The Art of War

Anthea Livingstone eyed the quote many times. Her shopping trip this day included bookstore chains and she decided to make an extra purchase.
“The art of war is of vital importance to the State.”
Sun Tzu, a Chinese military general of the sixth century BC, wrote the Art of War. Anthea was uncertain of the forces that drew her to the military history section. Arcane Books was abuzz with many people, who preferred to hang out in the fiction section, but she somehow ended up in the military history section toward the rear of the store. This may have been due to her difficulty in locating a popular autobiography, her need to ask for assistance and eventually hot footing to locate the assistant that left her standing in the A to K section for too long a time. The Art of War stood out from the crowd; she saw it from the corner of her eye and picked it up. Fanning through the pages she had stumbled upon the quote and nodded approvingly.

“In war, then, let your great object be victory, not lengthy campaigns.”
She didn’t need sugar coated affirmations that were covered in nice floral cardboard, Sun Tzu’s words of wisdom may not have been approved by self help gurus, but she felt his words were appropriate given her situation. Her work in the bookstore was complete. Anthea bid farewell to a twenty-something lass at the cash register and walked out onto the dismal city street. Raindrops were descending from a bleak sky and she decided to stop at a nearby café to assess her day so far. Her day began with the customary calls to her adult children. Rowan was in his second university year, an eager physicist in the making, two states away from her. At twenty he had adapted to life on campus and rarely called home. Michelle, her eldest was in the middle of her postgraduate anthropology degree at UCLA and that left Peter, her highflying attorney at law husband. Their marriage had broken the record. Twenty-five years was a near miracle in the millennium of new opportunity, Anthea thought. The streets were drenched with rain, rendering them with a near metallic sheen. She turned busy George Street and made a beeline for one of the coffee house franchises that were dotted all over Sydney’s CBD.
A career was a career, regardless of the field and once a person altered their career or swapped one thing for another, adaptation was necessary for ongoing survival. Peter and Anthea were an unlikely couple. Peter Livingstone was a rising university star the day he spied Anthea serving customers in his local supermarket. Initially she felt awkward being pursued by a wet behind the ears first year university student and it did not matter that he studied law. She may have been nineteen at the time but she knew a thing or three about dating. Peter Livingstone was a dating freshman and in many ways his over eager attitude made her feel like an experiment and how she tired of being a convenient distraction. Anthea may have had a broken family under her belt with a wayward father who upped and left her mother but she was no fool.
Anthea’s coffee arrived, served by a well groomed young male who thanked her for the order.

Everything in life was fitted around transactions. If one wanted to reap, one was required to make an investment, as one was required to take a risk. After the customary three dates Peter became bold, she suspected this related to his male friends at university. Anthea stuck to her guns, she was no easy catch and she expressed this from the very beginning. How times changed. Peter’s parents assumed her well on her way with a future heir to the Livingstone name when their son announced news of their engagement and subsequent marriage. When this wasn’t the case they were shocked by Peter’s choice of partner.
“Son, do you think Anthea will adapt to our world?” His father would say. Peter’s father, Oliver Livingstone QC was a barrister with a reputation. In a time distant from the present she remembered how Peter would lower his voice to a near croak and impersonate his father. In no time they would erupt in synchronous giggles and these would fade out into blissful notes that sang of intimacy.

No one expected Anthea to be a closet bookworm, no one expected Anthea to have any general knowledge. Anthea was a mere store assistant, a check out operator who added grocery totals and greeted hurrying shoppers. Anthea proved everyone wrong. She brushed up on her cookery skills at night. She scoured libraries and read all pivotal articles. During one of their many dinner parties she could discuss foreign policies of many a nation. Peter’s parents had grown to respect her. The day Peter Livingstone won a pivotal case that was broadcast on the evening news Anthea’s world changed and although she accepted Peter’s long work hours, she did wonder - during quiet moments - about her initial transaction. Anthea kept quiet, never uttering a word of doubt to any of their mutual friends, friends that had since divorced or upgraded their spouses with younger partners.

The rain kept falling, her umbrella was wedged under her driver’s seat and by the time Anthea returned to the undercover parking station her hair was dotted with rivulets of rain.
“I won’t be able to make dinner, have many legal briefs to read over before the end of this week.”
“I’ll put your dinner in the oven then.” She would say.
“Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll pick up something on my way home.” Peter would say. It was their daily ritual.
The time she spent by herself increased. The need for an outlet exponentionally increased the day Anthea decided to call Peter after deciding to be spontaneous and book a table for two in Chinatown.
“He left for the day.” Cordelia said over a buzzing telephone line.
“What time did he leave?”
“Around midday.”
Cordelia was Peter’s new personal assistant. He had spoken of her and Anthea had no cause for concern until Cordelia assumed she was a legal associate and revealed Peter’s err.
Anthea started her jet black BMW and reversed out of the parking spot.

