The Invisible Wife
Lizzy! a bright voice called out. Her friend, dripping rain from a scarlet raincoat, sank into the chair opposite with a dramatic sigh. Sorry, the traffic is just murder today. Have you ordered already?
Just coffee, Elizabeth smiled faintly. I was waiting for you.
Irene shrugged off her coat and gave Elizabeth a once-over, her eyes critical. She gave a low whistle. Oh, Lizzy. Have you even looked in a mirror this morning? What on earth are you wearing? Grey jumper, grey trousers. Are you depressed or just trying to blend in with the wallpaper?
Its comfortable, Elizabeth murmured with a shrug. Im fifty-two, Irene. Dressing up seems a bit much these days.
Mmm-hmm. Irene snapped at the waitress for a cappuccino and croissant in one practiced move. And wheres your Simon? Off fishing again?
Elizabeth nodded.
He left Friday night. Back by Sunday lunchtime. The usual.
The usual, Irene parroted. And you, as usual, sit home alone, knitting socks and watching telly. Tell me, Lizzy, when was the last time Simon took you anywhere? A restaurant, a show, even a film? Come on, jog your memory!
Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush hot.
We we went to the cottage in July. Together.
The cottage! Irene burst out laughing. Where you weeded the beds and he fixed the shed! Absolutely magical. Honestly, darling, lifes drifting by. Were not girls anymore, yeah, fine. But were not old biddies either. And yet youre burying yourself alive.
Dont talk nonsense, Elizabeth took a sip of her coffee; it tasted bitter. Were a normal family. Twenty-eight years together. That must count for something?
Twenty-eight years of habit, Irene cut in harshly. Youre invisible. He sees you like the fridge or the ottoman there, functioning, job done. When was the last time he said anything kind? Or even asked how you are?
Elizabeth wanted to argue, but her voice caught. Truth was, their evenings passed in thick silence. Simon scrolling on his tablet, reading about the latest fishing gear; her knitting, watching boxsets. Sometimes hed ask about dinner, sometimes shed remind him about the electricity bill. That was all.
Ive hit a nerve, Irene leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. Listen Ive met someone, a photographer. Andrew. Fascinating bloke, talks and listens. Hes having an exhibition at the gallery on Mayfair this Saturday. Come with me? Get out a bit.
Irene, I cant
You can and you will, Irene brushed her off. You need to crawl out of that shell. See people, be seen. We can find you something nice to wear, dont worry. Youll love it people actually noticing you, talking to you about something other than leaking taps.
It was pointless resisting Irene. And deep down, Elizabeth admitted, the thought of going somewhere, anywhere, didnt seem so dreadful. The flat was too quiet these days. Far too quiet.
***
Saturday evening, Elizabeth stared at her reflection, hardly recognising the woman before her. Irene had brought a burgundy dress elegant, understated, cinched at the waist. Elizabeth had done her makeup for the first time in months, styled her hair.
Would you look at that, she muttered, staring into the mirror. And I thought Id completely
Turned into someones grandma? Irene smirked with satisfaction. Not yet, love. Youve just forgotten who you are.
The gallery was small and intimate, with high ceilings and whitewashed walls hung with black-and-white photographs: old courtyards, solemn faces, abandoned stations. There were maybe thirty people, glasses of wine in hand, speaking low, contented words.
Irene swept Elizabeth to a tall man with pepper and salt hair in a black turtleneck and jeans.
Andrew, my best friend Elizabeth, Irene introduced them. Lizzy, this is Andrew, the man behind the magic.
Andrew turned, and Elizabeth met steady grey eyes, a warm smile softened by fine lines. He offered his hand.
A pleasure. I hope youll enjoy the evening.
I I dont really know much about photography, Elizabeth admitted as she shook his dry, warm hand.
No need. Just look and feel, Andrew smiled broader. Come, let me show you my favourite.
He led her to a photograph in the corner. It showed an elderly woman at a window, sunlight tracing the wrinkles that told of a lifetime, her eyes deep and sorrowful and staring into the distance.
