I arrived at my husbands office without warning and immediately understood why hes been working late
For twenty-three years, Mary Somerville has cooked hearty dinners, ironed shirts, put up with her mother-in-law and her favourite refrain, Oh, but Christopher always used to finish his porridge with a smile. For twenty-three years, she believed her husband stayed late at the office for good reason. It happens: quarter-end reports, meetings, the odd crisis. All understandable, all justifiable.
But then something clicked. Slowly at first. At first it was just the phonehe wasnt picking up. Well, people get busy. Then, dinner sat untouched three nights in a row. Then came a new cologne Mary didnt buy for him. A light, floral one.
Mary didnt make a scene. She wasnt one for causing a fuss over nothing. She was the sort who would lie in bed for three weeks, staring at the ceiling at 2am, and finally just get up, put her coat on, and go.
So she set off.
Her friend Linda, who she rang on the way, said what Mary expected:
Mary, why are you going? If you turn up, do you really want to see what youll see? Youre only asking for heartache.
It couldnt get any worse, Mary replied, then hung up.
Christophers office was on the third floor of a business centre with an overly grand nameParnassus House. Mary knew the place. Shed been twice before: once for the work Christmas do three years ago, once to drop off Christophers forgotten ID pass. The security guard back then gave her a look of respectthe department heads wife.
Its just gone seven. The car park is almost empty. Most windows are dark.
Except one.
Mary stops by her car and looks up. Third floor, far right windowthats Christophers office. Theres a light on. There are clearly two people inside, their silhouettes crossing the glass.
She doesnt move. She stands, just looking.
Then she pulls out her phone and dials his number.
The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
In the window, one of the figuresthe smaller onereaches for the other.
Four rings. Five.
The person you are calling is unavailable
Mary puts the phone away. She heads for the entrance.
The security guard lifts his eyes from his mobile as Mary comes in, looking at her as if shes brandishing not an ID, but a search warrant.
Who are you here for?
Somerville. Christopher John. Third floor.
Are you signed in?
Mary looks right at him. Calm. Steady. The look you give a wall you know youll have to knock through anyway.
Im his wife.
Anthony digests this. He presses something on his console. Waits.
Hes not answering.
I know, Mary says. Hes definitely in.
Another pause. Anthony, judging by his face, is weighing upshould he let the bosss wife through without permission? On one hand, company policy. On the other, a wife. Wives are a force of nature. No explaining it afterwards.
Come in, please, Mary says, and her tone is so firm that Anthony takes his hand off the entrance barrier.
Up on the third floor, theres a long corridor with grey carpet and identical doors. Mary walks along, thinking: should have rung Linda again. Or not come at all. Or come, but stopped in a café first for a coffee, calmed herself, made herself more presentable.
But its far too late for that.
The office is at the end. The door is ajarthe light pours through at the edge. Voices inside.
She stops a step away.
A woman laughsa light, effortless laugh, like someones just delivered the perfect punchline.
Then Christophers voice. Mary stands and listens. Thirty seconds. A minute. Her hands cold, her cheeks strangely burning.
Then she pushes the door.
Christopher is perched on the edge of his desk, not behind it, almost casually, explaining something to a younger woman with papers in her hands. The woman looks about thirty-eight, attractive, hair swept up.
Both of them turn at the door.
The pause is just long enough that everythings obvious without words.
Mary? Christopher says. In that one word: surprise, anxiety, andmuch worsea flicker of irritation. Like someones been interrupted.
Good evening, Mary says.
The woman with the papers steps back. Another step. She finds some reason to look out the window.
Youve come without calling? Christopher slides off the desk, stands tall, tries to make his face look normal. It doesnt quite work.
I called, Mary says. You didnt answer.
I was busy, you see.
I can see.
Mary can see it all: the top button of his shirt undone; two mugs on the desk, one tinged with lipstick; the way the woman with the papers cant decide where to put themleft hand, then right.
This is Emily, my new project manager, says Christopher. His tone is measured, matter-of-fact, just the sort of tone people adopt when they want to sound as if theyve nothing to hide. Which usually means they do.
Nice to meet you, says Mary.
Emily finally puts the papers down and nods, smiling a polite, unremarkable smile. Mary doesnt really blame her. She never promised Christopher anything.
I should be going, says Emily.
Yes, Mary says. Best you do.
Emily leavesa well-mannered girl.
Christopher and Mary are left alone. The office is silent. Outside, the car park glows under streetlights, other peoples cars gleaming.
Well, what did you come for? says Christopher. Not a question, just a reproach.
Mary glances at the lipstick-marked mug, then at her husband.
I wanted to know why you werent picking up.
I was busy, I told you.
You explained.
Pause.
Mary, dont make a drama out of this. We were working, thats all. Its business.
At seven in the evening.
Yes, at seven! Sometimes work just doesnt finish on time, you know that. This project is urgentdoesnt that mean anything to you?
