Interlude of Life

M. steps up

Yesterday, not much after I started to compile the new entry from the blog of Peter, the "Crisis Manager" and from the secret diary of my first love, Sophie, my phone rang.
- It's M. speaking! – a female voice greeted me.
- Who? – I asked back.
- M., the editor-in-chief, you may know me from Peter's blog. At least it looks a lot like me of whom he shaped the editor-in-chief.
Suddenly all I could say was that I was charmed to meet her. She said she wasn't so much. She had no problems with my person, she has even more with Peter's blog. In her opinion he showed the events very one-sided. I grabbed the chance to hear another point of view of the story of the starting channel and the "hostage taking". I asked her to tell me everything in detail, but M. (let her just keep this name from now on) wasn't willing to tell it over the phone, she explicitly wanted to meet me in person. We agreed to meet this morning, but she called me early on to call it off. She said she got fresh informations about Peter that she wants to cross-check before she gives them to me. I tried to persuade her to at least tell this whole hostage story over the phone so I can publish the end, but M. said I'd better wait because she has new things of that one too. She promised to reveal everything by Monday.
I decided to listen to her first and publish the second part of A Little Hungarian Comedy of Hostages afterwards, so I can add comments if necessary.

Public Service Announcement

Dear Readers,

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The new story will be coming in weekly installments, keeping up with the pace of the original novel on Hűségcsapda - at this moment, the story is one installment behind the original series.

Due to the nature of the story, Nuptials of Death contains adult language, graphic violence, graphic sexuality, blood and gore, hence I added an adult content warning upon entering, and I heavily advise reader discretion!!!

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- Nusy

A Little Hungarian Comedy of Hostages

The scariest part is that he doesn't even realize what he just did.

„Crisis Manager”:
Finally I stood up for myself. Since I decided to take things to a breaking point, I was only waiting for the opportune moment to arise. And it came this morning. B. arrived late and told his secretary not to connect anyone in to him, even left his cell phone with her, then he marched to his office. No more was needed, I marched after him. The secretary tried to stop me, but I just raised my brows and said that the producer has a meeting with me, it's super important so don't let anyone in, no matter what happens.
I rushed in on B. without so much as knocking. He rose his head in confuse, and told me to come back later.
- No delays possible – I said and tossed myself into one of the leather armchairs without him ever offering me a seat. I shot the question at him, what's up with my contract. He asked for some more patience, but I yelled that it ran out already. Tell me right here, right now, how much do I work for.
- Listen, I would be the happiest if we could deal with it already, but the budget...
- I don't care the very least about the budget – I interrupted. - I want to see my contract now, immediately.
So I could give some pressure to it, I started to kick the glass coffee table.
His head turned red, his lips were shaking. He was scared for the sheet glass. He rose from his table and leaned over me:
- Your contract is in the works, I will let you know as soon as it's done. And now please go back, let me do my work. You too would have some this and that to correct on your shows...
I stood up too and pulled myself out. I'm about a foot taller than him.
- And now I won't go anywhere until you sign my contract – I rose my voice.
He got frightened, I could see it. He tried to feed me more of the BS about him trying to get it done faster and he tried to sneak sideways towards the door. With a quick move I moved by him, locked the door and took the key.
- Now you went too far! - he hissed. - You open that door, right now.
- No – I said, and I added that I won't leave until he paid my work so far.
- This will have some grave consequences – he threatened me, and ran to his desk. He picked up the phone, but by then I was there too and I pushed the button. So he said he will scream. I started laughing, and reminded him that I'm a complete nervous wreck from being broke, and I may not be held accountable for all my reactions. If he screams, I may panic and attack him.
- Are you... threatening me? - he asked me in a tiny voice.
- No, I'm just reminding you of the fact that I'm not completely in control of my deeds. I may even just jump out of this window here or I knock myself out.
I even asked him if he has seen Fight Club. He hasn't, but he panicked totally.
- You're not normal – he kept saying.
I answered what wasn't normal was to work here without a contract, for free, 24/7.
- Nobody will ever even talk to you from the business, I'll kill your reputation! - he spattered.
(I think I heard Sophie come home, I'll tell her the big news. I'll continue later.)

Sophie only added a short and shaken entry to her diary about this:

I'm starting to be seriously scared of this man. Christ. What happens if B. sues him? Will he get in jail? And then what will happen to us? To the kids? The scariest part is that he doesn't even realize what he just did. How proud he was to announce it... And the consequences? He says there won't be any, B. will keep his trap shut. And what if he won't?

Laws of Wolves

Life is nothing short of a treasure trove of unforeseen dues

Since the last meeting, air thinned up around me. I fight my hampered respiration and I find it harder and harder to make myself go in to work. My only comfort is that at home the situation improved a lot: Sophie is nowhere near as fiendish to me as she was. The big fights are gone, there's no yelling, and even though the old coziness didn't quite build back up yet, at least there are no lightnings anymore, and the beneficial effects are already visible on the kids. Even though our finances are not just not better but getting worse and worse. I still haven't gotten a cent from the TV. Sophie's check runs out around the twentieth of any given month. But bills and payment notices are coming constantly. Every weekend we put up a priority list. First is school, lunch, extracurricular classes. Then come the bills that if we don't pay, we get something turned off: electricity, gas, phone service. Then pay the mortgage. If we still have some money left, we go grocery shopping, if not, we eat whatever is in the freezer. Any other dues are postponed to unknown date. I now have a great experience in asking for late payment. When I was writing the first of these letters, I was sweating over it for hours, re- and re-wording it until I felt it to be appealing enough, but not too self-humiliating. Now I can toss one together in a few minutes. I don't have to twist my brains for too long until I can find an excuse, life is nothing short of a treasure trove of unforeseen dues. Brake pads into the car, parking violation, late fees, dentist, kids' shoes, repairing the washer.
No matter for the strict budget, at the end of the month we always have to touch the savings that are running out quickly. Maybe we have two months left... then bankruptcy. I promised Sophie that if we really need to, I will borrow from my parents. But I really don't want to see that moment, it would be so humiliating. Pumping the elders when you're an adult man, nothing but admitting you made nothing out of yourself. I made nothing out of myself? I don't want to ask myself the question. Not now. Because then I would have to take the final consequence: a nice little life insurance and a well-staged accident at the right moment... Christ, did I really get here? Before I get all teary-eyed (I imagine myself laying on the road as Sophie runs to me weeping just to be able to whisper in my ear that she has always loved me), the Kuruc blood screams loud in me (the channel is under Austrian ownership) and I decide to get myself into B.'s office and not come out until he signs my contract and transfers the money to my account.

Peter signed the previous entries as Complaints From An Unemployed. The following ones were signed as "Crisis Manager", like this, in quotation marks. He did what he promised to do and went in to the producer, but of that, some later. That's when Sophie called me again. She was very upset. No matter how I asked her, she said it's not a topic to be discussed over the phone. I tried to joke and ask if she seriously thinks that anyone cares what we are talking about, just the two of us, but she shut me up that it's bloody important now, it's about lives on stake. As a crime story writer, I obviously jumped on the topic, but it was a letdown. And not because Sophie was telling long tales with the lives on stake. So much not, that she never even wrote it to her diary, what she told me...