Shes beautiful, Elizabeth whispered.
Yes, Andrew nodded. My old neighbour. Eighty-three. She told me about the war, her late husband, how she raised three kids alone. But whats incredible no self-pity in her eyes. Just this deep sadness, and dignity.
Elizabeth felt something twist inside her.
She is beautiful, she echoed.
There are all kinds of beauty. Not just youth or flawless skin. Beauty is surviving, living, being true to oneself, Andrew said softly, then watched her. You know, you have that same sadness in your eyes. It makes you intriguing like youre always thinking about something youd never dare to say aloud.
Elizabeth was disarmed. No one had looked at her like that in years. Simon looked at her, but he didnt really *see*. This man, a stranger, seemed to see straight through her.
Im just a bit tired, I suppose, she murmured.
Of what? Andrew asked, not nosily, just gently, as though they were long friends.
She wanted to brush it aside with a joke, but the words simply tumbled out.
Of sameness. Every day is a copy of the last. Wake up, breakfast, chores. Simon at work or off fishing. The children have grown and gone. And I sit in the flat thinking, where am *I*? Wheres the girl who dreamed of travel, of something bigger?
She stopped, suddenly scared by her own honesty.
Sorry, I dont know why I said all that.
Dont apologise, Andrew touched her elbow, brief and comforting. Thats called honesty. Its rare these days. Listen I run a little club: we meet once a week, chat about photography, books, sometimes take trips to sketch or snap landscapes. Come next Wednesday. Itll do you good, I promise.
Elizabeth wanted to say no. Wanted to say she was busy, had too much to do But:
All right, she heard herself say. Ill come.
***
Simon arrived home Sunday, smelling of river and wood smoke, as always. Elizabeth met him at the door.
How was it? Good catch? she asked.
Couple of perch, Simon ducked into the kitchen, slinging his rucksack down. Not bad. You alright here?
All fine, Elizabeth replied. I went to an exhibition with Irene.
Right. Simon opened the fridge for some ham. Good on you. You ought to get out more. Youll go spare at home all day.
He sounded distracted, not meeting her eye, focused on his own thoughts. Irritation sparked within her.
Simon, shall we go out, the two of us? To a restaurant, maybe, or the theatre?
Simon stared at her, surprised. What for? Costs a fortune now. And Im shattered after all the fishing. Maybe another time, yeah?
Another time. Always *another* time. Elizabeth nodded, left the kitchen. In her bedroom, she texted Irene: Send me the clubs address. Ill go on Wednesday.
***
The club met in the basement of an old townhouse, refitted to a warm retreat: battered sofas, bookshelves, camera gear on the tables. Fifteen or so people, mostly in their forties and fifties. Andrew greeted her at the door.
Glad you came, he said warmly. Sit anywhere.
The evening disappeared in an instant. They discussed a French photographer, read snippets of Auden, and simply talked. Elizabeth said little, just listened, and felt content in a way shed forgottenno one asked about bills or dinner; no one looked at her like help.
As they walked to the bus stop afterwards, Andrew asked, Did you enjoy yourself?
Very much, Elizabeth said honestly. I didnt expect it. It felt like another world.
Thats because it *is*, Andrew smiled. You know, Elizabeth, youve spent your life living for others: your husband, your children, your home. When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
She couldnt say.
Thats the main trap of middle age, Andrew went on. You give yourself away to everyone else, and then one day realise youve forgotten who you are. But its never too late to remember.
His words landed like balm. Elizabeth listened, captivated.
Listen, Andrew stopped. How about this Saturday? Take a trip out of town with me? I know an old manorglorious autumn lightand I want to take photos. Would you come? Promise, youll enjoy it.
Elizabeth hesitated. Saturday. Simon would be off fishing again. Shed be alone, as usual.
Im Im not sure she stammered.
Feel like its wrong? Andrews smile was sad. Im just inviting you to the countryside, with an interesting fellow, beautiful sights. Nothing more. Youre allowed to live, arent you?
