I know about your little escapades, said his wife. Simon felt an icy chill creep down his spine.
He didnt flinch. Didnt even go paleat least outwardly. Inside though, everything shrank in on itself, as if someone had crumpled up his insides like a bad parking ticket. He simply froze.
Claire stood at the hob, stirring something in a saucepan. It was an unremarkable, homey sceneback turned, spotty apron, waft of sizzling onions making the kitchen feel safe and familiar. Only her tone spoiled the illusion: calm, remote, like a newsreader announcing the Prime Ministers resignation.
Simon wondered for a moment if perhaps hed misheard. Maybe shed said I know where to buy a nice cucumber, or was banging on about Mr Peterson upstairs, the one always flogging off dodgy cars. But no.
All your little, ahem, escapades, Claire repeated, still not turning around.
Now he genuinely froze. Her voice didnt waver, didnt plead. There was no trace of the usual drama: no tears, no blaming, no flying crockery. Just a flat statementon par with Were out of milk.
Simon had been on this planet fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of those spent with this woman, who he knew as well as the back of his own hand: the mole on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkled her nose tasting soup, her sighs in the morning before coffee. Yet hed never heard her speak like this.
Claire he tried, but his throat had closed up.
He coughed. Tried again.
Claire, what are you on about?
She turned. Looked at hima good, long look, as if she was perusing an old photograph that had faded right out.
Lets try… Emily, shall we? she said. From your accounts department. 2018, if I recall.
Simon was hit by that nasty, weightless, rollercoaster stomach-drop. Not a metaphor, eitherhe literally felt the ground give way.
Emily? Oh, God, Emily?!
He could just about remember what she looked like. Something to do with the office party, wasnt it? Or after. Hardly major. He remembered promising himself never again.
And what about Sophie, Claire continued, serene as you like. The one who chatted you up at the gym. That was two years ago.
His mouth worked, but nothing came out.
How on earth did she know about Sophie?
Claire switched off the hob, removed her apron with a surgeons precision, folded it neatly. Sat at the table.
Do you want to know how I found out? she asked. Or are you more concerned with why I never said anything?
Simon said nothing. Not because he didnt want to. He just… couldnt.
The first time, Claire began, was about ten years back. You started working late. Fridays especially. Came home all perky, a light in your eye, stinking of a perfume I dont own.
She smirkedmore sour than sweet.
At first I thought I was imagining things. Maybe someone at the office got a new perfume? Convinced myself for a whole month. And then I found the restaurant receipt in your jacket. Meal for two. Wine. Pudding. You and I never went there together.
Simon wanted to say somethingoffer his usual, half-baked excuses. But the words stuck somewhere between his bladder and lungs.
Do you know what I did? Claire met his eyes. I cried in the bathroom. Got washed, made dinner. Smiled as you walked in. Never said a word to our daughtershe was only fifteen, doing her GCSEs, first proper heartbreak. No reason for her to know her dad was…
She broke off. Brushed her palm across the table like she was dusting away cobwebs.
Thought it would pass. Its just men, isnt it? Middle-aged crisis, hormones, daftness. Hell come back, I told myself. Main thing iskeep the family together.
Claire… Simon croaked.
Dont, she cut him off. Let me finish.
He fell silent.
Then came the second. Then the third. Lost count, really. Your phone never had a password, you know. Did you think I never peeked? I read the messages. All those idiotic Miss you, darling. Youre the best. I saw the photos. You, arms around them, grinning. For the first time, my voice shook, she admitted, steadying herself with a deliberate breath.
And then I kept asking myselfwhy do I need this? Why live with someone who doesnt love me?
I do! burst out Simon. Claire, I
No, she said, firm as British rain. You love convenience. A tidy house. Hot dinner. Crisp shirts, all done for you. A woman who doesnt ask questions.
She got up and went to the window, staring into the murky London evening.
Do you know when I finally decided? she said, not turning. A month ago. Our daughter popped round for the weekend. We sat, had tea. She said, Mum, youve gone oddwithdrawn, like youre somewhere else. And I thoughtblimey, shes right. I havent been myself for ten years.
