe herself, but sweet. She took the flowers out of the box and was about to put them in a vase to arrange later, then decided to take them home at least for the weekend. She tucked them back into the box and put them carefully on the back seat of the car. 

It wasn’t unusual for Paul to be at a party early, but when she arrived there was no sign of him. Perhaps he really had forgotten about it. Of course, she should have called to remind him. Well, it wasn’t late, and he didn’t live far away. She called his mobile but no answer. Obviously on his way, she thought. She went into the kitchen to help with the food and wasn’t concerned until she looked at the clock. Almost nine thirty. Where the heck could he be. She called his home number then his mobile again. No answer. Now she was worried. Ten o’clock and still no sign of him. She found Bryan in the kitchen with three of his mates. One of them was Steve Hansen. Claire nodded hello to Steve then turned to Bryan. “Talk to you for a minute.”

“Sure, what’s up? What, no wine? Here, let’s get that.”

“No, it’s okay, thanks.” She put her hand on his arm, “I’ve called Paul twice and still no answer. Did he come early and then leave for some reason?”

“Nope, haven’t seen him tonight. But you know Paul. I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you. He’ll walk in around ten thirty I suspect. Please don’t worry, let me get you another glass of wine. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Okay?" 

When he’d poured her wine and left, Steve came over to her. “How are you?”

“I’m worried about Paul, something must have happened to him.”

“Well, you know Paul. He’s a guy. Probably drumming up business.” Steve laughed.

“I know you are his friend, Steve, but have you talked to him lately about, you know, taxes?”

The question took him by surprise. “Taxes? Huh! Don’t know much about that.”

Claire felt her irritation rising, “Really? “You do know it could be a jail sentence if he doesn’t pay. Wouldn’t be good for you either.”

Steve smiled, “It’s not your business is it?” His tone was sarcastic. “You don’t know half what goes on in that office let me tell you.” He took a long pull on his beer then sat it on the table. As he pulled up a chair close to Claire she shivered. “Oh yes, perhaps you do know everything. Hmm? All the women, all the cars. Big man around town.”

“What?”

“Don’t you ever wonder where all the money comes from for purchasing all the new cars even though they are not paid for by the customer?”

“Well, most of them are swaps, on credit and such. I haven’t found any discrepancies.”

“Two sets of books, Claire. Overstated deductions. Properties in Hawaii. Come on!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Course you don’t, you are just like all the other women in his office. “He rolled his eyes as he got up and he left the kitchen. Claire sat down in the kitchen holding the wine glass up to the light, staring at the red liquid. Reflection. Thoughts tumbled around in her mind. Paul had not paid his taxes, and Steve didn’t seem to care. There were those days when Paul closed the door to his office when Steve came by. Yes, now she remembered the envelopes that passed between them. Claire suddenly felt faint. Skimming it was called, wasn’t it. But did it matter to her? Claire had to think about it. She was in love with Paul, and he had given her everything she’d ever wanted. Once they were married, she’d put it right. He was a precious man, just led astray by a crook like Steve. 

She left her wine on the table. Found her coat under a pile of others on the guestroom bed and slipped away without saying goodbye. She was sick with worry. He’d call surely. No, he wouldn’t, because he assumed she was in Sacramento, and he never called when she was out of town come to think of it.

Dreadful scenes of what could happen popped into her mind. His home was very grand among a lot of other grand houses in the exclusive neighbourhood of Wilson Green. Lake access with every house, boats, and boat houses. A lake so beautiful, everyone from far and wide flocked to the luxury motels and hotels on the other side. What if he’d gone on the lake with his sailboat, like he sometimes did and just forgotten the time, or had he fallen over on the slippery gangplank that she had told him needed to be fixed.

The lake shimmered in the moon light. She could just see the outline of boats lined up against the dock. The stars were bright. A lovely evening. No lights on in the living room, only in the hall. Claire could see through the beautiful, coloured glass on either side of the front door. She rang the bell, a fancy chime echoed back. Nobody came. She rang again. Then she heard it, the happy laughter of a woman at the far end of the hall. His laugh then filling the space. Was it the TV? No, surely not. She stepped back in amazement, then bent again to listen. Maybe she was imaging it. She walked to the side of the house, a small window that let in a little light to the hall and beyond to the bedroom. There was a pretty blonde prancing around, naked. Perky breasts, firm stomach, and slim legs. Susan Bishop. She knew then Paul hadn’t forgotten the party, he had something better to do or to be with.

Claire fought back the tears as she ran back to the car. She sat for a minute or two just wondering what was happening. Why? Was this the man she loved and trusted? Well, who would want a sixty-year-old when he could have a beautiful young girl. Made sense to someone like Paul. Why she hadn’t figured him out before. Was she so desperate to have someone? She put her hands to her face and wept. Tears dripped on to the steering wheel, and then she drew a deep breath. Who were the flowers for then? She turned around to the back seat and picked up the box of flowers. She read the label she’d overlooked, assuming since it was outside their office door that it was for her. But no. Of course not. There it was, the name, Susan Bishop, not Claire Swanson.

Anger welled up inside her and spilled over into a scream. Then she closed her eyes and began to think. To plan. Taking a deep breath, she carried the flowers to the front door and with all energy she had pent up, she banged and banged on the door until she saw Paul in his robe running to answer it. 

She handed him the flowers. “Hi Sweetie, I thought you’d want to give these to Susan since you left them at the office.”

Paul stood there with his mouth open. “I thought you were in Bristol,” he managed.

“Nope. Came back for the party.”

“You okay then, Claire? There’s nothing in this. Not with her. I love you.”

“Oh, me too,” Claire said sweetly.” She waved as she walked away knowing he would still be looking.

She drove straight to the office. Opened her computer, typed in, Tax Reward Form 211. Report Fraud. It was the least she could do.