INTRODUCTION...

"Okay, my new friends, my turn, is it? Well, I'm going to tell you a tale about my girlfriend's, or to be more accurate, my ex-girlfriend's little black book. I've never told anyone this story before, but seeing as I'll probably never see any of you again, I figure why not share it?"

The Tale of the Little Black Book

What on earth was going on with that little black book? She protected the thing so preciously, and finding out all about it, or at least something about it, became a bit of an obsession for me. I wanted to know what was in it. No, I needed to know. It lived in her handbag in a side pocket, and nothing ever displaced it.

"Could you stick my mobile in your bag for me?" I asked. "I'm worried it'll drop out of these jeans."

"No room, Dan. Sorry," she said.

"Leave your book at home. My mobile would fit neatly in that wee pouch."

"Nope, the book never leaves my bag."

"What's so special about it? Can I have a look?"

"Nope."

End of conversation.

The more often incidents like this happened, the more obsessed I became. I had to know what was in the book. What was she hiding? What didn't she want me to see?

***

Jenny and I had been going out together for just over six months. Truth be told, we'd been going out for nearly four years if you added in our first stint as a couple. Yeah, that's right—we were on our second "tour of duty."

The first one hadn't ended well. It wasn't my fault though. I'd been certain there was no way she could possibly have found out about my little fling. How wrong I was. In fact, she'd found out about all three flings, and she wasn't happy. Insults were hurled, along with plates, glasses and sharp cutlery, but as I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, I escaped mostly unscathed. She got so emotional about the whole affair (pun intended), she felt the wedding should be cancelled, which to me seemed silly given it was only a couple of weeks away. But she insisted, and we broke up, leaving us free to get on with our lives... separately, no real harm done.

Eighteen months later, we'd met unexpectedly at a restaurant while we were both on supposedly romantic dates. We exchanged no more than a little small talk but there was a spark—no, there was real electricity—so I asked her if she'd like to meet up for a drink sometime, and two days later, we were back together. And it seemed she'd forgiven me for what I'd done. At least, she said she had.

Anyway, you know that tingly feeling you get when you really like someone? Some people say it's common sense leaving your body, but I reckon it's love. Yes, I was falling in love, unlike the previous time we'd been together. That first time around, I'd sort of drifted along with the flow; a flow that had nearly ended up in us tying the matrimonial knot.

***

"Happy thirty-day to you," she sang as she handed me a big red envelope with hand-drawn hearts plastered all over it.

I just love presents, so I ripped the top off with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning and pulled out the card. As I opened it, a golden ticket fell to the floor.

"Willy Wonka's chocolate factory tour?" I asked with wide-eyed glee.

"Nope," she said. "Parachute jump."

"Geronimo," I shouted while doing my best impersonation of Superman in freefall. I'd always wanted to do a jump but I'd never had the bottle to go and arrange it for myself. My heart was thumping nineteen to the dozen in anticipation. This was the perfect gift.

"For two," she added. "I'm going to go with you."

That night, the drink flowed; Champagne, which was also part of my birthday surprise.

"Let's not make the ilke mistake again," she said.

"Ilke?"

"Yeah, ilke means same, let's not make the same mistake again. What we've got is too good to waste... again. Cheers."

We finished the bottle and opened a second one. I was happily merry, but Jenny had fallen asleep and was out for the count.

I spotted my chance—my chance to see the notebook and learn its secret.

I flicked through the pages... What the hell? Page after page of accounts of folk who had wronged her and details of what they'd done to offend her. I guess she was making sure she never forgot a slight nor missed an opportunity for revenge. And there I was, big and bold, and she'd pulled no punches when she'd recorded my little dalliances. Most people filled half a page, while my entry spanned nearly three. And she wasn't calling my indiscretions dalliances. In fact, I was surprised and rather shocked by her graphic language.

Thoughts whizzed around my brain. What was going on? Why had she got back together with me if this was how she really felt? I was angry. She said she'd forgiven me, but clearly she hadn't. A fuzzy mist swirled into my head, and a tingle tickled my spine and made me shiver. So, she was looking for revenge, was she? I'd have to be on my toes to make sure I spotted whatever she had planned. I hated being humiliated or embarrassed, and she knew that, so I was sure whatever was in her mind would be public and mortifying. Bitter experience had taught me that the number of people who see you is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act.

But now that I was forewarned of her intentions, I'd be watching, and I was a smart guy so I reckoned I'd be able to thwart her plans or maybe, just maybe, I could get in my revenge first. A bit of proactive retaliation, if you like.

I was super-cautious over the next few weeks. Every meal out, every trip we took, every shopping expedition, every time we were out and about was a potential opportunity for her to publicly humiliate me, but I was too clever, or else she was waiting for something better or something with a bigger crowd, maybe. The more eyes watching, the bigger the embarrassment would be for me.

The day of the jump rolled around. I'd been fretting about it for a few days. Could she possibly be plotting something that would spoil my special day?

"Okay, guys, you've all had the training," said the owner of the skydiving centre. "Our experienced instructors have double-checked your chutes so nothing can go wrong. However, in the tradition of jumping, I want you all to make a final check on your own packs—in particular, to check the double-fastened clips which attach the chutes to the harness."

"I've an idea," Jenny said, "let's check each other's chutes instead of our own. It'll be like an ultimate trust thing."

Oh my God—she was going to sabotage my parachute. I'd expected humiliation as her revenge, not murder. Think, think, what to do.