Sun Tzu was correct. Anthea, at the age of forty-four, had no time for lengthy battles and long-winded campaigns. Victory was the only option and such victory was not associated with pay by the hour marital counselling.
She drove home to the tunes of Rachmaninov as preordained raindrops fell like tears.
Darling Peter, last night was simply wonderful. I have two tickets for La Traviata for Friday night. Kisses Jocelyn.
La Traviata played to a packed Sydney Opera House a fortnight prior. Anthea was to deliver the weekly dry cleaning to the laundromat until Peter stormed into the bedroom asking for the whereabouts of his trousers. Their antique palatial bedroom had once been her favourite room within their Tudor style house. She bit her lip and omitted her knowledge of the love note in Peter’s trousers. Her hands slightly trembled as she picked up the navy Armani trousers.
“Are you alright? Your hands.”
“I’m fine, probably need to eat more iron.”
Peter shook his head, grabbed his trousers and escaped to their ensuite bathroom.

It was Thursday; La Traviata was twenty-four hours away. She remembered purchasing her own ticket. Her eyes bugged out when she requested a dress circle seat from the box office. Never one for opera, Anthea made an exception and sat through hours of lyric she couldn’t understand. Her mind couldn’t merge with the tenors or sopranos, their passionate voices or fervent gestures. She thought of Peter and Jocelyn sitting four rows in front of her, oblivious to her espionage. After the show she discreetly followed them back to their hotel, where they remained for three hours. Jocelyn was an attractive woman, her attraction no doubt based on her youth. Some fifteen years Peter’s junior, Anthea couldn’t help feeling dejected and outraged the second she saw Peter exit the hotel with a partially tucked in shirt and undone black bow tie. According to Peter, he had to attend a law function that was strictly work - no spouses allowed.

Anthea poured herself a steaming cup of coffee within five minutes of her arrival and filled out her documents to the rhythm of raindrops bouncing off her living room skylight. She placed a tick next to a three yes boxes and two in the box marked ‘no’. Her new pastime meant more hours spent in retail outlets. She had read about women who had lost all sense of reason, who maxed out their credit cards purchasing items to dull the emotional hurt. A small part within her questioned her own emotional state and whether her new pastime was a diversion. In many ways it was. She would return all her purchases, sometimes within the same day, and be left with nothing but receipts. It was during a shopping trip the following day that she spied the most elegant strappy sandals. They were exclusive, beautiful and looked to be very fragile. She shook her head in disapproval. The price tag didn’t merit their fragility. If a careless partygoer trod on such a shoe it looked to be the kind that would fall apart.
“Would Madam like to try the shoe?” Asked the black attired assistant.
“I’m not sure, it’s the price. I think they are too fragile for the price.” Anthea frowned.
“Madam is aware of the House of Le Fevre?”
“Oh I’m aware of Parisian elegance, I just think that these sandals pale in comparison to Papillon.”
Anthea tried to contain her laughter. There were days where she existed to test store managers and assistants.
“I can show Madam the Papillon range if Madam prefers.”
She admired the diplomacy. Miss Faux French Accent changed the subject without rubbishing the rival product.
“ I like the Le Fevre sandals but the price is shocking. They look too fragile for the two thousand dollar tag.”
“One does not wear this sandal to shop for one’s groceries Madam.” Dominique said.
Film premieres, the special wedding anniversary - which Anthea found amusing, considering the circumstances- and of course that deliciously rare evening out to a special place.
“I understand.” Anthea said.
“It all depends on Madam’s occasion.”
The shoe was special, it was an elite shoe and it only deserved to be worn in the most appropriate places that reflected its true beauty. Anthea was impressed with Dominique. She purchased the sandals and exited the shoe boutique with a smile.
The time arrived for militaristic strategy. Peter had worked back seven days in succession and whenever Anthea thought of the Le Fevre sandals she couldn’t help it. A marriage was analogous to shoes. A spouse initially treated their counterpart with the same curiosity one would treat chic shoes. After some time, the shoes were transformed into fluffy slippers such as the sheepskin varieties she had seen in many stores and market stalls. They were cosy, warm, moulded to one’s foot and taken for granted. It was then that a idea erupted within her mind.

