I arrived at my husbands office unannounced and immediately understood why hed been working late.
For twenty-three years, Emma Collins cooked Sunday roasts, ironed shirts, and tolerated her mother-in-law and her favourite line: Oh, you know, Matthew used to eat his porridge so well as a child. For all those years, Emma truly believed her husband was genuinely working late. It happenedquarterly reports, meetings, emergencies. Everything made sense, everything could be explained.
But then, something inside her shifted. It wasnt obvious at first. At first, it was just that he didnt pick up the phone. Well, hes busy. Then dinner getting cold for the third time in an evening. Then came the new aftershavelight, floral, one Emma certainly hadnt given him.
Emma never made a scene. She wasnt the sort to lose her temper over nothing. She was the type to lie awake at 2 a.m. for three weeks straight, staring at the ceiling. And then get up, put on her coat, and go.
So she went.
Her friend Sophie, whom she rang on the way, said what she expected.
Em, why are you going? What will you see if you get there? Youre only going to make it worse for yourself.
It cant get much worse, Emma replied, and hung up.
Matthews office was on the third floor of a business centre with the pretentious name Olympus House. Emma knew the buildingshed been there twice before, once for a work party three years ago, and once to bring Matthew his forgotten security pass. The security guard had eyed her with respect then: the wife of the department head.
Now its just after seven in the evening. The car park is half empty. Most of the windows are dark.
Except one.
Emma stood by her car and looked up. Third floor, far right windowthats Matthews office. The light was on, and there were definitely people inside; two silhouettes moved behind the glass.
She didnt move, just stood and watched.
She took out her phone and rang his number.
Rings. Once. Twice. Again.
Behind the window, one of the silhouettesthe smaller onereached for the other.
Four rings. Five.
The number youre calling is unavailable…
Emma put her phone back in her pocket. And went up to the door.
The security guard looked up from his phone, regarding Emma as if shed presented a search warrant rather than some ID.
Who are you here for?
Collins. Matthew Collins. Third floor.
Are you on the guest list?
Emma met his gaze, calm and steadythe sort of look you give a wall you know youll eventually have to break down.
Im his wife.
The guard digested this information, tapped a button on his monitor, waited.
Hes not answering.
I know, Emma said. But hes definitely there.
Another pause. The guard seemed to weigh up his optionsstick to the rules, or let the bosss wife through. You cant argue with wives, whats more, try explaining it later.
Go on through, then, Emma said, her voice carrying something that made him take his hand off the turnstile.
Third floor. Long corridor, grey carpet, identical doors. Emma walked and thought: She should have called Sophie again. Or not come at all. Or gone to get a coffee first, calmed down, tried to look presentable.
But really, what was the point?
At the end of the hall, his office. The door is slightly ajar, a line of light spilling into the corridor. Voices from inside.
She stopped two steps from the door.
A womans laughlight, airy, as though someone had just said the perfect thing.
Matthews voice followed. Emma stood and listened. Thirty seconds. A minute. Her hands were cold but her cheeks so hot, oddly enough.
Then she pushed open the door.
Matthew was perched on the edge of his deskperched, as if he owned the placespeaking to a young woman standing nearby, papers in her arms. The woman was around thirty-eight, attractive, her hair swept up.
They both looked up.
The pause that followed told Emma all she needed before a word was spoken.
Emma? Matthew said. In that word was surprise, fear, and, worst of all, a tinge of irritation, as if shed interrupted something.
Good evening, Emma said.
The woman took a step back, then another, finally finding an excuse to look out of the window.
You turned up unannounced? Matthew slid from the desk, quickly attempting to smooth his expression. It didnt quite work.
I called, Emma said. You didnt answer.
I was busy, as you can see.
I can see, Emma agreed.
She noticed the undone top button on his shirt, the two mugs of tea on the deskone with lipstick on the rim. The young woman fidgeted, switching the stack of papers from hand to hand.
This is Grace, my new project manager, Matthew said in an even, explanatory tone, the kind someone uses when they have something to hide.
Very nice to meet you, Emma replied.
Grace finally placed the papers on the desk, nodded, and gave a polite, almost apologetic smile. Emma didnt blame her; Grace had made no promises to her husband.
I should be off, said Grace.
Yes, said Emma. You should.
Grace left quietlywell raised, Emma thought.
Matthew and Emma were alone. Silence in the office. Below, the car park, the lamplight, unfamiliar cars.
So why did you come here? Matthew askednot really a question. More a complaint.
Emma looked at the lipstick-stained mug, then at him.
I wanted to understand why you werent answering your phone.
I told you, I was busy.
You did.
Pause.
Emma, dont make this into such a big deal. Were working, thats alljust a business meeting.
At seven in the evening?
Yes, at seven! It happens! Theres a deadline, you know what that means?!
Matthew spoke loudly, perhaps hoping volume could stand in for an argument. Emma knew this tactic welltwenty-three years is a long time to learn someones ways.