"Great idea," I said as we all set off for the equipment hangar.

My head was spinning, buzzing with ideas, and fear, and hatred. How could she do this? Yes, I had been with a few girls just a couple of weeks before our wedding, but murder? That was way over the top. A chill raced up my spine, forcing me to shiver violently.

"Are you getting scared?" she asked.

"No," I lied.

We arrived at the hangar where we picked up our packs.

"Okay," she said. "You check mine, and I'll check yours."

I went through the routine, just like we'd been taught, but using my body to obscure her view, I undid the main clasps and the back-up linkages. When these chutes opened they weren't going to be attached to the harness, or her.

We boarded the aircraft and took our seats. I made sure she was sitting on the bench nearer to the door than me. If this was going to work, she'd have to jump before me. We clipped our release straps to the wire that ran the length of the roof. This would automatically pull our ripcords for us as soon as we jumped out of the aircraft. Much safer according to the instructors.

"Okay, get ready," announced the voice over the intercom. "Three minutes until jump."

Our instructor twisted the release lever and pulled open the door. A cold rush of air engulfed us. Adrenaline rushed through my body, making my heart pump and my ears thump. I realised I was holding my breath. Could I really allow her to jump to her death? Second thoughts battered my brain.

"One minute to jump. All stand and move towards the door."

Jenny turned to me as she shuffled forward and kissed me warmly on the lips. "Good luck. I love you."

"I love you too," I said. Tears filled my eyes because I realised at that very moment just how much I did love her, truly and deeply.

The instructor started barking commands and then the moment came for the first guy in the line to exit the plane.

"Ready? JUMP!"

The instructor watched as jumper one leapt from the plane.

"Chute open," he screamed to make himself heard over the gushing wind. "Next. Ready? Jump."

Two more guys jumped then it was Jenny's turn. Could I let her go through with this? Of course I could. After all, this was what she had planned for me.

"Ready?" screamed the instructor as he patted Jenny on the shoulder. She nodded.

"Jump."

Without hesitation, she leapt from the plane. The instructor leaned out to check the release.

"Oh my God!" he screamed. "The chute has detached. She's in freefall."

He bobbed his head in and out the door, staring down in disbelief, all colour drained from his face. Then his training took over, he pulled the door closed and ordered the rest of us back to our seats. Wonderful. That saved me from having to pretend to panic and refuse to jump. This was perfect. By the time I was back in my seat, I reckoned Jenny would be "on" the ground.

A couple of hours later, we were all being interviewed by the police and Health & Safety inspectors. The belief seemed to be that it had been a suicide—after all, everyone had been responsible their own chutes, and the jump school was adamant that everything had been fine before the students had checked their packs. And the school had a ten-year-plus, one hundred percent accident-free record.

When my turn for questioning came, an electric tingle spread from my clenched jaw to my dampening eyes. Nerves were making me shake, and my emotions were leaking out all over the place.

"You seem particularly upset, sir?"

"Too right. I loved Jenny, and we were going to get married," I said as a single tear raced down my cheek.

For twenty minutes or so they asked me about everything; what had I seen, how good did I think the instructors were, had I noticed any safety issues, what kind of a woman was Jenny, and what did I know about her state of mind? I stuttered and stammered, but was able to bumble my way through the interrogation.

With the questioning over and a bit of a heavy heart, I gathered my stuff and prepared to leave.

"Excuse me, sir?" said an officious voice behind me.

Damn, had they spotted something? I thought I'd got away with it. Was I going to get blamed for the suicide?

"You said you were very close to the lady?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if you'd mind looking after her possessions. The police don't want to hold on to them and neither do we."

"Sure," I said taking a black bin bag full of Jenny's bits and pieces.

When I got home, I thought about what I'd done. I guess there were other approaches I could have taken. I could have challenged Jenny and told her I knew what she was up to. I could have refused to board the plane. I could have rechecked my own chute after she'd done whatever she had planned. I could have feigned illness. But the problem with any of those actions was that she'd have just found some other opportunity to exact her revenge. I couldn't live under a cloud like that. No one could.

Anyway, I'd saved all the other people in the little black book from this madwoman. Then an idea struck me. Why not contact all the other folk and tell them how lucky they were. I realised in less than a nanosecond how stupid that was. It would just shine a spotlight on what I'd done and pin a motive on me. No, I wouldn't contact anyone, but I would have a look to see who I'd saved and what they'd done. I'd had a quick flick on the night of my birthday but I'd only properly read the entry about me.

I rummaged through the bin bag and, after a lot of poking, found her handbag. The book was in its usual place. I leafed through the pages. There were nineteen other people named, but their misdeeds were a lot less serious than mine. They ranged from slights at her workplace through to a couple of embarrassing things her parents had done to her. Then I came to the back page.

"Thank you Cosmopolitan magazine for this great idea. I will follow it through to the letter," read her handwriting. Below that were a couple of magazine clippings which had been glued to the page.

10 Great Tips to Help You Move on with Your Life

3. Write the name of the person who wronged you in a book along with the date and a description of their wrong. Once you've written it down, tell yourself three times that you forgive the person... it's surprising how well this works and the closure it will give you.

Ooops.

I wondered what the other nine great tips were. I reckoned I was going to need some help to move on with my life after what had happened to me. Maybe a new girlfriend would help?

"Maybe one of you ladies?" I say as I smile my best smile for my new female "friends."