“To fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.”
Anthea closed the Art of War and eyed the empty space next to her. Peter always got home after she was well and truly asleep. He expected her to be asleep and she humoured him but her ears always pricked up to the shower that ran for fifteen minutes. This was followed by the whirring sound of his electric toothbrush. He would then gargle with mouthwash, rinse and spit out the remnants of the day. Anthea would lie on her left side, hear the ensuite door creak shut and feel Peter sink into the space next to her without so much as an embrace. Anthea, this night, decided to remain awake only to see Peter’s reaction. She also danced with the idea of being more forward with her affectionate gestures.
It was a shame to own a king sized bed and never use it.
“You’re awake?” Peter said. He slowly walked inside and eyed her form. Anthea sat up against three pillows and smiled.
“That I am. How was your day?”
“The usual.”
He continued onto the bathroom and began with his usual routine. In spite of his supposedly long hours he still retained his vigour. Peter’s skin was radiant, his eyes were never red rimmed or puffy. His salt and pepper hair was carefully groomed into a modern tousled Caesar cut. Peter Livingstone believed in maintenance as did she but he never stopped to gaze at her lustrous shoulder length auburn hair nor compliment her on her latest perfume. He didn’t notice her weekly manicures and most of all he stopped kissing her goodbye each morning.
The door finally opened to reveal a birthday suited Peter.
“Very nice.” She purred.
A half smile spread across Peter’s face. He climbed into the bed and was met with Anthea’s undivided attention.
“You smell nice.”
She turned to face him and her eyes scanned his mouth.
“I’m tired, have an early start tomorrow.”
In the whisper of a second he turned over onto his right side and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. She switched off her bedside lamp and stared out into the darkness. Anthea could have put her foot down; she could have demanded an explanation. The argument would have continued into the early hours of the night, in fact, until the sun peeked through the horizon as it introduced a new morning. Anthea remembered Sun Tzu, breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting. Peter Livingstone was her enemy and she would bring him to his knees. She pulled the covers back, got up and out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“To the kitchen, darling.” She said.


Peter went through the mail of the previous day as he sat drinking his morning cup of coffee. His fingers rifled through endless envelopes. The electricity bill arrived, as did the phone bill. Credit card statements followed these and Peter stopped when his eyes spotted an unusual transaction at Cinderella.
“Anthea?”
“Yes?”
Anthea was busy poaching Peter’s eggs.
“What’s Cinderella?”
“A store.”
“There’s a two thousand dollar purchase listed on your statement which has been paid for. I don’t recall such a payment.”
“Oh? Must be a bank error.”
She turned to see Peter frown at the credit card statement. He finished his coffee, claimed he had no time for breakfast and left the house.

It was difficult to resist Sergio. A positive omen from day one, Sergio’s attention was the pebbled that rippled the pond within Anthea. He was always helpful and said the right things. Anthea assumed that no female could resist a man of refined taste. Sergio Cardinale implicitly knew what complimented a woman.
“Red is the colour of passion, it matches the fire in your eyes.”
Anthea caved in each time he uttered such things and after each visit, visits that had accumulated rapidly in the following fortnight, she came home with receipts for purchases of exclusive hand embroidered lingerie, a luxurious set of skin care products and the odd dress. Sergio catered to just about everything, including custom-made gift hampers. Envy was not an issue, even during moments when she spied Sergio’s chocolate eyes glancing at another woman. Absent for longer hours, Anthea’s time at home decreased and the opportune moment to discuss this reared its head during Peter’s morning mail evaluation.
“It’s strange, more purchases that are subsequently reimbursed. Anthea is there something you’re not telling me?”
Anthea ignored the question as she stirred her coffee; she waited for Peter to finish.
“Can you explain these receipts? Where are the purchases? Lingerie, shoes, makeup, perfumes. What is going on?”
At that very moment the front door bell rang.
“I’ll get that darling.” Anthea said.
Peter heard her thank the person and close the door. He stood and walked through to the hallway.
“What is that?”
“Looks like a gift hamper.”
Anthea scanned the basket, which nearly engulfed her and shrugged her shoulders.
“No signature on the card.”
“Give me that.” Peter muttered.
Anthea obliged and returned to the kitchen.
“It’s addressed to you, your name is on the card. Who would send you this Anthea?”
“Beats me Peter.”
He retreated into silence and grabbed his briefcase.

“You’re early.” Anthea said.
The hands on their nearby grandfather clock marked five o’clock. Anthea watched her husband from the corner of her eye. He dumped his briefcase on the nearby armchair and walked into the kitchen.
“I was thinking we go out for dinner.”
“We haven’t done that in a while.”
“I decided to make some changes, it was getting beyond ridiculous.”
“Where were you thinking of going?”
“I booked a table for us at a little place overlooking the harbour.”
“Oh?”
Her husband returned to his briefcase, snapped it open and removed a small package.
“I was thinking somewhere elegant and intimate. I bought you something for the occasion.”
Anthea’s face was a vision of surprise and adoration. She held back tears, sniffled in the right places and extended her wrist to Peter so he could adorn it with a glittering tennis bracelet that boasted forty-five diamonds.
“What’s the occasion?” Anthea asked.
“Consider it an early birthday present, I realise six months is too early but there is no excuse for my neglect of late. Work or no work, no excuse.”
He embraced her and whispered something that she had not heard him utter in quite a long time.
“We have plenty of time Peter.”
Peter followed Anthea to the shower. Anthea stood and led the way thinking how her new job as a paid professional shopper prepared her for battle, how one ancient military general – Sun Tzu – opened her eyes to the nuances of battle and most importantly, how a war could be won. Anthea climbed the staircase and mentally recited words that could be an inspiration for any ordinary person,

“The art of war is of vital importance to the State.”