Execution Á La Television

Behind the executioner there's always someone who has power. Or stupid, and he doesn't know yet what the bets are.

Review meeting about the first show meant to go on air. Present: the programming director of the channel; B., the producer; M., the editor-in-chief; Miss Sylvie, "show host"; Mark, the other editor; myself and also the secretary and a bunch of interns. We re-edited the show three times (I was sitting in the mounting chamber until morning), you can't make gold of mud. As an old mentor of mine said, it's "crap as it is", hence you can't make it any better. Sylvie is catastrophic, endlessly mannerly, like a veterinary student's horse that suffers from every possible illness as she makes every single mistake an amateur can make - and in mistaking she's on a higher than amateur level. And to top if off, from every single word she utters, stupidness just shines. I finally wrote her questions word by word, and to no avail: she went in to B., came back and told me off for forcing my wrong(!) concept on her, she will just go and think up what she is curious about. (In parenthesis: she's not curious about anything else than herself, and even that just barely...)
So there we are, watching the show, I'm trying to sink and disappear I'm so ashamed to be linked to this horror. Even though the problem is not with the editing, but I absolutely know that in this field, if the show is good, it's all because of the host, but if the show is bad, it's all the editor's fault. (My respect to all the exceptions, because there do exist a few hosts who may be in the limelight of success and don't forget that it had to be the common effort of many many people that he can shine - but those are becoming few and far between.)
The cast list rolls, then silence. I would love to see into the others' brains, but I will have to content myself with what they say. And that is a catastrophe in my regards. But I know it's not true that they don't know what's wrong!
The programming director speaks first, he thanks us for the work, then passes the word on to the producer and adds that he will comment very last. B. speaks really long and really murky, the gist after all is that we "need something bigger, something bigger of a bang". I can feel the noose tightening around my neck. M. is up next. She tries to be objective, and to bring up professional arguments. She criticizes Sylvie very carefully, and says a few good notices about the edition. She won't attack me, she knows exactly that if she did so at this forum she would weaken herself too. If the show is badly edited, that's her fault too: why didn't she get the mistakes corrected.
Then comes Mark and starts to smack the show down. He even made notes. He's the neato-on-duty coworker who takes the whole review seriously. He passes by Miss Sylvie in a few words: try to be even more(!) natural. Here I almost already interrupted that "even more" supposes that she is already natural, at least a tiny little bit. But Sylvie is such a mannequin as she is, she's mannerism personified.
B. nods in agreement, the others' faces are unreadable, I'm remaining silent. And Mark moves on to the detailed analysis, smacking the editing ti death. He's not right, or maybe only in a few bits here and there, thing of which he knows exactly that Sylvie forced them into the final version, with the effective support from B.'s side. But he doesn't care the littlest about this, and B. with his excited nodding just pours more oil over the fire. My brain just explodes, and I interrupt, but then the programming director shoos me back, that my version will be heard afterwards. Mark, that sweetheart closes his rants with the phrase that we need something of a bigger bang.
I could kill him. At first I thought we could be friends, and now he attacks me slyly, I can see it's not because of stupidity, he knows what the bids are, he wants to knock me out.
Miss Sylvie also smacks me, but from her I expected nothing else. But I still do groan when she says I didn't prepare her well enough. That's too much even for M., she stands up on my side.
B. closes the debate and hammers in the last few nails into my coffin. He criticizes even those bits that he himself allowed in because of Sylvie's nagging. When I mention this to him, with the greatest peace of mind he just says that the idea is good, just not the context in which it was realized.
It's my turn. I take Sylvie apart, then I mention a few ideas how to make the show better. That reached the spot with the programming director, he ended the meeting with saying we should do what I suggested.
I burst out of the office first. If I could've gotten Mark into my hands, I would've strangled him.

I always hated review meetings. I saw a modern realization of "divide and conquer" in them, all in a profession where there are no objective grades. What makes a show good? Number of viewers? Then is really Oprah, Judge Alex or a daytime soap opera the peak of television? Nope, and tv personnel now that. (And I have gotten bad and worse for a show that broke all kinds of viewing records...) A good show is the one that is called so by those who have the saying. Just these don't happen to be the critiques, but those with power. So the review meeting is also all about power: you can publicly execute whoever doesn't have anyone behind their backs. The really disgusting part is that the executioner is no one else but your colleague with whom you are supposed to form a team. But it's only supposed, because he has Someone behind him, Somebody who has the saying. Or he's just stupid enough not to realize what it's all about. According to my own experiences, the first type is the majority...

After the initial shock, the atmosphere at the company seem to slowly calm back down. A few people quit voluntarily, two people retired and the language education department broke out into their own company and work for us in outsourcing now. So those who stay only had to let go of a few benefits. The lethargy (mainly because of John) has slowly changed into optimism: together we can win over the recession, we will stop, what's more, turn back on the slope. And miracles, as we become stronger in our minds, new, promising discussions start with new partners about new orders. Seems as if it is really all decided in our head. It's a pity I can't say so about my private life.
But I decided to do everything to save our marriage. Because the girls need a father, and I need a husband. We can't throw away everything, ten years, all the memories together because of a few worse months in our lives. Peter and I paid a huge initial price for our relationship. If we give it up now, we will retroactively make all those things unforgivable. Then we thought that fate meant us to be together, even if this causes pain to others...
Yesterday, after weeks we finally talked again, just like in the old days. We listened to each other and we really wanted to solve the problems. Peter told me all about the new host, M., B., the review meeting. I can see how he suffers. He knows all about making shows, but nothing about stirring shit, shining himself or telling long tales. And even though now I wouldn't feel so bad if he was just a bit less scrupulous, I try to remind myself that usually that's why I liked him, that he's not like that.
Maybe I should send John's connections against the company? I never mentioned that to Peter, I know exactly that John is a "persona non grata" for him, not even mentioning how humiliating he would find it if it was exactly my boss acting in his favor. (And it would be.)
I did mention though,what if Peter just quit (in the meantime, I tried not to think of the dangerously quickly emptying checking account). Now he wasn't all against it. He said he would correct the show so they won't think he ran away from the challenge, then give them one more week, and if there's still no contract or money, he's quitting.
I also asked him all about M. If there was any sort of a harmony between them, it was over. He can't appreciate her anymore because she's too weak and calculates everywhere. Peter finally realized that M. is only granting him so much attention, she's only being so nice because she needs her against B. Or to knock Sylvie out of the saddle so she can conquer B.'s bed on her own... And for that she wants to pay Peter with a few mean-it-as-you-will gestures instead of getting him a contract and standing up for him.
We also mentioned our finances. Since he touched our money, I keep the keys to the treasury and only give him money for the most necessary things. So he didn't even know how bad we are. I could see he was interested in where all the savings went, but he didn't ask. Instead, he tried to calm me by saying that if we do go down, he will borrow from his parents. But I know that if he had the choice, he would rather rob a bank than borrow from his parents. His parents kept nagging him that if he joined them in the family business, he would be a rich man now.
At night he moved back in next to me from the study that he converted into a gym, where he has been sleeping in the last few weeks. His sheets smelled like a high school locker room. But that's not why nothing has happened (there is such a degree in missing sex when such a detail doesn't matter anymore). I think he's afraid of failure. I didn't force him, we talked until morning and that was a lot more than what I got from him in the last few hopeless months.

