The mistress of my husband was a rarity of beauty. If she had been a man, he would have chosen her just the same. You see, there are women who know their own worth; they walk upright, dressed with dignity, meet the eye straight on, listen until the very last word. They are unhurried, their gestures calm, they do not feel the need to throw their shoulders back or thrust their bosoms forward to be seen. Instead they keep a regal stillness and never lose themselves to folly.
And she would have chosen him, perhaps precisely because she was his opposite. For what was she like? Ever in a rush, snapping at the children or at her husband, dropping things from her hands, never managing to gather herself. At work she was always behind schedule, the foremen perpetually annoyed. She wore trousers and shirts or jumpers, for who had the patience to fuss with a dress or a blouse? She could no longer recall the last time she had ironed lace or frills. Only a stateoftheart dryer spared her the chore of smoothing them.
The mistress, however, was flawless. Silhouette, gait, long legs, thick hair, clear eyes, a lovely face that made one swoon. From the moment she first saw herno, from the moment she laid eyes on hershe could no longer breathe calmly. It happened after a work trip to a remote district of York. Exhausted and famished, she wandered into a café by chance. It was full; only a corner table was free. She sat down, lifted her gaze over the menu, and it struck her. Nothing was foreign: she recognised the man behind her. And she saw the other woman too.
He kept his hands clasped together, gently kissing her fingertips. It seemed a portrait: his fingers carried the scent of basil. He tried to look away, but he knew the woman was something else entirely.
A strange sensation swept over her, like the burn before a wound appearsred marks on the skin, a knowledge that pain will follow, while you linger in the waiting. She tried desperately to soothe the impending hurt, to lessen what was to come.
It should have hurt, yet inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
The husband arrived home on time, as he always did, calm and balanced. She was the one who lit up at the slightest spark, swift and impulsive. He was a moderate sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, steadfastly the opposite of her.
How fitting it would have been if his humour had matched hers. His was illsuited to this moment.
All evening she wanted to confront him directly, with an even tone: So, what about the mistress? I saw her yesterday at the Green Lantern; she was striking. I understand, I wouldn’t have held back either. She could picture his forehead beading with sweat, his face flushing, his effort to stay composed.
She might have continued: Well, what now? Should the children meet her? Should we see this new mother? And where do I fit in? Does she move into her own flat, or are we to shift her into our house?
She said nothing. As was his habit, he embraced her and fell asleep quickly beside her.
Perhaps they hadnt even reached the bedroom yet; he imagined himself fleeing to the other side of the bed. He smiled inwardly, thinking of a woman who, seeing betrayal with her own eyes, keeps insisting she never noticed.
Maybe it was only the beginning, the stage of glances and hearts beating in unison. He still knew how to hide, to betray nothing with a glance or a movement.
She turned over in bed, slept in fragments, dreaming of colourful flowers and mistresses in unfamiliar red dresses.
Morning found her with a heavy head, moving slower than usual, preparing the children for school with a calm efficiency.
All day she wondered what to do. What do women usually do when they catch their husbands with another woman? Search Google?
Google offered no answer. She had no plan. Should she try to go on living?
She didnt need to try. She was already living as before: the same routine, the same husband who came home on time, his shirt free of foreign perfume, the noisy cheerful children, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same twohour affairs each week, sometimes three if she paid attention to details.
Perhaps she had made a mistake in the café?
She hadnt. She called him at noon; he didnt answer. She hailed a cab and returned to the same café, giving the driver a brief excuse about an important parcel for work. Her husbands car was parked opposite. She watched both of them step out and climb into the vehicle together.
Her face went pale; she asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended to make a call, and shouted theatrically into the silent phone: Shame on you both! Im not waiting here, Im off to work! Even then she cared little about the drivers opinion.
When you discover a mistress, your world flips. Divorce? Perhaps. But how to live otherwise? To endure? For what, for whom?
She recalled a married couple friends, where the husband also kept a lover. He hid, lied, but the wife eventually uncovered him. Scandal erupted; he clung to denial until messages on his phone proved otherwise. He claimed theyd been hacked, that jealous rivals wanted him down.
Then his wife declared firmly: I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny it. If you do something, you must own it. Choose: cut off the mistress and stay with the family, or leave, but look after your own.
She found that admirable. What a serious man she had beside her! Yes, it is easy to give advice from the sidelines, without being directly involved. When life puts you in the middle, when others look to you for decision and balance, courage and steadiness vanish in an instant.
She entered the same café and sat at their table. The mistress lifted her eyes, startled. The husband froze, then fidgeted with his hands under the table. Silence. It was oddly fascinating to watch. The mistress understood instantly who she was dealing withor perhaps she already knew.
The husband wanted to speak, but she stopped him with a raised hand: Its not as if I didnt notice, is it? she said softly. Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please, think of the children, the flat we share, the elderly parents. Youre mature people, youll manage.
She rose. The freshly pressed dress suited her wellshe had not worn such a thing for a long time.
Sometimes courage means being able to speak the truth, and also to move forward with dignity, no matter how hard it may be. A womans dignity is not measured by shoes or ironed gowns, but by the calm with which, in the end, she gathers her strength and continues her life.