I am, she whispered.
Good. Ill meet you at the station at ten. Dress warm, its blustery out there.
He waved goodbye and walked away. Elizabeth stood at the bus stop, her heart beating as if she were twenty again.
***
Friday night, Simon packed for fishing.
Ill be back Sunday, he said, zipping up his bag. Mobiles on, give me a bell if you need me.
Alright, Elizabeth watched him double-check his rods. Simon, could I come with you this time?
He stared at her in disbelief.
What for? You get bored stiff, you said last time you froze and the midges bit.
I just thought itd be nice to spend time together, she murmured.
We *are* together all the time, Simon shrugged. Have a rest at home, watch your shows.
He kissed her cheek, hefted his bag, and left. Elizabeth stood for a moment in the empty hallway, staring at the closed door.
Were together all the time, she echoed in her mind. But were they, really?
The next morning, she rose early and fussed over clothes. In the mirror, her cheeks glowed, her eyes were bright. She looked younger, more alive.
Its just the countryside, she told herself. With a new acquaintance. It isnt a crime. Its just a day out.
Andrew greeted her with two takeaway coffees.
Morning, he said. Ready for adventure?
They drove in his battered old Mini, some classic rock on the radio, laughter and stories flowing. Andrew rambled about his travels and favourite landscapes; Elizabeth laughed, feeling lighter than she had in years.
The manor was faded but beautiful: old pillars, a ragged park, a spectral pond. Andrew snapped away while Elizabeth wandered, collecting yellow leaves.
Stand by that column, Andrew called. Yes, there. Dont look at the cameralook away.
He took a few shots, then showed her the screen.
See? Youre incredibly photogenic. That deep sadness in your eyesit gives you such intensity.
She looked at the image: a woman with windswept hair, a faraway look. Was that really her?
They stayed until dusk, then went to a small village tearoom, eating hot pies and sipping tea as dusk settled. The talk grew more intimate.
Been married long? Andrew asked.
Twenty-eight years, she replied.
And are you happy?
She fell silent. What was happiness? Routine? Security?
I dont know, she admitted. I used to think so. Now Im not sure what I feel. Its like Im sleepwalking. Everythings in place, but
Passion, Andrew suggested. Thats whats missing. Feeling alive, feeling wanted. Not just being a cog in someone elses machine, but your own person.
He put his hand over hers.
Elizabeth, youre remarkable. Clever, beautiful, profound. You deserve happiness. Your own happiness.
Elizabeth stared at their joined hands, her heart racing. She ought to pull away, stand up, walk out. But she couldnt. She didnt want to.
***
The days became a blur. Elizabeth met Andrew more and more. At the club, at galleries, on long walks. He gave her what she missed at home: attention, compliments, fiercely meaningful talk.
Life with Simon changed little. Work, fishing, news. Elizabeth cooked, cleaned, shopped. Their words were minimal.
Lizzy, did you get the crème fraîche? hed ask.
Yes, shed answer.
Lovely. Wherere my socks?
In the drawer. Always.
That was it. No how are you? No real conversation. But Andrew cared. He asked, constantly, and Elizabeth unfurled like a flower in sunlight.
Irene, of course, noticed.
So, youre smitten, then? she smirked as they sat in their usual café.
Dont be ridiculous, Elizabeth blushed. Were just friends.
Oh, friends, right, Irene rolled her eyes. Lizzy, youre glowing. I havent seen you look like this in fifteen years. And good on you! You deserve some happiness.
But Im married, Elizabeth whispered.
So? Irene shrugged. Your Simon hasnt noticed youre there in years. He chose fishing over you. Why should you deny yourself? Youre not a nun, Lizzy. If Andrew makes you happy, what does it matter?
Elizabeth absorbed her words, feeling the truth take root. She justified herself. Im just living, finally living. I deserve a little joy.
It all changed in November. Andrew invited her on a trip to Brighton for a street photography festival.
Well stay overnight, he promised. Ive booked two rooms at the hotel. Itll be wonderful, I swear.
