20October2025
Dear Diary,
Ive been turning the same thought over and over again, like a stiffnecked cardigan that refuses to smooth out. My husbands lover is absolutely stunningshes the sort of woman who could have chosen herself if she were a man. You know the type: she knows her own worth, walks with poise, looks you straight in the eye, and listens intently. She has no frantic gestures, she doesnt need to flash her cleavage or back to draw attention; she is regal, calm, never panics.
I suppose I would have picked her too, as the exact opposite of myself. Because what am I? A perpetual whirlwind, shouting at the children and at James, dropping everything from my hands, never getting anything done. Work is a mountain of paperwork, the boss is never pleased. Im forever in sweatpants and pullover hoodiesironing a blouse is practically a fulltime job. Ive long since given up on pressing those ruffles and frills; the new dryer does the heavy lifting, so the iron barely sees the light of day.
She, on the other hand, is flawlessher figure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, face. Its enough to take ones breath away. And she hasnt breathed out since she saw him. I was at a branch office in a distant part of Manchester, stopped for a quick bite at the first café I could find. Work was done, hunger was real. The place was jampacked, but a quiet corner opened up. I sat down, glanced at the menu, and thenno, I didnt imagine itI recognised my husband from behind. And there she was.
He held her hands in his palms, kissing her fingers. A vulgar thought flashed through my mindyour fingers smell of incensebut she was undeniably beautiful. I ordered soup and a salad, ate it without tasting a thing, and lingered, hoping theyd leave. I was afraid of being seen. Foolish, reallyJames was so preoccupied with his own world that he barely registered the surrounding crowd.
It felt like the moment after a burn: you see the red mark and you know in a few seconds the pain will flood in, and while you wait for that inevitable ache you keep fanning the raw spot, trying to ease the future hurt. Yet inside, there was only emptiness, not a single sting.
James came back right on time, his mood even and cheerful as always. Hes a solid, sanguine typesteady, reliable, with a good sense of humour. I would have loved a dash of that humour now; it would have suited this absurd situation perfectly. I imagined asking him, deadpan, Hows the little love affair going? Saw you at Café Deansgateshes lovely, isnt she? Id have been the same in your shoes. I could picture a bead of sweat forming on his brow, his cheeks reddening as he tried to keep his composure.
Then I would have pressed on: So what now? The kids need a new mum to get used to, and where does that leave me? Am I getting a flat or being taken in? I didnt say any of that. He simply pulled me into his arms in bed, held me close, and drifted off to sleep.
Maybe we havent been intimate lately, I thought as I slid onto my side of the mattress, a silent laugh spilling out. Its as if Im a woman caught cheating on the spot, yet I keep insisting it was just a trick of the eye. Perhaps were still in the first stagethe prelude, the breath, thoughts moving in sync. Hes a covert lover, a hidden paramour, without a word or a twitch to betray him.
I tossed and turned, sleeping in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and other lovers in scarlet dresses. I woke with a heavy head, moving slower than usual, gathering the children for school. All the while I wondered: what do women do when they catch their husbands with mistresses? Google it? The internet offered no solace. I had no answers of my own. Should I try to move on? As if that were a choice. Im already moving on, living the same routineJames arrives home on time, shirt free of lipstick, no foreign perfume lingering. The kids bounce about, Sunday cinema trips continue, sex twice a week, occasionally three times if I pay close attention.
Maybe Id misread that café in the Manchester suburb? NoI called James at lunch, he didnt answer. I grabbed a cab and rushed back to the same café, concocting a plausible story for the driver about waiting for a parcel for work. Jamess car was parked opposite. He and his lover stepped out together, got into his car, and drove off. I went pale, asked the driver for water, pretended to be on a call, and shouted into the empty receiver: To hell with you and your parcel! I cant wait any longer, Im off to work! I guess I didnt care what the driver thought of me.
Knowing theres a mistress in the picture always seems to flip life on its head. Divorce? Probably. How else to live? Tolerate? For what? I remembered a couple of years ago, a friends husband had a mistress. He tried to hide it, but his wife discovered the messages on his phoneproof hed tried to deny. He claimed it was a rivals plot. He swore hed never lie again, saying if you love your family youll own up, or at least provide for them if you leave. I was oddly proud of his honourable stance.
Its easy to resolve someone elses drama from a distance, especially when you bear no responsibility. But when you stand in the middle of itseeing both wife and loveryou lose any courage or steady tone in an instant.
So I walked to their table at the café, took the empty seat. The lovers eyes widened in surprise, James froze, then both fidgeted on their chairs. They sat in stunned silence while I watched, amused. The lover instantly knew who I wasperhaps she always had. James tried to speak; I raised my hand and said, Its not what you think, is it? Nothing about this is shocking. These things happen. But now think about how youll sort this outchildren, shared flat, elderly parents. Youre clever; youll manage. I left slowly, my freshly pressed dress hugging me, a dress I hadnt worn in ages.
Now I sit at my kitchen table, sipping tea, trying to decide whether to confront, to quit, or simply carry on. The future feels as uncertain as a drizzle in November, but perhaps, like a good British cuppa, it will settle in time.
