I know about your activities, said the wife. Victor suddenly felt cold.
He didnt flinch. He didnt even go palethough, inside, it felt like someone had scrunched up his insides like a losing lottery ticket. He simply froze.
Claire was standing at the hob, stirring something in a saucepan. It was such an ordinary sceneher back towards him, polka-dot apron, the homely aroma of fried onions. Domestic bliss, in other words. Except her voice sounded more like the BBCs six oclock newsreader.
Victor even wondered if hed misheard. Maybe she was talking about cucumbersI know where to get the good onesor that chap on the third floor selling his car.
But no.
I know about all of your activities, Claire repeated, still not turning.
Thats when he truly felt the chill, because there was nothing in her toneno tears, no drama, not even a cracked plate. Just the calm delivery of a fact. Rather as if shed stated that they were out of milk.
Victor had made it to fifty-two. Twenty-eight of those years spent with this woman. He knew her so well: the mole on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkled her nose at soup, the little sigh she gave every morning. But this tonethis hed never heard.
Claire he began, but his voice failed him.
He coughed. Tried again.
Claire, what are you talking about?
She turned around and looked at hima long, measured look, like she was re-examining a faded photograph where the details were long lost.
Well, for instance, Rachel, she said. From your accounts department. 2018, if memory serves.
Victor felt the room tilt beneath his feet. And that wasnt just a phrasehe genuinely felt like he was floating in midair without a floor beneath him.
Blimey. Rachel?!
He could barely picture her face anymore. Thered been some incidentan office party, perhaps? Or after? It hadnt lasted, it hadnt mattered. Hed promised himself: never again.
And then there was Sophie, Claire continued, breezily. The one who came up to you at the gym. Two years ago now.
He opened his mouth. Shut it again.
How does she know about Sophie?!
Claire turned off the hob. She took off her aproncarefully, without rushand folded it in half. Then, she sat at the kitchen table.
Would you rather know how I found out, she asked, or why I kept quiet?
Victor said nothing. Not because he didnt want to speakbecause he couldnt.
Well, Claire began, I first noticed about ten years back. You started working lateespecially Fridays. Youd come in looking rather chuffed. Smelling of perfume.
She gave a wry smilemore bitter than amused.
I told myself I was imagining things. Maybe someone at the office had new perfume. Convinced myself for a month. Then I found a receipt in your jacket. Dinner for two. Desserts. Wine. Wed never been to that restaurant together.
Victor wished he could think of an excuselie, as usual. But the words were stuck somewhere between his stomach and his throat.
Do you know what I did? Claire met his eyes. I had a cry in the bathroom. Pulled myself together. Cooked dinner. Smiled when you walked in. Never told our daughtershe was fifteen. Exams, first boyfriend. Why mess her up over her dad…
She stopped, wiping an invisible spot off the table.
I thought Id get through it. Itd blow over. All blokes have their midlife wobbles. As long as the familys together, thats what matters.
Claire, Victor managed to croak.
Dont, she cut in. Just let me finish.
He fell silent.
And then there was another. And another. I lost count. You never locked your phone, you know. Thought Id never check. I read your textsthe daft ones: Miss you, sweetheart, Youre the best. Saw the photosarms wrapped around them, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Her voice shook for the first time, but she steadied herself with a deep breath.
And I kept asking myselfwhat am I doing? Why am I living with a man who doesnt love me?
I do love you! Victor blurted out. Claire, I
No, she said gently but firmly. You love your comforts. A tidy flat. Hot dinners. Ironed shirts. A woman who never asks awkward questions.
She got up and went to the window, staring out into the darkness.
Do you know when I made my decision? she asked, still turned away. About a month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We were having tea, and she said, Mum, you seem different. Quiet. Like youre not really yourself. And I thought: oh my goodness, shes right. I havent been myself for years.
Victor watched her backso straight, so tenseand realised: he was losing her. Not could lose her. Losing her, right here and now.
I dont want a divorce, he rasped. Claire, please.
But I do, she replied simply. Ive already filed the papers. Courts booked for next month.
But why? Victor exploded. Why now?
Claire turned, looked straight through him. And smiledsadly.
Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vic. Because betrayals only possible if you care about someone. For you, I was just always there. Like the air.
And that was the awful, shattering truth.
Victor sat on the sofa, shoulders hunched, suddenly feeling ten years older. Claire stood at the hall door. Between themtwenty-eight years of marriage, one daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And a chasm. Wide and impassable.
You do know, he whispered, Ill be lost without you.
Youll managesomehow, she said, matter-of-factly.
No! He sprang to his feet, reached for her. Claire, Ill change! I swear! No more
Vic. Her hand went up, stopping him. Its not about them. It never was.
Then what?
She waited, searching for the words shed wanted to say for years but never dared, or couldnt, or thought she didnt deserve to be heard.
Do you know what it was like for me? Every time you came home after another Rachel or SophieId lie next to you, and feel empty. You didnt even bother to hide it. Phone wide open. Shirts in the wash, lipstick on the collar. You truly thought I was blind. Or stupid.
Victor flinched, as if slapped.
I didnt mean to.
Didnt mean to? She stepped in closeher eyes shone, not with tears, but with years of pent-up rage, now bubbling over. You just didnt think of me. At all. What was going on in that head of yours when you kissed someone else? My wife wont find out? Or What difference does it make?
He stayed silent.
Because the truth was worse than a lie.
He truly hadnt thought about her. Claire was just there. A fixture. Unmovable, unquestioned.
Youd swan home after your flings and feel just fine. Because, in your world, nothing had changed. Wife: check. Family: check. All boxes ticked.
She turned away.
But I wasnt in your world, Vic. Not really. Not anymore.
He stepped forward. Tried to take her hand, to embrace her, to make her stay.
Claire pulled away.
Dont, she said, wearily. Its too late.
He grabbed her hands.
Claire, please! Give me another chance! Ill change! I really will!
She looked down at their entwined fingers. At his facecrumpled, panicked. And suddenly she understood: he was truly terrified. Just not of losing her.
He was terrified of being alone.
You know, she said softly, easing out of his grip, I was afraid too. Of being alone. Of losing you. But do you know what I realised?
She picked up her bag and keys.
Ive already been alone. For years. Even with you.
And with that, Claire walked out.
Three weeks passed.
Victor sat alone in the echoing flatClaire had moved in with their daughter immediately after that talkand flicked through his phone. Rachel from accounts. Sophie from the gym. One or two more names that once meant something.
He rang Sophie.
She declined.
Texted Rachelread, no reply.
The rest didnt even open his messages.
Funny thing: when he was a man with a family, they all seemed keen to see him. But now, now that he was technically free
No one wanted him.
He sat on that sofa, in a flat that suddenly seemed enormous and unfamiliar, andfor the first time in fifty-two yearsfelt truly, terrifyingly alone.
He picked up his phone again. Found Claire. Stared at the screen. His fingers shook.
Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted again.
At last, he simply wrote: Can we meet?
The reply arrived an hour later: Why?
Victor thought long and hard. What should he say? Sorry? Too late. Come home? Ridiculous. Ive changed? Utter drivel.
He typed the truth:
I want to start over. Can we try?
The three dots danced, stopped, danced again.
Then came the reply:
Come round Saturday. Our daughters place. Two oclock. Well talk.
Victor let out a breath.
He had no idea what would happen next. Whether shed forgive him. Return. Or whether he even deserved a second chance.
He glanced down at his wedding ring.
And, for the first time in years, he felt ready to start again.
If she let him.
Should Claire have turned a blind eye to her husbands escapades? Made a row at the first sign of trouble? Whats your opinion?