Losers and Machos in the TV

I can feel the cold sweat dripping. I think of our house, foreclosed by the bank.

This week started like any other would, too. A meeting here, a presentation there, and then a group mail on Tuesday: non-scheduled meeting at one, compulsory for all. The corridor gossip started immediately, we were also caught with the recession, the management is not satisfied with the results, tightenings are on, and lay-offs are coming. I was just trying to comfort the others that there won't be anything bad, I know from John that the data are not that tragic, they calculated for the drops already.
Still, the meeting had a mood of gloom over it, the big boss was crunching his joints, writing long columns of data on the board, then he finally said that rationalization is necessary, we have to get rid of unnecessary parallel positions, we need to let some people go, else the company won't be able to stay afloat. Or: we can all agree to take a pay cut. He leaves this decision up to us, we need to tell our supervisor how we chose.
My immediate boss, John didn't leave me any time to think. He called me in immediately after the meeting. I couldn't even call Peter to tell him to finally get somewhere with B. about his contract. At least if I knew how much he will make, I could negotiate from a better position.
John tries to smile, but I can immediately see that there's some deep trouble. He tells me too how grave consequences the recession has.
I can feel the cold sweat dripping. I think of our house, foreclosed by the bank. The kids, who don't understand why they have to pack up their toys, why they have to move to a tiny apartment, so small they don't have enough space...
- Speaking of which, does Peter work already? - John pulls me back from the nightmare.
- Yes - I answer quickly. - Or well, not quite - I try to clarify. I'm fighting back tears as I explain that he still doesn't have a contract, we don't know how much he will make.
- Well that sure sounds bad - he says even gloomier. He's silent for a bit, and I'm contemplating running out of the office so he won't see me cry.
- Do you want me to put a few knives over his company's throat through my connections? It's just not cool that he works for weeks, but he not only doesn't get a contract, but not even a puny verbal agreement!
He shows that my husband is the loser with whom this can be done. And he's the big guy whose hand reaches everywhere. I hate these conceited machos, but I can't help it but see Peter more and more pitiful. As I hate weakness.
- Just let me know if I should fire up the connections! - John offers once again as I'm just silent. - And about the situation here, well, a few people mentioned why do we need a head of communications when we don't even get any orders...
I can't hold my tears back any longer.
- Oh, oh, no need to despair whilst I'm here! - he says and walks around his desk. He puts his hand on my shoulder as he continues: - Naturally, I would never agree to let you go. After all, we do make a fine team, the two of us.
He takes out a tissue and hands it to me.
- And about the pay cut, I persuaded the others, that your contract is a recession contract already, not from the good old days when our picket fence was made of salami still. We can't take any off of it, so we will reduce your optional perks a bit so they can't say that we make an exception of you.
At first I feel relief. That's it? But when he grabs my shoulder firmer, I frighten. I'm afraid he will hand me the bill right now. I raise my head almost pouting. I decided. If he blackmails me, I quit right now, I won't let myself be used...
But John sits back to his place.
- And in that other case just let me know and I will help immediately. Please send in the next one!
I can't go back to the office. I run out to the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall, and pushing my back against the wall I start to weep.
If Peter was there at that time, I think I would've scratched his eyes out.

I have read these times several times, but at that time I couldn't ask my questions to Sophie anymore. They slowly and quietly cooled away from each other with Peter, I think that's the best description for those times. They were rowing their own separate boats, and barely met. Peter put all his efforts into the new channel. True, it wasn't all the work, more the self-defense. And more and more it seemed to be useless:

The recordings have started. M. has officially asked me to train Sylvie. She was telling it to me as happily as if he was getting a root canal. The night before they went somewhere with B. The next day there was no word of her quitting if Miss Sylvie will be a host. So she became one. What could've happened that night, I couldn't extort from M. If I tried to mention it, she got serious and moved to another topic. Since then she has been avoiding Sylvie. She even calls me on the phone to ask me to pass her a message, even though we all sit in the same office space. We are still on good terms, but our relationship is nowhere near as close as it was.
I'm trying to prepare Miss Sylvie. Not a great experience. She's factory defective about show hosting talent. The interviewees don't interest her, nor does the topic. Maybe if an A-class celebrity bumps into her microphone. Then she tries to do her best, but even this is not enough of a motivation for her to actually prepare for it.

Maybe after the second trial interview, she started to edit too. When I explained to her why the conversation was worse than words can describe, she lunged at me that it was the interviewee's fault. I very gently tried to calm her down and put her back into work mode when she ran to B. A few hours later B. took a peek into the next conversation, grunted and hummed a few times and then he announced that for the real shootings we should prepare new topics and new guests. "We need a bigger boom here" - that's what he kept saying. What he meant by it, he never explained. "You know that well! You didn't start this business yesterday." Well, true, I did not. But Miss Sylvie did. Still, she over-edited the first show completely. If I didn't let her do something, she just ran straight to B. And after a while B. didn't even make the effort to come over and tell me the changes. He just simply sent a message via Sylvie. The bitch soon got the scheme and quickly she just started saying B. wants it so, B. wants it different. Well I didn't come off the shore today either. I knew it exactly that she referred to B. even when she has never talked to him about it. When she wanted me to do things I could not take up with my reputation, I turned to M. She listened to me, and then with a discreet face she only asked me to hang in there, the game is not over yet. I would love to enter against the dark side so I can speed things up a bit, after all it is ridiculous that with my years of experience I have to get a cramp in my stomach every time I have to sit down and prepare a completely talent-less, beginner show host. If I could, I would just throw the desk at her head... And then at B.'s.

Push-me-out

I remember the happy years together and I get ashamed.

M. is starting to get on my nerves. She got totally settled in Peter's thoughts. I can't talk with my husband for two minutes without him mentioning her: M. wants it so, M. said that, M. gave a hint on this... No, I don't think she's his mistress, at least not yet. I would feel that, men are horrible liars. But it still bothers me awfully that my husband is adoring another woman so undisguised, even if she's his boss.
Now I ask for the contract every single day. It would be just great to know for how much do I have to bear him coming home at night, keeping in touch with the kids via the message board on the fridge, and if we even talk a little bit every now and then, I have to argue with M. and her thoughts.
Finally I got him to sit down and talk about this with the owner, ask him when he will pay, and how much. B. shook him off however, saying that as long as they don't have a final budget, he can't say anything. He doesn't want to be a letdown if they will have to cut some of his salary too. Because they will need to reduce costs even further, that's sure. I don't know why would someone start a channel if they don't have the money for it...
Peter pulled in all ears and tails and didn't slam on B.'s desk, asking him to say at least a minimum money with what he can calculate. I asked him to talk to B. again, but he shut me up with saying that M. also promised that if he's not being impatient, she will help him get the best price for his bargain. I let a sarcastic sentence slip about how M.'s job should not just be to pile workloads onto him and keep him by her side day and night, but also to stand up for him when it's about his salary. Peter then said that it's only jealousy talking from me, and once again he took the old record off the shelf that I, on the other hand, was only promoted by John because he wants to bed me. I didn't let myself, I asked him, doesn't he think that M.'s sudden interest is based in her wanting to get screwed by him. He called me silly. M. needs his professional knowledge, nothing else. We went to bed angry again - and alone again.
In addition, our money is running out fast. For the news that Peter is starting to work again, we loosened the tightest strings a bit. I can't go to work in worn-down, old-fashioned stuff, and the kids have been tormenting me for a few new things for months. I don't even dare to think what happens if Peter's job doesn't start to pay soon...

