The mistress of Georges husband was a rare sort of beauty. If she had been a man, hed have chosen her every time. You know the type women who know their worth, walk straightforward, dress with class, meet your gaze headon and listen to the end of a story. They arent rushed, they make no frantic gestures, they dont have to flash their shoulders or puff out their chest to be noticed; instead they keep a regal calm and never lose their temper.
She would have chosen her, perhaps precisely because she was his opposite. After all, what was George like? Constantly in a hurry, raising his voice at the kids or at Margaret, dropping things from his hands, never managing to finish a task, always a step behind at work, with the boss forever frowning. He lived in a perpetual tracksuitandtshirt wardrobe because who has time to iron a dress or a blouse? He could no longer remember the last time he pressed a crisp shirt; the stateoftheart dryer took care of that for him.
The mistress, however, was immaculate. Silhouette, gait, long legs, luxuriant hair, clear eyes, a face that could make a grownup gasp. From the moment George saw her well, from the moment he laid eyes on her his peace of mind evaporated. It all began on a work trip to a suburb of Manchester. Exhausted and famished, he ducked into a café by accident. It was packed; only a tiny table in the corner was free. He sat, lifted his eyes over the menu, andno, it didnt look like any ordinary place. Nothing was unfamiliar: he recognised the man at the next table. And then he saw her.
The man cradled his hands together, lingering on the tips of his fingers as if they smelled of basil. It was like a scene from a painting; he wanted to peer over the canvas. Yet he knew the woman was something else entirely.
A strange feeling washed over him, the sort you get when a burn tingles on the skin you see the red mark and you know pain is coming, but youre stuck in the waiting room of the hurt, trying desperately to blow away the ache before it lands.
It should have hurt, yet inside there was only a hollow echo. Nothing more.
George arrived home on time, as punctual as a London bus. Usually he was calm and balanced; Margaret was the one who flared up at the drop of a hat, impulsive and quicktempered. He was a moderate sanguine, with a dry sense of humour, the exact opposite of his wife.
What a perfect moment for Margarets wit to shine, though her humour wasnt exactly suited to the mess at hand.
The whole evening she wanted to grill him, deadpan: So, love, whats the story with the mistress? I saw her yesterday at the Green Café, she was ravishing. I get it, Id have done the same. She could have added, watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, his face turning pink as he fought to stay composed.
She might have pressed on: Right, and now? Should the kids meet her? Should I move into a new flat, or are we shuffling her into our house? He said nothing. As usual, he wrapped his arms around her and fell asleep beside her in minutes.
They hadnt even gotten to the bedroom, she thought, as she slipped to the other side of the bed and chuckled to herself. The way a woman rationalises a betrayal while insisting she never felt anything odd.
Maybe it was only the early stage the lingering glances, hearts beating in sync. He knew how to hide, to betray no glance nor movement.
He tossed and turned, sleeping in fragments, dreaming of colourful flowers and strangers in scarlet dresses.
Morning came, his head heavy, his steps slower than usual. He calmly got the kids ready for school.
All day he wondered what to do. What do women usually do when they catch their husbands with another woman? Google it? The internet gave him no answers. He had no plan. Just carry on?
He didnt need to try. Life went on exactly as before: the same routine, the same husband coming home on the hour, no foreign perfume on his shirt, noisy happy children, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same twohour flirtations a week, sometimes three if he was attentive to details.
Perhaps the mistake was that café?
He called her at lunch; she didnt answer. He hopped in a black cab and drove back to the same café, giving the driver a brief excuse about picking up an important parcel for work. Georges car was parked opposite. He saw both of them alight and climb into his vehicle together.
His face went as white as a sheet. He demanded a bottle of water from the driver, faked a phone call and shouted theatrically into the silent handset: You should be ashamed of yourselves! Im not waiting here, Im off to work! Even then he cared a little about what the cabbie thought.
When you discover a mistress, your world tilts. Divorce? Maybe. But how do you live differently? To endure? For what, for whom?
He recalled a couple of friends whod been through the same ordeal. The husband hid, lied, and eventually the wife uncovered the affair through text messages. There were accusations of hacking, claims of jealous rivals.
The wife had said firmly, Id never lie. It would be absurd to deny it. If you do something, you own up to it. Either cut the affair and stay with the family, or leave and still look after your own.
Margaret thought that was admirable. What a serious man to have by your side! she mused. Its easy to dish out advice from the sidelines, without being in the thick of it. When life forces you into the middle, when everyone expects a decision and balance, courage and poise can vanish in an instant.
She walked back into the same café and sat at their table. The mistress raised surprised eyebrows. George stiffened, then began fidgeting under the table. Silence. It was oddly fascinating to watch. The mistress understood immediately who she was dealing withor perhaps shed known all along.
George tried to speak, but she snapped a hand up: Its not as if I havent noticed, is it? she said softly. Nothing abnormal here, really. It happens. But please, think about the kids, the flat we share, the elderly parents. Youre both adults; you can manage.
She stood, her freshly pressed dress hugging her nicelyshe hadnt worn a proper dress in ages.
Sometimes bravery means telling the truth and then moving on with dignity, no matter how hard it gets. A womans dignity isnt measured by shoes or pressed skirts, but by the calm with which she gathers her strength and, in the end, keeps on with her life.