Two rooms. Elizabeth clung to the reassurance.
She told Simon she was going with Irene to a sale.
Alright, he nodded, not looking up from the news. Just dont spend too much.
She waited at the door, longing for him to ask more, but he didnt.
The hotel was as described: two rooms. They spent the day at the festival, wandered galleries, listened to talks. At dinner, they drank wine and Andrew spoke about seizing moments, how lifes short, how you cant peg happiness for later.
You know, Elizabeth, he said, eyes sincere, Ive known a lot of women. But youyoure unique. Theres something untouched about you, and a sorrow so deep I want to wipe it away.
He took her hand.
Im not here to pressure you. But I want you to know I care about you. Deeply.
By evening, her head spun: from the wine, from his focus, from the way he saw her. When they went up to their rooms, he kissed her on the cheek.
Goodnight. If you want to talk, Im right next door.
She stood in her room, undecided. Im married. I have a husband. Twenty-eight years together. I cant.
But another voice insisted, When did he last kiss you for no reason? When did he tell you you mattered?
This is betrayal.
Its life. Maybe its your last chance to feel alive.
At 2 AM, Elizabeth rose, slipped on a gown, and knocked next door.
Andrew answered instantly, as if hed been waiting.
Elizabeth, he whispered.
She crossed the threshold.
***
The morning came heavy with regretthough it wasnt the wines fault. Elizabeth lay in a strangers bed beside a stranger, barely believing herself. That it had actually happened.
Andrew slept, arms sprawled. She dressed, returned to her room, head in hands.
What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?
But driving home, Andrew was loving, attentivethe sort of man she wished Simon would be. Compliments, handholding, all the little things shed missed. The shame ebbed away, replaced by a fragile, brittle happiness.
Im alive, she thought. For the first time in years, I really am.
At home, Simon greeted her as usual.
Buy anything nice?
A bit, Elizabeth didnt meet his eyes. Not much of interest, really.
Fair enough. Im starving, whats for dinner?
Life dropped back into its well-trod groove. By day, she played wifechore-ing, shopping. But in the evenings, she texted Andrew, met him in secret, explored new places, new books, new poems.
She barely spoke to Simon, aside from the necessary details.
We need to check that pipe at the cottage, hed say.
Lets leave it till spring, shed suggest.
Alright then.
Silence. Endless, dragging silence.
Irene was triumphant.
See? Living at last. You wont shrivel up in that marsh now.
Elizabeth tried to stifle guilt. Its Simons fault. He pulled away first. I deserve happiness.
But at night, lying beside the man shed married, the weight of her secret threatened to crush her.
***
December arrived cold and snowy. Elizabeth and Andrew met nearly every week. He rented a small studio for shoots, telling Simon she had signed up for a computer class.
Simon nodded, not asking questions.
Andrew was wonderful. Attentive, passionate, with poetic turns of phrase. But sometimes Elizabeth suspected the words were rehearsed, perhaps repeated to other women before her. She was hardly the first, would not be the last.
She was in too deep to retreat.
Inevitable as fate, it all came tumbling down mid-December.
Elizabeth popped into the chemist to collect cold medicine for Simon. At the till, her bag spilled; a small perfume box tumbled outthe one Andrew had given her last week. Moon Sonata. Subtle, sweet.
She didnt notice, paid, left.
That evening, Simon arrived home earlier than usual. She was in the kitchen making dinner when he entered, setting the perfume box on the table.
Is this yours? His voice was quiet.
Elizabeth turned, saw, and felt her heart drop.
Itsyes, mine. I found it outside, she stammered, snatching at a lie.
Found it outside? Simon repeated. Moon Sonata fifty quid or more left lying about, was it?
He opened the box, sniffed.
Lizzy, Im not stupid. Do you think I havent noticed? Youre different. Always out, always gone. You look at me like Im a stranger.
Elizabeth pressed back against the counter.
Simon, I
Who is he? Simon cut her off. Whos the bloke?