I even started to think that we should maybe sell the house. Me and the kids can come out of my salary, and Peter can solve his life as he can. And then I remember the happy years together and I get ashamed. Not because of John. Even though, looking back now that night at the hotel was really nice. I finally felt like a woman again. And I didn't do anything I should be feeling bad about.

We didn't talk of all this when I met Sophie again. We went to the cafe, soon becoming our regular spot at Liszt Ferenc Square. She called me and asked me what do I know of M. Not much, and I told all that to her on the phone.
It was almost like having a date with her. We revived the past, we remained silent of the present, and even less we mentioned the future. She wanted to go, but finally she talked her children into sleeping over at their grandparents. We drank a bottle of wine, and we could even laugh at our old memories together.
I was thinking, maybe if we behaved a bit more mature back then, we would be happy now, both of us. But we didn't say a word of that either. We stayed until late at night, I took her home by cab. Peter wasn't at home yet. The "shoulder devil" was jumping up and down on me to say it, ask her to leave everything behind and run away, just me and her, but then I remained silent. We didn't arrange another meeting.

I'm trying to teach Miss Sylvie, to not much avail. We sit down aside every single day, but her cell phone keeps ringing, no matter how I ask her to turn it off, she always answers this one is super duper important, and chitchats for half hours as if I wasn't even there. After three calls or so, B. usually calls him, and they disappear for hours. M. notices the thing too, she asks me to go out and have dinner with her. She asks me straight away, why am I dealing so much with Sylvie lately. I fold out my cards, I tell her what we agreed in with B. She gets upset. I suddenly get it. M. is endlessly jealous of the gal. I'm just not quite sure whether it's because of B. or me.
After dinner, Sylvie turns to me with a sudden rush of interest. She tries to find out from me what M. wanted from me. I guess it's to report to B. Obviously, I won't betray M. I use her sudden rush of interest and I ask her if she has a contract yet. After long persuasion she admits she does. Putting all my chastity aside, I even ask her for how much. She tells me. My jaw drops. First I get upset, then I calm myself down, that if she can get so much as an intern, me, a seasoned editor will definitely make more.
Half an hour later I'm at B.'s office, asking him how can Sylvie have a contract already. First he tries to duck the question, and then he admits: first they agree with the show hosts. Sylvie? A show host? I'm flabbergasted. He says he sees great potential in her, he shoots some murky hints towards my contract in preparation, and asks me not to tell anyone yet that they mean Sylvie to be a host. That including M. Of course, my first trip goes to her. She gets really upset just now. She hisses that if Sylvie is going to be a show host, she's leaving. But first she will have a little talk with the other owners who promised her she can set up the final crew herself if the channel can kick off. But until then she has to cooperate with B. I feel like throwing up from this whole BS. quite frankly I would love to quit right today. But I can't do it, I can't be without a job. So I stay and hold my peace. I don't even say anything to Sophie. I don't want to hear her I-told-you-so's.

Couples' Solitude

The pushy, the crap-stirrer and the traitor meet in the same editorial office

Why is it like a law that each and every office has at least one person no one can stand? Sometimes I almost think they specifically teach it to HR folks to always hire an intriguer into the teams who would keep everyone else in a check-mate. In the first days I thought the producer B. hired M. as the editor-in-chief because he wants to screw her. Later I realized it's not her in his scipe, but Sylvie. I paid a great price for my ignorance. Sylvie is 25, and as bright a mind as a starless night. When she was born, God must have given her body as a consolation prize for her lack of mental abilities: huge breasts, long legs, big, surprised baby-blue eyes, lips fuller and plumper than Angelina Jolie's. And a gaze stupid to infinity. Primitive thoughts, zero creativity, whining to no end. From the first moment I was neglecting the woman as I can't stand stupid girls. I'm not even tickled by her openly out beauties either. She wears such short skirts she can't even sit down without all her junk showing. With Mark, the other editor we've been making bets when will her boobs pop out of her shirts when she bends over for something. Like for other people's ideas. She comes in by 3pm and doesn't do anything, and still she leaves last. As it turned out, together with B. I wasn't especially concerned about her until the producer called me to his office. He wasn't making many extra laps:
- Sylvie has been complaining that you never listen to her ideas.
I almost answered because she has none, but luckily I remained silent.
- You don't let her in, you don't pass any information to her.
Nem bírtam magammal:
- Maybe if she didn't come in for the afternoon only, and showed at least a minimum interest towards the programmes in making.
- Don't be unjust! She can't yet come earlier, she spends her mornings at her old job. That's the only way I could tempt her over. In exchange she's still in when you're all long gone. But that's not important, in a few days it will all resolve. Sylvie is really talented, she has ingenious ideas.
- Pity she never shared a single one with us yet...
- Because you don't pay attention to her. Even yesterday she came to me crying that you treat her like air.
I was thinking of a snappy answer when B. suddenly leaned closer to me:
- Hey, did Mark really have a go on her?
- Nah, no way...
He didn't let me finish the sentence.
- But that's what I heard... and not from her... that he's pushing for her pretty nasty.
- Mark? That's ridiculous. He's just laughing at her... (and I almost added, me too)
- Well that's it, don't you think that he's trying to hide his primal instinct with this extreme reaction?
I protected Mark with teeth and nails. It turned out later that I shouldn't have.
- I don't want conflicts inside the office - he summed up. - There's way enough problems with the shows without weakening yourself from the inside.
I tried to say something, but he didn't let me to.
- I want to ask you not to let the crew members pick on each other.
I didn't understand why he wants me to do it. Why not M.? After all, she's the editor-in-chief, she should be holding the team together. As if he was reading my mind, B. switched to a more intimate tone:
- You know what women are like, they're always jealous of one another. And M. is not an exception either. That's why I turn to you. I want you to be my lengthened arm in the office. Combing together what goes apart. You see, no? And please do me a favor and teach Sylvie a bit. The girl's a real treasure, just she doesn't have enough experience yet.
- Of course, no problem, but could we do it in regular hours? - I tried to turn the request to my favor. - My wife is getting upset that I keep going home so late.
- We will rearrange the tasks: you go on with the shows in the morning and you teach Sylvie in the afternoon. Will that work?
I agreed, at least I agreed to deal with the bitch. Of course I did not agree to be B.'s spy.
From M. I know that B. also talked to Mark. The producer told M. that according to Mark I got hooked on Sylvie. I keep making nasty comments on her clothing to cover it up.
M. reassured me that she has faith in me, but she also warned me she doesn't like it when the employees' emotional life goes across the border with work...