Christopher is talking loudly, forcefully, almost offended. People only shout when they hope volume will drown out reason. Twenty-three years have taught Mary that.
She says nothing. Just looks at him.
And that unsettles him. Because before, she would have cried, or apologised, or stormed out. Now, she just stands and stares. Silently.
Lets go home, he says quietly now. We can talk there.
All right, Mary agrees.
She is the first out of the office. She walks along the grey-carpeted corridor, and her mind is unexpectedly clear.
Shes seen enough. Now she just has to decide what to do about it.
They drive home in silence.
Christopher focuses on the road. Mary watches the cityheadlights, wet tarmac, the golden glow of other peoples windows. Behind each of them, another life. Another kitchen, another husband. And perhaps, in those houses, another Emily too. Or not yet, or already past.
In the lift, Christopher presses the button for the fifth floor. Mary stands beside him, thinking: once were in, hell start explainingat length, in detail. He has a talent for explanations.
They enter; he turns on the hall light, takes off his coat, hangs it carefullyhe always does, which has always annoyed her, today especially, for reasons she cant even explain.
Mary, listen.
Im listening.
She walks to the kitchen. Christopher follows, standing against the wall, hands in pockets.
Mary, there was nothing going on.
All right.
We really were working.
All right, Christopher.
You dont believe me.
I dont.
He hadnt expected that. Tears, shouting, thrown crockery perhapsnot calm disbelief. Shes never broken a plate in her life. He knows that.
Why not? he asks.
Because I saw your face when I walked in, Mary says. You looked at me as if I was in the way.
Thats not true.
Christopher. She turns to him. Ive known you twenty-three years. I know your face when youre glad to see me. And the face you made today.
Hes silent.
Mary, youre overthinking it.
Maybe. She shrugs. Did I imagine the cologne? The one you started wearing three months ago?
Its mine.
You never used that. I always bought your aftershave. This is somebody elses.
Christopher starts to protest.
Thats when he looks truly uncomfortable.
Mary, I swear, its nothing serious.
Nothing serious. She repeats it quietly. But something, then.
I didnt say that!
You just did.
Christopher rubs his face with both handsa gesture Mary knows; he does this when he feels guilty or ashamed, almost always the latter.
Mary, he says softly, I dont know how to explain. Talking to her is just easy, thats all. Shes young, she sees me differently. I know it sounds mad.
It sounds honest, Mary says.
Nothing really happened. Honestly.
But it could have.
He has no answer. His silence says more than any words.
Mary nods, ticking an invisible box in her mind.
I understand, she says.
Mary, dont jump to conclusions.
Christopher, she says, her voice calm and steady as a table, this isnt jumping to conclusions. These are conclusions that have been growing over three months. While you wore someone elses cologne, didnt answer your phone, and looked at me like I was part of the furniture.
Hes silent. Staring at the table.
I need to say something, Mary continues, and Id like you to listenall the way through. No explanations, no interruptions. You can say what you like after, but just hear me. All right?
Christopher nods.
Im not going to make a spectacle of it. Im not going to shout, cry, or smash platesI never have. But you need to know: I wont pretend things are fine when theyre not. For twenty-three years, I kept quiet when you vanished for evenings, never asked questions to keep the peace. Thats over.
Christopher looks up.
Im not setting you an ultimatum. Im just telling you how it is. You need to decide what matters to you. Now.
He falls silent, for a very long time, then whispers:
Mary. Ive been a fool.
Yes, she agrees. But thats not an answer.
Mary leaves for Lindas that very night.
She packs in minutes, straight-faced, no theatrics. Christopher stands in the bedroom door, watching her folding clothes.
How long will you be gone? he asks.
I dont know.
Mary.
Christopher, she zips up her bag, we both need to think. Separately. Lets do that.
He doesnt argue. That says more than anything.
Linda opens the door, glances at the bag, at Marys face, asks nothing. Simply puts the kettle on. This is why Mary has loved her for twenty years.
They sit at the kitchen table until two in the morning. Linda listens. She says a littlenot advice, just words to keep the silence from getting too heavy.
Christopher calls on the third day. Not to explain, not to justify; just says, simply:
Mary, I want you to come home. Ive realised a few things.
Like what? she asks.
That Ive been a fool. And I know Ive said it before, so its becoming meaningless. I want to prove it.
Mary is quiet.
All right, she says.
She comes home on Friday evening. On the kitchen table sits a pot of borscht with overcooked beetrootChristopher always overcooks it, terrified itll be underdone. Next to it, a bunch of slightly bedraggled flowers, as though bought in a hurry.
Mary puts down her bag. Looks from the soup to the flowers.
Ive overcooked the beetroot, Christopher says from behind her.
I can see.
Its all right otherwise.
Well see, Mary replies.
She goes to wash her hands. Lifes like that, really. Sometimes the beetroots overdone, sometimes not. The important thing is to noticeand not to stay silent about it for twenty-three years.
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