N-no one. Just a friend. We
Dont lie, Simon crushed the box in his fist. Dont you dare lie. You slept with him, didnt you?
Silence hung heavy as a thundercloud. Elizabeth saw something shift in his facea softness that had lingered all these years, snuffed out.
Yes, she breathed. Yes, Simon. Im sorry. I never meant to, but
Never meant to, he echoed, bitter. But it happened. Right.
He turned for the door.
Simon, wait! Elizabeth hurried after him. Lets talk. Give me a chance to explain
Explain what? he swung around, pain raw in his eyes. That I drove you to cheat by working too much, fishing too often? Maybe I did. Maybe I did take you for granted. But I *never* cheated on you. Because I loved you. Still do. But youve wrecked it all.
Simon, please, Elizabeth sobbed. Dont go. Lets try, please, lets try to fix this.
I cant stay here, he said. I need some time. Ill be at Peters.
He packed his things in fifteen minutes. Elizabeth stood by the bedroom door, watching him neatly folding shirts and socks.
Simon, she whispered. Dont leave me.
Didnt you already leave me? he said. That day you went to him?
He left. No door-slam, just footsteps fading awayand the silence that followed was immense, overwhelming.
***
Elizabeth paced the flat for hours, lost. She rang Simon, but he wouldnt answer. She messaged: Forgive me. Please come home. But no reply.
She called Andrew.
Andrew, she managed, her voice shaking, Simons found out. Hes gone. I dont know what to do.
Oh, Elizabeth, Andrew sounded sympathetic. Come talk to me. Ill help you through this.
At his studio, she told him the whole story, sobbing. Andrew hugged her, stroked her hair.
Its for the best, he soothed. You knew it couldnt go on. You werent happy with him. Now youve a shot at something new.
Something new? Elizabeth looked up, red-eyed. What new life?
Well, Andrew hesitated, youre free now. You can travel, create, be yourself.
And you? she asked. Will you be with me? Are we together now?
Andrew shifted uneasily.
Lizzy, love, he began, as if winding up bad news. I cant offer you a home, security. Im a lone wolf, really. I exist in the moment. What we had was real, wonderful. But
But what? Elizabeth felt cold seep through her.
But Im not a one-woman man. I told you from the startI need my freedom. I thought you only wanted a taste of it, too.
Elizabeth stared, at last understanding. The pretty speeches. The tenderness. All of it had been borrowed, lent out before.
So I was just a distraction? she whispered.
No, no, not like that, Andrew tried to take her hand, but she drew away. You mattered to me. You really did. But I cant settle down. You wanted to feel life, and you didwhats wrong with that?
Elizabeth stood.
Youre right, Andrew, her voice was oddly calm. I felt life. Now I feel nothing but devastation. Because of you. Because of me. Because I was foolish enough to believe it was more.
She left, not looking back, the snow melting into her tears.
***
The flat was dark and cold. Elizabeth sat on the sofa, staring at the blank wall. After a while she reached for her phone and called Irene.
Irene, she said when her friend picked up, I need to talk.
They met at The Crown, the little café where it all began. Irene listened, sipping her drink.
There you are, then, she said when Elizabeth finished. You got your excitement. At least you didnt stagnate.
Elizabeth stared at her, stunned.
Irene, are you serious? My lifes in ruins and you
I only introduced you. Irene held up her hands. What happened after that was *your* decision. Youre a grown woman, Lizzy.
You pushed me, Elizabeth felt anger surge. You told me Simon didnt value me, that I deserved more.
And I was right, Irene shrugged. Maybe now hell realise what hes lost. Maybe not. Thats life, darling. Doesnt always follow the script.
Elizabeth rose.
I always thought you were my best friend, her voice was soft, fierce. Now I seeyou just envied my stability. My marriage. You wanted me to be as lost as you. Alone, always searching.
Oh, come off it, Irene rolled her eyes. Dont over-dramatise.
Goodbye, Irene, Elizabeth turned and left.