There are sone couples who bring out the worst of each other. If one is up, the other is down. Their energy can never add up, one will always put the other out. Of course this has a good side too. Negative forces can't add up either, making the final, demolishing explosion impossible.

A few days ago I was praying for Peter to find a job. Now for him to work less. He comes home at night, most of the time I can't even wait for him. I have to get up early to tend to the kids, he sleeps in until eight, goes to the gym, goes to work, and everything starts from scratch. If I even mention, how much he does it for anyways, he gets angry. "Why can't anything be good for you?" That's what he yells at me. He complains that he would come earlier, but everyone else stays so late, so he can't take off because then they will work against him all night. I can ask him to arrange his life so he could see his children at least every once in a while, he just shrugs and keeps saying that as soon as the new channel takes off it will be a lot easier. I just keep hearing M. this, M. that more and more. I think they got just a bit too close. Should I be jealous? Maybe. I don't know. I don't feel anything. Just couples' solitude.

Public Service Announcement

Dear Readers,

The original series, Hűségcsapda, has reached its last post, finishing the storyline. The author, Endre Gábor is starting a new series in the same blog, entitled Nuptials of Death. The teaser he published for it:

What would YOU do, if you had to choose between the life of your disloyal lover or a complete stranger, and your decision will be watched by millions of your fans live?

The new series will arrive in weekly posts on every Friday. As not to mix up the two story lines, I will start a new blog for the new story after the first post, and I will link it here as soon as it's set up.

Thank you for your patronage of A Trap of Loyalty, and I hope you will enjoy Nuptials of Death as well!

-Nusy

Bells of Perils, When They Ring

M. is a little whore who knows exactly for whom to put those legs apart. Not for an inferior.

Like if I was learning again to walk, live, think. I have a job again, where I have to go in day by day, for that you have to get dressed every morning, shave, show your better face, think, communicate, not just spinning in one spot, by yourself, working up your brain for nothing. With M., the editor-in-chief I'm on great terms, we always wink at each other when the owner, B. starts to tell long tales. The situation is still very ductile, I can still be anything, even vice-editor-in-chief. So far they got another two editors, they are both inferior to me in skills. True, one of them is in a rather intimate friendship with the owner, but with joined forces with M. we can easily make his ideas sound ridiculous to the others. My optimistic hopes (VEiC) are based on the fact that I have to write the program structure, as the others are unable to do it. We put our heads together with M. after the others have left, and get a great job done. Sophie asks me about the contract every day, but I don't want to mention it yet. In these days it's not the best to first point at your pocket and then shine yourself. First I want to prove myself, and only send them the bill when they have to realize that they won't get around me, they won't get anywhere without me. And then I can dictate: a little more money that at my previous position, laptop, car, cell phone with a huge bill limit. If we can make that deal, I can talk Sophie into leaving the company. With her knowledge, she could be cherry-picking from the best positions, and we can finally get rid of her pushy boss. I don't even mind if she makes a few bucks less by the end of the month, at least she won't have to feel like she owes something to her boss. I would love to see his evil face when Sophie announces that she's quitting...
The phone just rung. It was M. She said the management didn't approve of our program concept. She asked me to go in immediately so we can make a new concept. I'm not happy, I was kvetching on Sophie all week because she was coming home late. Well, whatever, this one is important now, somehow I'll just talk it out. If a business gets on track... Up to work!

I can't even count how many programs' start I've been around to see. The formula is the same all the time, get an idea for the show, plan the details, make a marketing plan (sometimes you even have to fetch the money yourself), hoping that if the "movie" passes, you can make it. Problem is, maybe one out of ten will be accepted. And the rest of it was for free (in the best case, because it's not too uncommon that they shoot it without you, because Director X or CEO Y didn't believe in you....)
Anymore I won't work for free. But seeemingly Peter is not suspicious enough. Sophie's instincts ring the bells of peril already though:

I thought I arrived home, but still I feel more and more that I was wrong. The house is not my home. We live by each other like strangers. The old coziness is gone. But everything seems to be going fantastic. Peter comes more and more to life every day. His confidence is growing, we even have been to bed. Truth to be told, we were both thinking of something else during the act. Myself, I was thinking of the next day's presentation.
I'm afraid Peter's euphoria won't last long either and will be followed by a horrible crash. John, my boss knows B., the owner of the new channel well. He said he's an uninhibited worm who would sell his own mother for a cent of profit. M. is just a little whore whose whole talent is knowing exactly for whom to put those legs apart. (It's not jealousy talking of me, she only pushes upwards, an inferior can't even come to thought.) We still don't know what position Peter will fill at the channel, and for how much. I try to push him to ask it, but to no avail, he doesn't want to listen. I'm worried. If you let yourself be screwed over, they will screw you over. It's the laws of the wilderness now. And our marriage won's survive another dive. I'm not even sure yet if it did survive the last one.

Dangers, Liaisons

We open a few doors in each other, but the ones deep down will always remain locked

She didn't come to the Mátra, but we talked over the phone for hours. Finally I gave up my stances and came home a day early so I can meet her in person.
She wore black clothes, mourning. Suffering made her even more beautiful, her eyes were broken, but still emitting some sort of magic, some special force. I can't help it: I can't resist suffering women. Then I can tune to their frequency without any burdens, I can take in their femininity fully. As a writer, that's how I feed. The sexes unite in me, I become androgynous, then I separate the personalities in me and start to write their story.
With Sophie, at the beginning our love, we tuned up to each other easily, we were wide open for each other, maybe actually that was the problem, that we opened up too much, we had no secrets left. Then years have passed, we have both changed, we kept our secrets more carefully. The crisis in Sophie's family life was what brought us together again. I can feel her and she can feel me too. We open a few doors, but we don't make the same mistake: the ones deep down remain locked.
I notice I get more and more under her spell whilst I know she wants me to convince her to give another chance to her husband.
The story of us three changes directions though. I ask her, how many times did she forgive in the last months. How many last chances did they have?
- You're right – she says -, but he's still my husband.
- Who ruins your life.
- I don't know what to do – she shakes her head.
I would know it, but I can't tell it. I take her hand. I feel strong, I feel whole again.
- In there, where I can't see down, what do you feel there?
Her skin literally heats up under my touch.
- You know, that's the big thing, that I don't know myself either. I'm too afraid to open that door.
- Because you may find something else than what you want?
She doesn't answer me. I try again and again to open that door, but she won't.
Upon our goodbye - again the odd move - I kiss her. She returns it, but there's no fire in it.

On the third day, the phone rung. THAT phone. Seemingly the saying about the piper and hell is true. I went there and back. Sophie left me, took the kids with her. A horrible whirlpool took me in, carrying me deeper and deeper. I tried to fight, but it wouldn't let me go. When I had no idea where is up or down, deah or life, I was floating halfway between the two. Then I slowly started to drift towards the latter, but then I saw the kids, and I saw Sophie. I had to get them back.

