“Double Life,” my husband called it.
“You didn’t sleep here again, Ian,” I said, my voice calm, practically chilled. Inside, I was scalded.
“Sweetheart… you know how it is, Lauren. Utter chaos at the practice. Emergency patient…”
“Patient?” I scoffed. “Then why does your shirt smell of floral perfume? And why was your Instagram active at three AM?”
He looked away, silent. Then, the usual routine: rubbing his nose bridge, sighing, eyes darting around the kitchen.
“I can explain everything. Just… not now, alright? Don’t start.”
I didn’t start. Though I desperately wanted to scream, to chuck that shirt at him, to deflate his ego. But… I held back.
Nine years married. The usual lot: a mortgage, a son in Year Four, a joint current account, the little ritual of making each other morning coffee. But for the last six months, I’d brewed only my own. He’d either leave early, “for the hospital,” arrive late, or pull an all-nighter “on call.” My gut knew the truth – not a heroic medic, just a liar. With someone else.
The kettle whistled. I watched from the window as our neighbour kissed his wife goodbye, ruffling his daughter’s hair. A bitter envy shook me. Why not me? Why wasn’t that mine?
The warning signs? Missed ’em. Subtle, expertly done. First, he disabled location sharing – “phone’s glitchy.” Stopped leaving bathroom things out – “sterility, love, surgeon’s habit.” Clung to his mobile like a life raft, even at home.
“Don’t fuss, Laurie,” he’d soothe. “You know I love you. Where would I find the energy for another woman? I barely have enough for you.”
While he showered, I grabbed his phone. Even the cat knew the passcode. But the messaging apps? Wiped clean. Instagram? Football pages and a couple of surgeons. Right.
I wasn’t born yesterday. Nobody pulls the wool over my eyes.
“If you can’t catch the truth, find someone who knows it.”
That someone, I wagered, was… his younger brother, Alfie. The one Ian suddenly “met for pints” so often.
“Hi, Alfie. Quick question?”
“Lauren! Hi! What’s up?”
“You met Ian last night?”
“Um…” He hesitated. “Well… kind of?”
*Kind of*. Brilliant.
“Alfie, skip the ‘family friend’ act. Was he with you? Yes or no?”
“No,” he breathed. “Sorry. Can’t cover for him anymore.”
I froze. This was it.
“There’s another woman?”
Alfie looked down.
“Not… exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
He fidgeted.
“Lauren… you sure you want this?”
Blood pounded in my ears.
“Spit. It. Out. Now.”
“It’s not just *her*… Lauren, he’s living two lives. Over in another borough… a second family. Woman. And… a son. Aged three.”
I turned to ice. Encased in silence. Alfie babbled apologies, his words muffled, like cotton wool in my ears.
A son. Ian had a son.
Three years of lies. THREE YEARS. While I ferried our Oliver to his clubs, ironed Ian’s shirts, cooked his favourite lasagne, believing it was just work stress. Naive. Pathetic. Wife with a certified chump degree.
“Where does she live?” I asked Alfie, voice steady now.
“Lauren… don’t do anything daft.”
“Where. Does. She. Live?” My stare pinned him.
He caved.
“Flat in Croydon. He rents it. Sometimes he tells you he’s crashing at mine… he’s with them.”
“Does she know? About me?”
“Course. But… he told her you’re basically roommates. Staying together just for Oliver’s sake.”
Right. “Staying together.” Well, listen here, *Iggy*, I’ll show you “staying together.” Rage simmered, but I held it tight.
That evening, I cooked dinner like clockwork. Oliver did homework at the table while I chopped salad. Picture-perfect ad for domestic bliss. Only I wasn’t me anymore.
When Ian came home, I kissed his cheek as usual – now just to study the traitor up close.
“How was your shift?”
“Knackering,” he mumbled, slumping at the table. “Bloke with a perforated ulcer. Dicey…”
“Iggy…” I kept my tone light. “Hadn’t you better nip off to your three-year-old son after this?”
He froze. Spoon suspended over the soup. Face blank. Then, a flicker in his eyelids.
“Say that again?” he whispered.
“Heard me. I know everything. Croydon. The woman. The child. The lies. The betrayal.”
He set the spoon down. Silence.
“Lauren… I meant to tell you.”
“When? Next Blue Moon? Or when the kid rang me himself: ‘Auntie, why hasn’t my dad turned up?’”
He said nothing.
“Ian, answer me straight. Do you love her?”
“Not sure…”
“Do you love *me*?”
He stayed silent, staring at the wall.
That “wall stare” said it all.
That night, sleep was impossible. He probably didn’t sleep either – banished to the sofa in the lounge with a force that rattled the bedroom door. Next morning, I packed his bag.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m staying. *You’re* going. With baggage. And illusions.”
“Lauren, you’re tough. You’ll cope.”
“You’re weak. And weirdly? That’s freeing too.”
Two weeks crawled by. Ian called, texted, begged for meetings.
“You can’t stop me seeing Oliver!” he yelled down the phone. “I haven’t abandoned him!”
“You already did. Now abandon *us* properly. Go live with your ‘emergency patient’ called Natasha and her little ‘diagnosis’: *son*.”
I hired a solicitor. Learned he’d legally acknowledged that child. Paid from the *joint* account. Bought *her* a car. Me? A cheap bouquet on Mother’s Day and rote “love yous.” Nice setup!
Curiosity got the better of me. I rang her. That *other*.
“Hello? Is that Natasha?”
“Yes? Who’s this?”
“The one sharing your husband.”
Silence.
“Lauren?”
“Bingo. Shocked?”
“I thought… he said you two were…”
“Save it. Just remember: you’re landing a man who lies for years. Next series? You’re starring in my role.”
I hung up.
Two months later, Ian stood at our door. Flowers, chocolates,
He stammered out a plea about coming home to his “real family,” but I merely shut the door firmly on the wilted roses and his tired excuses, breathing in the blissful quiet of a lie finally silenced.