***
A week passed. Simon didnt return. Elizabeth called and messaged; he replied only, I need time.
The flat felt more enormous, more empty than ever. At night, sleepless, Elizabeth replayed it all: meeting Andrew, giving in, the steady deception.
What have I done? Oh God, what have I done?
She remembered Simon fixing the dripping tap, bringing her tea when she was ill, them planting an apple tree at the cottage. Trivialities, once boring, now infinitely precious.
On New Years Eve, she couldnt take it anymore and went to Peters house where she knew Simon was staying. She rang the bell. Peter answered.
Hey Lizzy, he said awkwardly. Here about Simon?
Yes, she said quietly. Please, I just need to speak with him.
Peter hesitated, then fetched Simon.
He looked older, tired. Hurt. That made it harder still.
What is it? he asked quietly.
Im so sorry, Simon, Elizabeth stumbled, praying he wouldnt leave. I made a hideous mistake. Got swept up. That man he was only a mirage. But you, youre real. Youre my home. Please, give me a chance to put this right.
Simon was silent for a long time, then shook his head.
I dont know, Lizzy. I honestly dont. When I found out, it hurt so much I couldnt breathe. And even now I see you with him, and my head spins.
I understand, tears ran down Elizabeths cheeks. Maybe, in time
Maybe, Simon said. Maybe not. I dont know if I can forget. Or forgive.
I dont even know who I am now, sobbed Elizabeth. Ive destroyed everything. This home, our trust, myself.
Silence heavy, as they stood in that gloom-lit hallway, two near-strangers after nearly thirty years.
I have to go, Simon said at last. Sorry.
He closed the door softly behind him. Elizabeth stood on the landing, listening to his steps fade.
Then she went out into the swirling snow. Town sparkled for the holidays; people laughed and sang. Elizabeth walked alone, with a hollow within that felt bottomless.
***
New Years Eve, she spent alone. The television on, a glass of bubbly in hand. As the clock chimed twelve, she raised her glass.
To a new life, she muttered, and forced a crooked smile. Whatever that is.
In early January, Irene called.
Lizzy, youre not hiding away, are you? her brisk voice asked. Come out! Ive met someone, youll love him teaches yoga. Shall we meet?
Elizabeth was silent.
Lizzy? Come to the café? Like old times?
She closed her eyes. In her mind she saw the familiar scene: the café, Irene, another fascinating man. The same roundabout, bound to repeat itself.
No, Irene, she said at last. I cant.
What do you mean, you cant? Irene was incredulous.
I just cant, Elizabeth felt something inside snap entirely. Sorry.
She hung up.
A few days later, Elizabeth sat alone at The Crown, nursing a coffee, watching snow drift down outside. The door opened; Irene bustled in, spotted her, sat down.
Oh, Lizzy, there you are, Irene whipped off her scarf. Listen, that yoga chap I told you aboutgenuinely inspiring, you should meet him. You need this! How about
Elizabeth watched Irenes lacquered lips, sparkling eyes, the tornado of energy she always brought, and then saw what lay beneath: emptiness, perhaps unacknowledged.
So, what do you say? Irene pressed. Come on, Lizzy, snap out of it. Enough moping. Life goes on!
Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer, but her words deserted her. She looked at Irene, and fragments of thought flashed through her mind.
How many times must I make the same mistake? How often will I chase happiness in someone else? Maybe happiness was at home all along. Maybe I never really saw it.
Lizzy? Irene clicked her fingers. Are you even listening?
Elizabeth looked into her friends eyespain and a new, searing realisation flooding her gaze. She had been a puppet in others hands, searching for answers in all the wrong places, destroying what was real for the mirage of excitement.
I hear you, she whispered, finally.
Irene waited. Elizabeth said no more. Outside, the snow kept fallingfrom the silence, there was nothing but the bite of loss, and at last, a grief-stricken responsibility for all that couldnt be undone.
So? Will you come? Irene asked.
Elizabeth only looked at herand in that heavy silence, a kind of answer at last began to form, one she was only just beginning to understand.