I stayed.
Existence hurt. My body and my soul fell to pieces, but suffering still let me know: I'm still alive. The whirlpool still called, but I could already say no. I got stronger by the hour, and that filled me with confidence. I still didn't call Sophie. First I wanted to prove myself. I started running again, and I even pulled the dumbbells out. I decided I will lose all excess weight, I will train myself to be hard.
On the second day of my new life I took out my phone book and starting at A I systematically called all my acquaintances. The ice finally broke by D, he said he heard of some new TV channel starting the other day, he will recommend me.
The next day I already got the call:
- Would I like to...?
I didn't even listen to the whole sentence, I said yes. It's a thematical channel, the editor-in-chief is M. I have known her for quite a while, we always got along well. I didn't even ask about money or positions, it's all the same, I have to take it anyways, no other choice. That's the only way I can regain my family.
I called Sophie, but she didn't pick up. I texted her my apologies, but she didn't answer. I finally wrote her an email, telling everything. Then she asked for some time, and I asked her to meet me. I could've touched the sky when she said yes.
When I saw her, I couldn't understand how could I have let her go. She was beautiful beyond words, and I looked at her just the same as ten years ago, when I first saw her.
I have to repair everything - that's what I kept saying, so I will believe I can do it, I'll be able to. I can't lose her.

I tried to stay cool, but he surrounded me with such a genuine attention that I slowly melted up and let him court me. After all he is my husband, from him I can take it without guilt. Still my conscience was screaming, I felt I was two-faced. I think, if I didn't have children, this would be the moment when I packed up and moved a thousand miles away. But I do have them, and they ask me every day when their dad will get better. It's only for them that I declare him healed. They move home. As they jump on him and climb on his neck, all my bad feelings vanish. I think I got home, too.

It Hurts to Love, It Hurts to Hate

Till death does us apart, until yesterday.

I feel a chaos of feelings rise in me. Ten years can't just be put in parenthesis in a moment. I hate Peter for what he did. And I hate all those who did this to Peter. The hystery of recession, the downsizings, that life is no more than a mere line of a pen. And now I don't think it's a good idea to leave him. I know it sounds all sentimental, I even cry when I think of it, but I do believe in the death does us apart, I do believe you have to hold on for better or for worse... I almost turn home when I realize I'm trying to reason what he did. I pity him. But my body won't obey, I still drive the car the other direction. If I could spin time back, I would. I want the man who he was. I want a man, a strong, earnest, one who doesn't run into a high of alcohol to forget his own minority. I want the Peter who would carry his whole family on his shoulders without a thought. The one who wanted to wow me. The one who seduced me every night. The one who wanted me and was a partner for me. And my body, my guts know that this Peter doesn't exist anymore, no matter how I would command it home, the car goes another way. Maybe I should have talked about it with my father. Or my first love? I slam on the brakes. Gosh, what am I doing? Am I just looking for a reason to step out of a marriage slowed down? Maybe it's not Peter the problem but me? I don't have to go, but I want to go?

My mind comes back for the mad honking. The people behind me don't understand why I'm standing in the middle of the road. The middle of the road - I realize that from here I can still turn back. I just have to want it. But I can't want it. True enough, I can't even want to continue my journey. I stand there paralyzed. Somebody loses his head and passes everyone by, not caring about the traffic in the opposite direction. He curses with his face transforming into it. I can't start, I turn on my emergency lights. The next driver, when he sees me, brakes and stops in front of me. The man gets out of the car and comes to me. My instincts work as I press the security lock button. He leans to my window and asks something. I can't hear his words, but I see the good will on his face. I roll my window an inch down, and it surprises me as my mouth opens and I say: "I just left my husband." "Ouch" he says, scratching his head. "Why? You can tell me." He looks at me encouraging, and - another surprise - I start to list it. This can only happen to me: sitting in the middle of traffic in my car, and across a barely cracked window I lay out my whole life to a complete stranger. He offers me to continue it by a drink. This gets me back to reality. I can't just go with the first man I find. I want to leave, but he yells at me: "You can't drive like this. I live nearby, the house is big, I promise you I..." Now the alarm is ringing constantly: "You don't think I would..." - I try to jump at him, but he just waves me silent: "Don't leave him, give him another chance!" He turns around and leaves me there. I wait until his car gets out of my sight and then finally I start up my engine too.

Peter didn't write to his blog for days after Sophie left. And then it's a different person continuing. At least so it seemed. But don't go so far ahead. Roughly when Sophie was complaining to the unknown man at the road, I had this strong feeling in my guts: she's in trouble. I dialed her number, but her cell phone was switched off. She didn't want Peter to reach her, but this way I couldn't reach her either. Then.

Broken Now

Can you lie a marriage if it doesn't exist anymore?

I woke for a terrible hangover, Sophie wasn't home anymore and so weren't the kids. The images of last night start popping up: Sophie's face, she's yelling at me, but I can't quite decide if it was a dream or reality. I still remember the unemployment center. Then I called Sophie and she didn't pick it up. At that time I was already at a nearby bar. I was shooting vodka after vodka. I sent a text with the bad news, then my phone went down. A guy was sitting next to me by the bar, I was complaining to him. He said I should go on sick leave, I can still do it. I yelled all upset that I'm not sick.
- Man, just take a look at yourself! - he said something like that.
I ordered more and more vodka, then I ran out of money. The last cut I remember is leaving to look for an ATM. And there the logical line of events breaks there. I faintly remember images, but only useless, cloudy details. Like if someone used the camera the wrong way, not taking the actual scenes just the set changes.
I got out of bed terrified, fighting throwing up. I was searching through my things, maybe I can find a sign, something to start from, to find out what happened to me. But I couldn't find anything, not even the folder I took with me to the unemployment center.
All my official documents!
I kept getting the face of a furious Sophie. Well that's why: I lost everything. I threw down my clothes and not caring about the vertigo I scrubbed myself clean. It happened on the outside, not on the inside though. The worst is that I could have done anything, I won't remember. I could have killed someone or gone behind the scenes with some woman. I don't know, and the worst is, I can't ask anyone.
I went to find the papers. I hoped that the familiar spots may help me recall where I wandered. I clearly remember having them upon leaving the office.
I was lucky. The bartender at the bar was waving at me from afar when he saw me. He had all the documents

- Cure a dog's bite with the dog's hair. Want a beer?
Not a single cell of me wanted it, but I didn't want to refuse the offer of the man who saved me from hours upon hours of red tape, or even worse. And also, I was hoping that the beer may dull the furious self-blame.
I only ordered a half pint and I left all the small change I had on me for him. I finally somehow shoved that beer down my throat, but it didn't make anything better.

I wandered around a little more in the area, but I didn't find out any more about my last night.
I came home and all afternoon I buried myself into the job advertisements. I wrote myself a new resume, trying to make myself look a little more appealing. Not much luck on that. And it's especially hard when my younger daughter stands in front of me, looks at me with her eyes all wide and asks:
- Daddy, how long will you be unemployed? Lilly's mom was fired too, but she is working again already...
I try hard not to show it, but a whole world just collapses inside me. And then Sophie steps in, sends the kids to their room and softly she says only this:
- Peter, I'm leaving.