Simon looked at her rigid back and realised he wasnt in danger of losing her; he was actually losing her right now.
I dont want a divorce, he rasped. Claire, please.
I do, she replied, plain as a bus timetable. The papers are in. Our court dates next month.
But why now? Simon snapped. Why after all this?
Claire turned, eyeing him with a tired, melancholy smile.
Because I realised, Simon, you never betrayed me. Not really. Betrayals for people who matter to you. I was just… there. Like air.
It was true.
Simon sat hunched on the sofa, suddenly a decade older. Claire stood in the hallway. Between them, twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown daughter, and a flat where every nook remembered them. And, of course, a great yawning abyss.
You realise, he said softly, Im completely lost without you.
Youll manage, she replied briskly. Somehow.
No! He lurched up, reached for her. Claire, Ill change! I swear! No more
Simon. She halted him with a raised hand. Its not about them. It never was.
Then what the hell is it?
She paused. Picked her words carefullywords shed never managed before, or perhaps had never believed she deserved to say.
Do you know how I felt, every time you came home after another Emily or Sophie? Id lie next to you and feel like a bit of fluff. You never even bothered to hide it! Left your phone open, chucked shirts in the wash with lipstick on the collar. You assumed I was an idiot. Blind.
Simon rocked as though shed boxed his ears.
I didnt mean to
Didnt mean to? She stepped close. Eyes brightnot with tears, but with some pent-up rage finally finding its voice after years imprisoned in quiet patience. You just didnt think of me at all, did you? What, when you kissed someone else, did you tell yourselfMy wife wont find out? Or simply, So what?
He stayed mute.
Because the truth was worse: he truly hadnt thought of her at all. Claire was just… there. A constant. Hed believed shed never leave. Always would be.
You came home after your liaisons and felt fine. Because in your mind, nothing had changed. Wife, tick. Family, tick. All sorted.
She turned away.
And in your mind, there was no me. Not really.
Simon took a reluctant step forward. Reached for her shoulder, wanting just to touch, to hold, to stop her drifting from him.
Claire stepped away.
Dont, she said, tired now. Its too late.
He grabbed her hands.
Claire, please! One more chance! I really, truly can change!
She looked at their knitted fingers, then at his desperate, breaking face. And suddenly, she understood: he really *was* afraid. Only not of losing *her*.
He was just afraid of being alone.
You know, she murmured, freeing her hands, I used to be frightened too. Frightened of ending up alone. Without you, without a family. But then I realised
She picked up her bag. Her keys.
Ive already been alone. For years now. Even with you right next to me.
And she left.
Three weeks passed.
Simon sat in his now-vast, eerie flatClaire had moved in with their daughter immediately afterthe silence deafening. He flicked through his phone: Emily from accounts. Sophie from the gym. Two or three other names that once seemed like tickets to a wild and exciting life.
He rang Sophie.
She hung up.
Texted Emilymessage read, but no reply.
The others didnt even bother to check.
Strange, he musedwhen he had a wife, they couldnt get enough of him. Now, with freedom on tap, nobody wanted him.
He slumped on the sofa. The flat seemed to have doubled in size, every silence echoing, every memory a little thornier than before. For the first time in fifty-two years, Simon felt truly, hopelessly alone.
He picked up his phone again. Scrolled to Claire. Stared at the screen, hands unsteady.
Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that as well.
Finally, he wrote simply: Can we meet?
The response came an hour later: Why?
Simon thought for a while. What to say? Sorry? Too late. Come back? Pathetic. Ive changed? Lies.
He typed the one honest thing he could think of:
Id like to try again. Is that possible?
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Flashed again.
At last, she replied:
Come round on Saturday. At our daughters. Two oclock. Well talk.
Simon exhaled.
He didnt know what would happen. Whether shed ever forgive him. Whether shed come back. Or if he even *deserved* a second shot.
He looked at the wedding ring on his finger.
And for the first time in years, he actually felt ready to start over.
If she allowed it.
Was Claire right to keep quiet all those years? Should she have thrown a fit and nipped things in the bud after the first affair? What do you think?
