My husbands mistress was a stunning woman. Frankly, if I were a man, I might have chosen her myself.
You know the sortwomen who know their worth. They move with poise, walk upright, meet your gaze without flinching, and listen intently. No fussy gestures, no need for low-cut tops or bare shoulders to catch every eye; she had this regal calm about her, never frazzled.
Honestly, I probably wouldve picked her too, simply because she was everything I was not.
And what am I like? Always rushing about, shouting at the children and snapping at my husband, dropping everything, running late everywhere, swamped at work. My boss is never happy. I live in perpetual jeans and baggy jumpersbecause ironing a dress or blouse is a whole job in itself, and who has the time these days? I cant even remember the last time I bothered with pleats or ruffles. Thankfully, the smart dryer we splashed out on takes care of wrinkles, so the iron is more of a kitchen ornament these days.
But that mistressshe was magnificent. Figure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, her faceyou could hardly breathe looking at her.
And I havent breathed properly since I found out. Or rather, since I saw her. Id ended up in a rough part of town for work and nipped into the first café I saw. The job was done and, as they say, hunger waits for no one. The place was packed, but I found a quiet corner, sat down, grabbed a menuand there he was. Even from behind, I recognized my husband instantly. And then I saw her.
He was holding her hands in his and kissing her fingers. How cliché. I thought, How very your hands smell of lilies. Still, she was objectively attractive.
It was a strange feeling, like when you burn yourselfseeing the red mark, bracing for the pain you know is coming in a moment. And you spend that second desperately blowing on the burn to try and lessen it.
It should have hurt. But inside, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He came home at his usual time. Always the one in a good moodsteady, breezy, never in a hurry. Me? Im set off by the smallest thing, forever dashing about, herding the kids. Heclassic sanguine, laidback, reliable, good-humoured.
What I needed just then was his sense of humour. Mine seemed completely useless for the situation.
All evening, I was itching to ask him directly, with a totally calm face: Hows your lovely mistress? Saw you both in Charlies Café. Shes gorgeous, honestly. I get it. I wouldnt resist her either.
I wanted to ask, just to watch the sweat break out on his forehead, see him redden, trying to keep his cool.
I pictured myself carrying on: So what now? Are you going to introduce the kids? Im sure theyll love their new mum. And what about meam I being moved out, then? Does she come with her own flat, or will she be moving in?
But I said nothing of the sort. He hugged me in bed as always, drew me in close, and promptly fell asleep.
Perhaps they hadnt even slept together yet, I thought, moving away to my side of the bed. And I laughed silently to myself. There I was, thinking like a woman whose husbands cheated right under her nose, but still trying to convince everyoneincluding herselfthat it was just her imagination.
Maybe nothing had happened between themjust the flirty beginnings, heady with anticipation, their thoughts and breath in sync. And he, the undercover lovernever gave away a thing, not a muscle, not a word.
I tossed and turned, slept in fits, dreamt of vivid flowers and strangers lovers in red dresses.
I woke up with a heavy head, slower than usual, moving through the house like I was wading through mud, quietly getting the children ready for school.
All the while, I kept asking myselfwhat now? What does a woman do in this situation, when shes caught her husband with a mistress? Should I Google it?
But Google was no help. And I had no answers of my own. Try to carry on?
Really, theres no try about itI was already carrying on. The daily routine, the husband home on the dot, never a sign of lipstick or a whiff of foreign perfume, noisy children tumbling through the house, Sunday trips to the cinema. No change in his behaviour at all. Still the same twice-a-week sexsometimes three if you want the details.
Maybe I was mistaken at that café.
But I wasnt. I rang him at lunchtimehe didnt answer. I grabbed a taxi back to that same café, thought up some story for the driver about waiting on a work parcel. My husbands car was parked right outside. He and the mistress came out together, got into his car, and drove off.
I went white, asked the taxi driver for some water, and pretended to take a call: Well, forget it then! I cant wait any longerIm heading back to work!
I suppose I still cared about what the taxi driver thought of me.
Learning youre not the only woman in your marriage always upends everything. Divorce? Probably. I mean, what else can you do? Carry on regardless? But why? For what?
I remembered how, a couple of years back, a friends marriage went through the same. The husband snuck around, deleted messages. But his wife still found outthere was shouting, and he denied it until he was backed into a corner by a string of texts he hadnt deleted. Claimed someone had hacked his accountsabotage by jealous rivals.
My own husband had said, almost pompously, Id never lie if I were caught. It looks pathetic. If you muck it up, own it. Cut it off if you care about your family. Or leave, but make sure your loved ones are sorted.
I felt proud of his integrity then. Look at him, so noble.
As if its ever easy with someone elses dramaespecially when youre safe, not carrying any of the weight.
When youre in the thick of it yourself, with wife and mistress sitting right in front of you, all that bravery and clarity vanish on the spot.
I walked into that café, pulled up a chair at their table. The mistress looked at me, startled. My husband froze, then started fidgeting. Not a word from anyone. I couldnt help but be amused. The mistress, I think, knew exactly who I was. Maybe shed known all along.
He tried to break the silence, but I stopped him with my hand. This isnt what I think it is, right? You know, theres nothing unusual about any of this. It happens. So now, you lot think about what happens nextthere are kids, a house, ageing parents. Youre clever people, youll sort it out.
With that, I strolled out, not in a rush for once. That freshly pressed dress did suit me; shame I hadnt worn it for so long.
If theres anything Ive learned, its that life rarely plays out the way you plan in your head. When faced with pain, sometimes all you can do is keep moving forward, chin up. And maybe, just maybe, take the time to wear your favourite dressfor yourself.
