The husbands lover was absolutely gorgeous. If he were a bloke, hed probably pick her for himself.
You know the sort of women who know their own worth they walk with poise, stare straight ahead, listen intently. They dont flit about, they dont have to flash their cleavage or back to get noticed; they sit like queens, calm as a cucumber, never losing their cool. Shed have chosen her too, as the complete opposite of herself.
Why? Because she was, well, a walking disaster. Forever in a rush, shouting at the kids and at James, dropping things left and right, never catching up, swamped at work with a grouchy boss. She spent most days in baggy trousers and cardigantshirts. Ironing a shirt? That was a fulltime job. Shed forgotten the last time she pressed a ruffle or a puff. Thankfully, the newmodel tumbledryer smoothed out laundry so well she barely needed an iron.
The lover, on the other hand, was pure highsociety. Figure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, face you couldnt even gasp! And she hadnt managed a single gasp since she first saw him. In fact, shed caught sight of him purely by accident on a business trip to a farflung suburb of Manchester. She popped into the first café she could find for a bite. Work was done, but the hunger was real. In the jampacked eatery she snagged a corner seat, opened the menu and lifted her eyes. No, it wasnt a trick of the light she recognised her husband from behind and saw his wife, Claire, at the next table.
He was cradling her hand in his palm, planting a kiss on her fingertips. Ugh, how vulgar, she thought, your fingers smell like incense. Yet the woman was undeniably attractive. Objectively attractive.
She ordered a soup and a salad, ate it without really tasting anything, then lingered, hoping theyd leave. She was scared of being seen. Foolish fear James wasnt paying attention to the world around him at that moment.
It felt like that odd sensation after a burn you see a red mark and know a few seconds later the pain will hit, and you sit there, waiting for the inevitable ache, trying to blow on the spot to ease it. It should have hurt, but inside it was hollow. No pain at all.
James returned right on time, his mood as evenkeeled as ever. He was the sort of steady, sanguine chap with a dry sense of humour, while Claire was a perpetual whirlwind, always hurrying, pushing everyone. His humour would have been useful now, but she wasnt in the right frame for it.
All evening she imagined hed ask, deadpan, Hows the mistress? Saw you at Café N earlier, lovely, right? I get you, Id be tempted myself. Shed watch him break into a sweat, cheeks flushing, trying to keep his composure. Then shed retort, So what now? Introduce the kids, theyll have to like the new mum. And where do you see me in a flat of my own or moving in with you?
She didnt say any of that. James slipped his arm around her in bed, pulled her close and fell asleep straight away.
Maybe there was no sex yet, she thought, sliding onto her side of the bed and chuckling silently. She imagined herself as the betrayed wife, still assuring everyone it was just a figment. Maybe they were still in the first stage the flirtation, the breathless thoughts in sync. He was good, a secret lover, yet not a word, not a muscle moved.
She tossed about in bed, slept in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and foreign mistresses in scarlet dresses. She woke with a heavy head, moved slower than usual around the flat, calmly getting the kids ready for school.
All the while she wondered what a woman in her shoes usually does when her husband is caught with a lover. Google it? The internet gave her no answers. She had no answers herself. Keep living? Whats the point of trying? She was already doing that, day after day: the same routine, James home on time, no lipstick stains on his shirt, no whiff of foreign perfume, the kids bouncing about, Sunday cinema trips. No behavioural changes. The same twotimesaweek sex, occasionally thrice if she paid attention to the little things.
Maybe shed misidentified the café in that outoftheway suburb? No, shed called James at lunch and he didnt answer. She grabbed a black cab, sped back to the same café, invented a plausible story for the driver about a parcel delivery, and parked outside. Jamess car was there, across the street. He and the other woman stepped out together, got in, and drove off.
She went pale, asked the driver for a glass of water, pretended to be on a call, shouting into the empty handset, Well, screw you and your parcel! I cant wait any longer, Im off to work! She didnt care what the cabbie thought of her.
Learning about a mistress always turns life on its head. Divorce? Probably. How else to live? Tolerate? Why bother?
She recalled a couple of years back when a friends husband had a mistress. He tried to hide it, but the wife eventually sniffed it out. There was a scandal, he denied everything even when presented with unapologetic chat logs. He claimed hed been set up by jealous rivals. Then he said, Id never lie. If Ive messed up, Ill own it, break up with her if my family matters, or leave but make sure theyre provided for. Shed been proud of him, thinking, What a responsible bloke.
Its easy to solve someone elses mess from a distance, with no responsibility to bear. When youre smack in the middle of the drama, seeing both wife and lover at the same table, bravery and steadiness vanish in an instant.
She walked over to their table, sat down on the free chair. The lover looked up, eyes wide with surprise. James froze, then shuffled onto his stool. Silence. She found it amusing to watch them. The lover instantly recognised who she was perhaps shed known all along.
James tried to speak. She raised a hand, saying, Thats not what I thought, is it? Honestly, theres nothing shocking about this. It happens. But now think about how to sort it out we have kids, a shared flat, elderly parents. Youre clever, youll manage.
She rose leisurely, her freshly pressed dress looking the part. Shed been saving it for a special occasion, after all.
