My husbands mistress was stunning. If I were a bloke, Id have chosen her myself. You know the sort of womanone completely aware of her worth. She walked with dignity, met your gaze without flinching, and listened like your words truly mattered. She never fidgeted. She didnt need to flash her cleavage or bare her back to make an entranceshe held herself with calm confidence, utterly collected, never ruffled.
Id have picked her, too. As the perfect opposite of myself.
What am I like? Always in a rush, barking at the kids and the husband, forever dropping things, behind on everything. Works a nightmare; my boss never stops grumbling. I mostly throw on jeans and jumpersno time to bother with ironing a dress or blouse. Cant even remember the last time I wrangled with those frills and ruffles. Thank goodness for the new tumble dryer; most things come out barely needing a press.
But the mistress? She was fabulous. Her figure, her poise, the legs, the hair, those striking eyesshe looked so good it took your breath away.
Come to think of it, I havent caught my breath since I found out. Or rather, since I saw them. It happened by chancesome work errand had sent me to the other side of London, and I ducked into the first café I found for a bite to eat. Work was done and hunger waits for no one, as they say. The place was packed, but I spotted a free corner table, sat down, scanned the menuand then glanced up. No, I wasnt mistaken. I recognised my husband instantly, even from the back. And then I saw her.
He was holding her hands, kissing her fingers. Honestly, I thought, how clichéd. Like something out of a bad poem. But she was undeniably attractive. Stunning, really.
A strange feelinglike seeing the mark from a burn and knowing pain is inevitable, except for a second or two you linger, waiting to be plunged into agony. So you try cooling the sting, blowing on it before the pain sets in.
It should have hurt. But I just felt empty. Nothing.
My husband came home at his usual hour, chipper as ever. Hes always even-tempered. Its me whose fuse is shortIm forever rushing, always chivvying everyone along. But him? Solid, steady, and with a splash of wit.
Tonight, I could have used some of his humour. My own didnt stretch this far.
All evening I half wanted to ask him, perfectly calm, So, hows your mistress? Saw you in Café Marlow the other dayshes gorgeous, I cant blame you. I might not have resisted myself. I imagined the beads of sweat gathering on his brow, the flush creeping onto his cheeks while he tried desperately to keep his cool. Id have kept right on: So what now? Should we introduce her to the kids? Shed make a nice new mum. As for mewhere would you like me? Is she bringing her own flat, or moving in with us?
But I didnt say a word. He wrapped his arms around me in bed, pulled me close, and was asleep within minutes.
Maybe theres nothing physical yet, I thought as I shifted to my side. I actually laughedsilently, so as not to wake him. Now I was behaving like every woman whos been cheated on in plain sight, insisting to herself its all in her imagination.
Maybe it really is only stage one. Infatuation, long conversations, that giddy sense of connection. My husbanda master at keeping secrets. Not a single tell, not a muscle twitch.
I tossed and turned all night, dozed off in patches, dreamt of luminous flowers and strange women in red dresses.
Woke up with a pounding head, moving slower than usual around the house, getting the children ready for school in silence.
And all the while, I kept thinking: what does one do in this situation? What do English women do when they catch their husbands with someone else? Google, perhaps?
Google was useless. I had no answers of my own, either. Try to carry on?
Whats to try? I already am carrying on. Life is rolling, as usual. Dinner on time, husband home punctuallyno lipstick on collars, no unfamiliar perfume lingering. Kids bouncing about, Sunday trips to the cinema. Nothings changed. The same routine, the same twice-weekly sex. Sometimes three, if Im honest.
Maybe it was someone else at the café?
No. I called him at lunch. He didnt answer. So, I jumped in a black cab, spun a work story for the driver about having to pick up a packageall sounding very plausible. My husbands car was parked across the street. Sure enough, he and his lady came out together, got into his car, and drove away.
I went white, asked the cabbie for a glass of water, then pretended to phone someone. Fine, then! Keep your sodding package! I cant hang around, Ive got work! I shouted into my empty mobile.
As if it still mattered what the taxi driver thought of me.
Finding out about an affairit changes everything. Divorce? Probably the sensible thing. But how do you live any other way? Put up with it? For what? For whom?
I remembered a few years ago, friends of ours had gone through this. The husband was sneaking around, but his wife eventually found out. There was a huge argument; he denied it until the bitter end, even with WhatsApp messages staring him in the face. Claimed he was hacked, that some jealous rival was out to get him.
Back then, my husband had said, Id never lie like that. Takes guts to own up. If youve messed up, be a man about it. And if you want your family, end the affair. Or else, leavebut make sure theyre looked after.
I felt proud of him then. What a responsible chap, I thought.
Easy, though, to judge from the outside, especially when its not your life falling apart.
But when youre in the thick of itlooking your wife and mistress straight in the eyecourage and composure seem to vanish into thin air.
At the café, I walked straight over and sat at their table. The mistress looked up, startled. My husband froze, then fidgeted in his seat. They said nothing. I found it almost amusing to watch. The mistress clearly knew who I wasperhaps she always had.
My husband tried to speak, but I stopped him with a raised hand: Its not what I think, is it? Then I said, Nothing about this surprises me. It happens. Now, you two are smartfigure out what happens next. Weve got children, a shared mortgage, and aging parents. Youll work it out.
I got up, unhurried, and headed for the door. The freshly ironed dress Id put on suited me after all. Pity Id stopped wearing dresses so long ago.