Seventeen missed calls and a text message from Sophie, all throughout a single morning. My cell phone in the hotel, strictly silenced, I'm on a vacation.
Help me! - that's all her text says.
I call her.
- I'm getting a divorce - she says and starts to weep.
I try to comfort her, to no avail. Complaints just ooze from her. When she's not crying, she's talking so fast I can barely understand her over the phone, but I can see it's deep trouble: she wants to tell her husband that night that it's all over. I try to get her to think it over once more, leave some time for herself to ripen the final decision.
- No reason to. Not anymore.
I offer her to come up to me to the Mátra mountains for a day or two so we can look through everything. I can feel she would want to, but she hardens herself.
- Now I will play with open cards - she says.
I ask her how to mean that one, but I don't get any smarter from her answer:
- Mean it as you want it.

I look into my girls' eyes, I can see they know that something horribly wrong is going on, but they still don't ask anything, they just cry silently, without tears. "Your father is sick - I lied - and I have to go on a trip, for work. You will stay with Grandma for a while.” „ But I want to be with you two... always” - begs the younger one, and her tears start to flow. On the older one's face, bitterness. „ You won't get divorced, will you?”. „No.” - I lie again. I hate myself, I hate Peter. Where did we go wrong? Who is responsible for all this?
To my parents, I just routinely dish out the lies. Peter is sick, I have to go out of town. My father offers to go over to him. I reject it angrily. "Come, girl, let's talk it over!" - he pulls me by my arm toward his study, like in the old days when they made me pay the difference between the cheapie school bag and the trendy one in my freshman year in high school. If I can't get out of my parents' house, I will cry, and that's the last think I want to do. "Thanks, Dad, but I gotta go. I have some crap going on at my office and I have to be there." Lying goes easier and easier. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" - my father asks. He can see inside me, as always. "Yyyyyyyyyeah... I think so." "I hope you know you can always count on us?" "I know."
I say goodbye to the kids. They're crying. At that point, so am I. I try to calm then, best as I can, then I step out the door. Their teary eyes haunt me to go back and reverse all. But no, it's impossible.
In the car I ask myself the question I really tried to avoid so far: And now, where?
I think of my first love, the Mátra, where we have even been together. I almost take the highway M3 towards it, then I have a better idea.

I'm Not Even Wanted As Unemployed

If he cheated on me, I may even bear that too, but he sinned against his family and that is unforgivable.

I didn't wait until the deadline, I went back to the employment center in a few days. I decided nothing can upset me, if I have to, I will wait for eight hours straight, I'm taking something to read, sandwiches for a day. I had so many papers I couldn't fit them in my briefcase anymore, I had to put them in a separate plastic bag in a giant folder. In about half an hour I even got a seat, that made me almost optimistic. The calling numbers came in a complete mess, I couldn't find a system in it, try as I might. At least one would know how many are ahead, you could just go out for a walk, get a coffee, grab a bite to eat. Time would fly by. But system, no. They call the number ten lower, then twenty higher, then the one right before me. Then 17 after me. And I just sit there waiting, I can't even read, because I look up at every beep of the display. Maybe. But seems that my number is cursed, or just the computer forgot about it. Sophie sends me a comforting text every hour or so, at least that helps.
After three hours and thirty-seven minutes of wait, my time comes. I magically put on my sweetest smile over my worn face, and I step into the shrine of bureaucracy. I sit down at the clerk's desk, I spread out my miles of paperwork, this fact sheet, that application, another certification - she just keeps asking and asking, with no feeling in her voice whatsoever. I select the needed paperwork quickly, I don't want to waste their precious time. She pounces on the corporate papers like an attacking puma. Her experienced eyes point a mistake, she busts the verdict: not eligible. I try to argue, I ask her to show me the law, governmental order, anything. She's just shrugging and changes tone:
- If you really want it, we can put in the application...
A spark of hope shines up.
- ...but it will be rejected anyways.
My brain just explodes. When I was there for the first time I wanted to ask about that point that she doesn't want to accept now. After several hours of waiting I would've deserved at least the answer from the info desk clerk, but all she could say was that all cases are different, the appointed clerk will tell everything. Another several hours of wait gives me forty seconds of answer time.
When I mention this, she just shrugs, she can't do anything, it's the rule. I groan, that I'm not holding her responsible for the rules but for the humiliating and inhumane process of letting me know this.
I curse her. I wish her to be fired too and have to go begging for financial aid, just like I have to. Now all other clerks are watching us too. And me in particular, rather offensively.
Finally the released pressure is not sitting on my brain, I can change tones:
- Ladies, I have a simple favor to ask you! - I raise my voice.

I leave a pause of attention.
- More humanity! People who come here are in trouble, have been hurt, a lot of them have been humiliated. Please treat us like people too!
Air just froze.
- See you later, ladies – I say, storming out of the office.
I hear some groans of disrespect, but I don't react. I grab the door to slam it behind myself, but in the last moment I change my mind and just close it quietly.
At the information desk I stop for a second. It's the same lady staring at me the same stupidly who didn't answer me last time. Anger fills me, I would just love to smash her fat head into the counter.
Then I gather my strength and walk out without even saying goodbye.

Of what happened immediately after this, neither of them ever wrote anything. Sophie told me a lot later what happened.
She was in the middle of a super important meeting when Peter called her. She couldn't take the call, her phone was on silent mode, so she just hung up and tried to secretly write a text message that she will call him back ASAP after the meeting, but her husband's message broke it in half. "I was denied, I'm not even good enough to be unemployed." Roughly that's what it said. Sophie felt that she can't not talk to him. She excused herself out with a lot of awkward sorry's, but she couldn't reach Peter anymore, he turned her cell off. She sent her a text message and went back to the meeting. She was hanging on the edge of her seat, but her peers just couldn't finish their discussion. She got a new text message, but not from Peter but the bank: all their bonds have been freed. Her boss looked rather annoyed, but still she went out once again. Her husband was still not available. She sat back on her place, but in a moment came the next message. All money was withdrawn. Sophie lied that her kid got sick and ran away. She drove like a madman to the bank branch where the money was taken up, but Peter wasn't there anymore. She ran home, but no use, her husband wasn't there either. He just disappeared. She called all the friends and family, but nobody has seen him.

He only got home in the early morning, drunk out of his brain. He lost all the papers, but he did have the money, at least most of it. He spent seventy thousand forints. (translator's note: about 355 USD, roughly a month's minimum wage earnings) Sophie was yelling, but the words didn't even reach Peter's brain, he just collapsed into bed still in his clothes. He never told what he wanted to do with the money. She thought he wanted to take off abroad. That night, Sophie only wrote a single sentence into her diary:

That he makes no money, I will survive, I can bear his jealousy, if he cheated on me, I may even bear that too, but he sinned against his family and that is unforgivable.

Believing It May Just Get Better

If she has something to tell, she will. And if not, I'm not even interested.