She stayed silent, just watching him.
That, evidently, unsettled Matthew. In the past, shed have cried, apologised, or left already. Now she just stood and watched him.
Lets go home, he said, more quietly now. Well talk at home.
All right, Emma agreed.
She left the office first, walking down the corridor. Her mind felt oddly clear, almost empty.
Just clarity. Cold as glass.
Shed seen everything she needed. The next step was to decide what to do about it.
The drive home passed in silence.
Matthew drove, staring ahead into the road. Emma looked out the windowat the lights, at the rain-spattered tarmac, at homes with their warm yellow lights glowing. Every window hid its own lifeits own kitchen, its own husband. Probably, every woman behind those windows had her own Grace. Or maybe not yet. Or maybe she already had.
In the lift, Matthew pressed the button for the fifth floor. Emma stood beside him, thinking: The moment we step inside, hell launch into his explanationslong, methodical, complete with references to work pressure and me misunderstanding. He was always good at explanations.
They entered the flat. Matthew turned on the hall light, took off his coat, hung it up neatlysomething that had always annoyed Emma. Tonight it annoyed her even more, though she couldnt explain why.
Emma, listen.
Im listening.
She walked into the kitchen. Matthew followed and leaned against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Emma, nothing happened.
All right.
We were really working.
All right, Matthew.
You dont believe me.
I dont.
He didnt expect that. Hed anticipated tears, yellingmaybe even smashed plates, though Emma had never done that, so he neednt worry. Calm disbelief was certainly not what he was prepared for.
Why? he asked quietly.
Because I saw your face when I walked in, she said. You looked at me like I was a nuisance.
Thats not true.
Matthew. She turned to him. Ive known you for twenty-three years. Ive seen your face when youre happy to see me. And I saw it today.
He was silent.
Youre imagining things.
Maybe. She shrugged. But did I imagine the new aftershave? The one youve started wearing three months ago?
Its mine.
Youve never worn that before. Ive always picked your aftershave. This is someone elses taste.
Matthew opened his mouth.
Now he looked truly uncomfortable.
Emma, I swear, its nothing serious.
Nothing serious. She repeated it slowly. But something, nonetheless.
I didnt say that!
You just did.
Matthew rubbed his hands over his face. A gesture Emma recognisedhe always did that when he was troubled or ashamed. Usually, it was shame.
Emma, he said quietly, I cant explain it. Its just easy to talk to her. Shes young, she looks at me differently. I know that sounds pathetic.
It sounds honest, Emma replied.
Nothing serious happened. Really.
But something could have.
He didnt respond. His silence said more than words.
Emma nodded, as though ticking something off a list in her mind.
Understood, she said.
Emma, dont jump to conclusions.
Matthew. Her voice was even, steady. Im not jumping. Ive been watching and waiting three months, while you wore someone elses aftershave, ignored my calls, and looked at me like part of the furniture. Thats time enough for conclusions.
He stared at the table.
I want to say something, she continued, and Id like you to listen to the endno explanations, no arguments. You can say what you wish after. Agreed?
Matthew nodded.
Im not going to make a scene. No shouting, no tears, no smashing plates. She paused. But you need to knowI wont pretend things are fine anymore when they arent. Twenty-three years I kept quiet, didnt ask questions to keep the peace. Thats over.
Matthew looked up at her.
Im not giving you an ultimatum. Im just telling you how it is. You have to decide what matters to younow.
He was quiet for a long time. Then, almost in a whisper:
Emma. Im a fool.
Yes, she nodded. But that isnt an answer.
Emma went to stay with Sophie that same night.
She packed in silencequick, no drama. Matthew stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her fold her things.
How long? he asked.
I dont know.
Emma
Matthew. She zipped her bag. We both need to think. Separately.
He didnt argue. That, more than anything, said it all.
Sophie opened the door, saw Emmas bag and face, and asked nothing. She just put the kettle on. Thats why Emma had loved her for twenty years.
They sat in the kitchen till two in the morning. Sophie listened, occasionally speakingnot advice, just words to ease the heaviness.
Matthew called on the third day. Not to justify or plead. Just briefly:
Emma, I want you to come home. Ive realised something.
Whats that?
That Im a fool. But I keep saying that, so its starting to sound cheap. I want to show you. Properly.
Emma was silent.
All right, she said.
She returned home on Friday night. There was a pot of soup on the stove, the beetroot far too softas always, Matthew overcooked it for fear of it being underdone. A bunch of flowers sat nearby, a bit awkward, as if bought in haste.
Emma put her bag down. Looked at the soup, then at the flowers.
I overcooked the beetroot, Matthew said.
I can tell.
But otherwise its fine.
Well see, Emma replied.
She went to wash her hands. Life is like thatsometimes the beetroots overcooked, sometimes it isnt. The important thing is to spot the differenceand not to keep silent about it for another twenty-three years.
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