Claire Whitaker stared at the empty space beside her husbands chair, the weight of his secret pressing down like a cold hand on her shoulder. She knew the type of woman who carried herself with quiet dignityeyes steady, voice calm, movements unhurried. She didnt need to flash skin or braid her hair to be seen; she owned the room by simply being there. That kind of poise was exactly what his other woman possessed, and, absurdly, Claire thought she might have chosen her for herself if she were a man.
Claire was everything the opposite of that. She was perpetually in a rush, shouting at the kids, snapping at Thomas, her husband, as if a storm would never pass. Her hands clattered through the day, dropping dishes, missing deadlines, the bosss frown a permanent fixture. She lived in constant sweats and baggy pullovers, because ironing a blouse was a saga she could no longer afford. The new dryer in the hallway smoothed out the creases, leaving little need for an iron.
The other womanFelicity Hartwas the picture of elegance. Her posture, her legs, her glossy hair, her eyes, her faceshe seemed carved from marble. Claire had never breathed a sigh of relief since the day she first saw her, not even a gasp. It was at a business trip to a farflung district of Greater London, in the cramped back room of The Willow Café, that fate tossed them together. The café was packed; a lone corner table waited. Felicity flipped open the menu, lifted her gaze, and the world stopped. She recognized Thomas from behind, his shoulders broad, his tie crooked. And then she saw herClaireseated across the room, her fingers trembling as she held his hand in a tender kiss on his knuckles. A cringe of disgust rose in Claires throatYour fingers smell of incense, she thought, a vulgar image flashing through her mind. Yet there was an undeniable beauty in the scene, a raw, unfiltered loveliness.
Claire ordered a soup and a salad, ate without taste, and lingered, waiting for the couple to leave. She feared being seen, but it was pointlessThomass attention was elsewhere, his world narrowed to Felicitys smile. The feeling in her chest was like the lingering scorch after a burn, a thin line of pain you could feel pulsing, knowing a deeper ache was imminent. She tried to fan the reddening skin of her own wounded pride, hoping to soothe the future agony, but inside there was a hollow void.
Thomas returned on time, his smile even, his mood as steady as a summers day. He was the consummate sanguinesteady, grounded, with a dry wit that could make a stone laugh. Claire needed that humor now, but the situation offered no room for jokes. She imagined asking him, in a detached tone, Hows your mistress? Saw her at the cafe on Baker Street. Lovely, isnt she? and watching the sweat bead on his forehead as he fought to stay composed. She pictured herself adding, What now? Should the children meet their new stepmum? Where will I fit in? In a flat of my own or dragged into yours?
She never spoke those words. Thomas slipped into the bedroom, pulled her close, and fell asleep before the night could fully settle. Claire slipped onto her side of the bed, feeling the absence of intimacy, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips. Maybe we havent had sex yet, she mused, were still in the prelude, the breath, the shared thoughts. Thomas, the hidden lover, moved without a word, without a muscle of resistance.
She tossed in the bed, waking in fragments, dreaming of vivid roses and strangers in scarlet gowns. She rose with a heavy head, moved through the flat slower than usual, shepherded the children to school, all the while wondering: what do women do when their husbands are caught with mistresses? Google it? The internet offered no answers. Should she try to move on? She already wassame routine, husband home at six, no lipstick on his shirt, no foreign perfume lingering, children bouncing about, Sunday trips to the cinema. Sex twice a week, sometimes three if she paid attention to the details.
Had she misread the scene in that distant part of the city? No. She called Thomas at lunch; he didnt answer. She hailed a black cab, raced back to The Willow Café, rehearsing a plausible story for the driver: Were waiting for a parcel, workrelated. Thomass car was parked opposite, the engine ticking. He and Felicity stepped out together, slid into his vehicle, and drove off. Claires face went pale. She asked the cab driver for water, faked a call, shouted into the empty line, Dammit, I cant wait any longer! Im off to work! She cared little for the drivers opinion of her.
The knowledge of a mistress can shatter a life. Divorce? Perhaps. But how else to live? To endure? For what? She recalled a friends husband who had a lover a few years back. He hid, masked, yet the wife uncovered the truth. He denied everything even when confronted with untouched messages on a phone. He claimed rivals were framing him. Eventually, he admitted, saying, Id never lie. Its shameful, but I must own up. If you love your family, choose wiselystay or leave, but provide for them. Claire had once admired that resolve, thinking it noble.
Now, from the inside of the drama, courage evaporated. She walked to the table where Thomas and Felicity sat, pulled out the only free chair, and sat. Felicitys eyes widened in surprise; Thomas froze, then shifted uneasily. Silence hung heavy. Claire watched, a faint smile curving her lips. Felicity instantly recognized who she was, perhaps even knew. Thomas groped for words, but Claire raised a hand. This isnt what I imagined, is it? she said calmly. Nothing here is shocking. It happens. But thinkchildren, a shared flat, elderly parents. Youre clever; youll manage. She stood, her freshly pressed dress catching the light, the one she hadnt worn in months. She walked toward the door, every step a statement, the scene trailing behind her like a curtain falling on a stage.