My notice time was over and still no job. I have to register for unemployment aid. We do have some savings, but even if Sophie makes more from next moth, we can't risk me not having insurance. If anything happens to me, we'll lose everything. So I take a big breath and off to the interwebs: I read everything in the topic. I carefully download and fill in all the forms to the best of my knowledge. I would need some help, as even though it's in Hungarian, it's a tough job to know the answer to all questions. I dig in the laws until I finally put the whole portfolio together. I gather all the hundred and twenty more I.D.'s, certifications, tax receipts, just in case I even add the kids' birth certificates and the dog's vaccination record too, so I won't be left ashore because of those. Our marriage certificate gets in my hand too. I pat it, smell it, in my head I run over all the happy moments together. There's not much of those in the past few weeks, but the old ones are more than enough. I don't let myself get desperate, I chase away the thoughts of Sophie and her boss. I decide I won't bother her with questions when she comes home. If she has something to tell, she will.and if not, I'm not even interested. That's the only way I can validate for myself not going in to check what she's doing in the hotel.
I deal with this unemployment aid, then I will search for jobs more intensely until I finally find one. I'll call even those of whom I didn't want to beg for a job.
When I have a job, I'll show Sophie we have a future together. His sneaky snake of a wanton boss I will just erase out of her life.
She found me in that mood when she got home. I was happy to see I must be on the right path as she was so nice with me as she hasn't been in quite a while. Of course in my brain the alarm started to ring immediately that she only wants to compensate for what she did. But I was strong, I ripped out the clapper from that damned alarm bell.

I rather just had her look through the paper to move on to neutral territories. She also thought it was all right, but it so wasn't...

In the morning she reassured me how sorry she was that I have to apply for unemployment aid. She even offered to look if we can get insurance for me in any other way.
I didn't accept it. I got in this situation, I have to crawl out myself, even if it's uncomfortable or humiliating. And then I didn't even guess how much so it is. They made me wait for three hours, out of which a full hour was on the street, outside the office, then they shoved a portfolio full of the same papers that I took there filled out, stamped them then they told me to come back in two weeks. I tried to explain that I have everything on me at the moment, we could just do the registration now, the woman just phlegmatically told me: nope, this is not how the case is supposed to go. I should go back in two weeks, I have the time anyways, no?

Sophie only has a short entry in her diary of this time:

"After the corporate weekend a new Peter was waiting for me at home. I barely even recognized him. He was sweet, ready to work, we almost jumped in bed immediately, which hasn't happened in a long time. I think he was afraid of failure, that if he doesn't go through his hard-built, paper thin confidence may just crush. I didn't force him, I found it more important that I started to believe it may just all get right again for us. I wanted to believe."

What really happened at the hotel she wrote quite later. When she didn't believe in them again.

Unsure Balance

Would you want to know what's going on in there?

- Sophie, did you cheat on him? - I asked again as she didn't answer at first. She looked in my eyes long, as if she tried to read my mind. Like if she was trying to decide whether she can trust me, whether she can tell it exactly to me. Would it change in our relationship if she told me her secret? Would it change the worth of our common past?
- No - she finally uttered.
She didn't convince me.
- Would you tell if you did?
- No.
- Well great. You just easily say no, and when I ask back, you admit that you won't even tell if it was a yes, putting that whole no into parenthesis.
She shrugged and with that she considered the topic closed. I didn't ask any longer, I didn't really want to know. I asked if anyone was following her.
- No, nobody - she answered troubled. - I just don't know anymore whom I can trust.
- In me – I said, putting my hand on her shoulder again.
I only learnt it way later, from her diary, what happened on that weekend.

After the official program I excused myself out. John, my boss was not happy, but he accepted the situation. "See you at dinner" - he said and left for the wellness center. I bumped into a few of the partners at the hall. There were a few women amongst them too. They didn't seem to care at all that the meeting continues in the pool.
I called the kids from my room. I learned that Peter passed them on to his parents. At that point I was sorry that I didn't join the others, but it was too late to reconsider. I laid down on the bed and I was thinking what we could have done wrong and how could we get over this whole thing.
Dinner turned out great, the two sides got closer to each other and the initial distrust seemed to melt away. We drank champagne and chatted. The boss of the advertising agency asked a lot about my job, but he wasn't too pushy. Then they went back to the pool and I retired to my room. I was clicking around on the TV, but I found nothing I would like. I didn't think of bringing a book with me, so finding nothing better I was leafing through the next day's presentation. I turned my cell phone off, I didn't want Peter to reach me. I simply had nothing to say to him. I didn't want to admit that he won, I again met his expectations, even if nobody meant a meat market here.
I was just dozing away when the hotel phone rung. „Peter, so he did reach me” - that was my first thought, so I didn't take the call. In two minutes, somebody was knocking on my door.
It was John. He asked me to talk over the next day's to-do list. I stepped in his way.
- I got a few important info tidbits. We need to change the strategy – he said, just as if we were in the office. - Come, I'll buy you a goodnight cocktail and we can talk it over – he stepped back from my doorway. - We are about to make the deal of the century.
I didn't move, I could just see the blame in Peter's eyes.
- Bring tomorrow's pressie too! - John smiled cunningly. And I followed him obediently. Peter's image disappeared into mist.

My father came around eleven for the kids. He didn't ask anything, I'm sure he saw I need to go. Father and son can understand each other without words. I went over to my neighbor and asked for my buddy's bike. He wasn't too happy to lend it, but I didn't care. I told Sophie myself to go with our own car. The long drive can give a lot of opportunities, and her boss would've only been too happy to come and pick her up. I didn't want to borrow my parents' car, until then I was too much in love with the thought of blazing down the highway on a bike. Sophie undermined my idea of commuting on a motorbike when we had the money for it.
- The kids need a father, not an organ donor – she said every single time when I mentioned my idea.
Victor is about the same size as I am, so I begged off his leather suit too. He was very close to saying no, but he could see that in this situation he just can't do it to me. I topped out at 150 kph on the highway (translator's note: legal speed limit is 130kph) and after long long weeks, for the first time, I was happy. It was mercilessly cold, but I didn't care. Finally I felt like a man again who can keep his and his lady's fate in his hands. I arrived at the hotel around 2pm. I let out a sigh of relief: our car was there in the parking lot. At least she didn't lie about where she was going. I parked the bike far away, even though I knew she would never recognize me in this outfit.
On the road I imagined it a hundred times or more to storm into the hotel and ask about Sophie. The receptionist is all confused, then he tries to keep me from rushing to the pool.
But I got unsure. I thought over what I could find.
1. I find Sophie in the pool, her boss yanking his paws out of her bra with a scared face. (This one I didn't want to see anyways.)
2. Sophie gets cheered up by my arrival and we end up in bed. (This one I didn't count on as it hasn't happened in so long.)
3. Sophie gets upset that I'm spying after him. (This one was the most likely, but understandably I didn't really want to go through that one.)
So I left for home, but after a few miles I reconsidered: if I came so far, I really have to investigate it.
In the hotel parking lot I got unsure again.
I tried to decide what would be more cowardly. Going in or not going in, this is the question. I was staring at the windows, I tried to guess which one is Sophie's.
Finally I didn't go in, but it wasn't all my decision: the security guard pointed me out, I guess he found the helmet-covered biker staring at the building. I didn't wait until I got kicked out, I just hopped on the bike and rode home.

All the way home I was thinking whether or not I would want to know what's going on in there.