Her husbands mistress was striking. If she were a man, she might have chosen her herself. There are those sorts of womenyou knowthe ones thoroughly aware of their own worth. They carry themselves with poise, look straight ahead with clarity, listen with sincerity. Their movements are never fidgety; they dont need to bare their backs or necklines to draw anyones eyethey radiate an unflappable composure, unbothered and never flustered.
She might have chosen her too. That is, as an absolute counterpoint to herself.
She thoughtwhat am I? Always in a rush, barking at the children and husband, dropping everything, hands never empty for a moment, constant chaos at work, boss forever displeased. Always dressed in old jeans and baggy jumpersbecause ironing a dress or blouse would take all afternoon. Couldnt even recall the last time she smoothed out pleats or ruffles. The new tumble dryer flattened the creases enough that ironing was nearly obsolete.
But the mistressshe was dazzling. Her figure, her posture, the way her legs crossed, her hair glossy, those bright eyes, her facebreathtaking to the point she felt shed forgotten to breathe.
And, really, she hadnt caught her breath since the day she found outwell, saw them, actually. It was all by chance, a surreal stroke of fate. She was in some far-flung estate on business, stopped by the first café that popped up for a bite. Starvations no aunt, as the dream went. Amid the buzzing, overcrowded room, she squeezed into a lone empty table, glanced up at the menu, and there he was. No mistaking himeven from behind. And next to him, her.
Her husband held the womans hands between his palms, kissing her fingers. Dreadfully over the top, she thought. As if your fingers smell of church incense or something similar. But objectively, the woman was lovely.
The feeling she had was oddlike seeing a burn on your own skin before the pain hits, knowing agony is coming in a momentbut right now, in these suspended seconds, all you do is blow frantically on the reddened patch to stave it off.
It ought to have hurt. Instead, she only felt hollow. Nothing.
Her husband came back at the usual time. He was always steady, temperate, sunshiny. She was the one always half-cocked, always rushing, hurrying the world along. He was calm, sensible, the kind that made people laugh.
She couldve used his humour herself that evening. Hers quite didnt suit this dreamlike spell.
The temptation to ask him outright, eyes deadpan: So, hows your mistress? Saw you in that café off Westbury Avenue. Shes really somethingtruly, I understand, I might not have resisted myself. To say it, just to watch the sweat bead on his brow, to see if hed flush and try desperately to keep his composure.
Maybe addso, what now? Will you introduce her to the kids? Will they like their new mum? What about me, eh? Shall I move out, or are we all to bunk together? Is she coming with a house of her own, or must we split the telly?
She said none of it. He wrapped his arms around her in bed, pulled her close as usual, and promptly fell asleep.
Maybe theres no sex yet, she mused, rolling to her side of the mattress. She stifled a silent laugh. Now she thought in clichés, like a woman freshly betrayed but tremblingly trying to convince herself shed imagined the whole thing.
Maybe there wasnt anything physical yet. Perhaps just the beginningsadmiration, mutual breath, thoughts flowing in tandem. And hewhat an expert at secrets! Not the tiniest hint betrayed him.
She tossed and turned, sleep coming only in snatches, her mind full of lurid, oversized flowers and strangers lovers in bright red dresses.
Woke with a dense head, shuffling around the flat, slower than usual, quietly sent the children off to school.
She kept thinking: What does one do? How do English wives act when they catch their husbands with a lover? Should she Google it?
Google offered nothing useful. She, herself, found no answers within. Carry on as before?
Well, she already was. Same as ever. Same daily routine: the husband who came home punctually, no lipstick on his collar, not a whiff of someone elses perfume; children ever bounding about; Saturday trips to the cinema. Nothing had changed, not in practice. Still, they had the usual marital routinetwice a week, sometimes three, if she bothered to count.
Was it possible shed made a mistake in the café?
She hadnt. She called twice at lunch, he didnt answer. She took a cab back to the same café to check. She wove a plausible story for the driverthey were to collect a parcel for work. Her husbands car was there, unmistakable. The pair stepped out together, slipped into his car and left.
She blanched, asked the cabbie for water, faked a phone callyelling into thin air: Oh, sod the lot of you and your wretched parcel! I cant wait anymore, Im off to the office!
Couldnt quite not care what the cabbie thought.
Once you truly know about a mistress, the dream shifts sharply. Divorce? Probably. How else to go on? But to put up with itwhatever for?
She remembered how, a couple of years ago, it happened to friends of theirshusband with a mistress. He squirmed and denied, covered his traces. But she found out anyway, a row exploded, and even when cornered with their WhatsApp messages, he blamed hackers, jealous rivals, anything but the truth.
Her own husband had said thenOh, Id never lie. Its pathetic. If youve done something mad, admit it. If the family matters to you, give up the affair. Or just leave, but make sure your children are looked after.
Shed felt proud of him then. How responsible! Easy to pass judgementwhen its not you.
When youre the one actually in the scenewife and mistress at the same tableevery bit of bravado drains away and leaves ghostly silence instead.
In the dream, she drifted to their café table and sat on the empty chair. The mistresss eyes widened. Her husband tensed, shifting in his seat. Nobody spoke. She watched them both with amusement. The mistress understood at once, perhaps earlier.
Her husband made a move to speak; she stopped him with an upraised palm: This isnt what it looks like, right? But listen, nothing here is extraordinary. Things like this happen. Now you both ought to solve itthere are children, a shared flat, ageing parents. Youre cleveryoull work something out.
Slowly, dreamlike, she stood, walked toward the door. The recently pressed dress she wore suited her. She really ought to wear it more often.
