Her husband’s mistress was beautiful. Honestly, if she were a man, she would pick someone like her too.
There are womenthose with a sense of self-worth. They move with poise, meet your eyes openly, listen with quiet attention. No need to show off skin or draw notice with clumsy gestures, they’re composed, almost regal, never flustered.
She would choose her too. Utterly unlike herself.
Because what was she? Always hurrying, snapping at the children, at her husband, everything falling from her hands, never enough timework piling up, her supervisor always giving that look. She wore the same old trousers and jumpers, because ironing a dress or blouse felt like a whole ordeal. She couldn’t even recall when she last pressed ruffles and pleats. No matter; the new tumble dryer ironed out the clothes enough that she scarcely needed to bother.
But the mistressshe was stunning. The figure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, faceenough to make you forget to breathe.
And she hadn’t quite breathed out since the day she found out. Or rather, the day she saw them. Shed landed an assignment on the other side of London, and ducked into the first café for a snack. The job was done, and appetite took over. She found a free corner in the crowded tearoom, sat down, picked up a menu, and looked up. No, she wasn’t mistaken. Even from the back, she knew her husband. And she saw her.
He held the woman’s hands in his, kissing her fingers. Ugh, she thought; how melodramaticlike something out of a clichéd poem. Still, the woman was striking. Objectively so.
It was a curious feeling, like the moment after being scalded, when you see the red burn and know, in seconds, pain will storm in. But for those few seconds, you hover, dreading what’s to come. And so, pre-emptively, you blow hard on your skin, hoping to ease the pain.
One would expect agony. She just felt hollow. Nothing at all.
Her husband came home, same as always. He was level-headed, calm. She was the excitable one, the one hurrying, hustling everyone along. He, a robust sort, steady and unfazed, with a ready wit.
She could have used his sense of humour that night. Hers didnt fit this predicament.
All evening, she ached to ask, in some cool, detached way: so, hows your mistress? I saw you two at Café Rose. Shes gorgeous, isnt she? I get it. I wouldnt have resisted myself.
She wanted to watch his brow bead with sweat, see his cheeks flush red as he struggled to remain calm.
She imagined carrying on: so what now? Introduce her to the childrenperhaps theyll like their new mum. Where do I go? Or will she be moving in?
But she said nothing at all. In bed, he embraced her as usual, pulled her close, and soon fell asleep.
Maybe they havent slept together yet, she thought, edging over to her half of the bed. She laughed silently to herself. Now she was thinking like a woman whos been betrayed, yet still insists its just her imagination.
Maybe it hadnt reached that yet. Maybe this was just the beginning; the breath, the glances, the invisible harmony. Her husbandwhat an accomplished secret-keeper! Not a word, not a flicker!
She tossed and turned, slept fitfully. Dreamed of brilliant flowers and other mens mistresses in crimson dresses.
She woke with a heavy head, slower than usual, quietly got the children ready for school.
She wondered all alongwhat should she do? What do English women do when they catch their husbands with someone else? Google it?
The internet offered nothing. She had no answers herself. Try to carry on?
Carry on doing what? She was carrying on anyway. Life rolled on as beforethe same patterns, the punctual husband, never a hint of lipstick on his collar, no strange perfume, the kids riotous as ever and Sunday matinees at the cinema. No change at all. The same unremarkable sex twice a week. Sometimes three. If you count scrupulously.
Maybe it wasnt him at the café?
No. It was. She rang him at lunch. He didnt pick up. She took a cab back to that same café. Sat in the back, spinning a story for the cabbie about a special package she was waiting to pick up. Her husbands car was parked across the street. Husband and mistress left together, got into his car, and drove off.
She went pale. Asked the cabbie for some water, pretended to make a phone call: Well, to hell with you and your damned package! I cant wait any longer, Im off to work!
She convinced herself to care what the cabbie thought.
The knowledge of a husbands mistress will upend a life. Get a divorce? Probably. But how else to go on? Suffer? For what?
She recalled how, a few years back, a friends marriage fell into just this trap. He dodged and disguised, but the wife figured it out. There was a row; he denied everything, even when presented with whole swathes of digital evidence. Claimed hed been hacked, his enemies setting him up.
At the time, her own husband announced, Id never lie. Thats undignified. If you mess up, own up. End it, if you value your family. Or leave. But do right by those you leave behind.
She felt so proud back then. What a sense of honour he had.
Its easy, though, to solve other peoples dramas. When youre outside.
But when you sit at the table in the café, facing your husband and his mistresswell, confidence and courage shrivel in an instant.
She walked over, sat at their table. The mistress glanced up in surprise. Her husband froze, then squirmed on his seat. Silence settled in. She found herself amused by their discomfort. The mistress recognized her instantly. Perhaps she knew all along.
Her husband tried to speak. She halted him with an upraised palm: Its not what I think, is it? But truly, nothing about any of this is surprising. These things happen. Now youll have to sort it all outthe children, the mortgage, your aging parents. Youre both clever. Youll manage.
She rose and made her way to the door, unhurried. The freshly ironed dress suited her. Pity she hadnt worn it more often.
