The mistress of my husband possessed a rare beauty. If she had been a man, I would have chosen her without hesitation. You see, there are women who know their own worth. They walk straight, their attire respectable; they stare straight into the eyes, listen to the very last word. They are unhurried, their gestures smooth, never feeling the need to throw their shoulders back or puff out their chest for attention. Instead they keep a regal calm and never lose themselves to mood swings.
She would have chosen me, perhaps precisely because I was her opposite. For what was I like? Always flitting about, raising my voice at the children or at my husband, dropping things from my hands, never able to settle on anything. At work I was perpetually behind, the bosses forever disgruntled. I wore trousers and Tshirts or sweaters, because who had time to fuss over a dress or a blouse? I could no longer remember when I last pressed a silk dress or a lace top. Only the newest tumbledryer saved me from the tyranny of ironing.
The mistress, however, was flawless. Silhouette, gait, long legs, lush hair, clear eyes, a face so lovely it made you want to reach for it with your hands! From the moment I saw herno, from the moment I truly noticed herpeaceful breathing slipped away. It all began after a work trip to a quieter district on the outskirts of Manchester. Exhausted and famished, I wandered into a café by chance. The place was packed; only a corner table was free. I sank into the seat, lifted my eyes over the menu, and nothing seemed strange. Then I recognised the man behind me, and I saw her too.
He held his hands between his palms, kissing his own fingers as if they smelled of basil. It felt like a painting: his fingertips exhaled a fragrant herb, and he tilted his head, eyes glittering. Yet he recognised that this woman was something else entirely.
A strange sensation coursed through me, like a burn: you see red marks on skin and know pain will follow in seconds, but until then you linger in the waiting. You gasp desperately over the wound, trying to soften whats to come.
It should have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
My husband arrived home on time, as he always did, calm and balanced. I was the one who ignited at the slightest spark, hurried, impulsive. He was a modest sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, the exact opposite of me.
How fitting it would have been for his humor to surface now. Mine was illsuited to the situation.
All evening I wanted to confront him directly, with an even tone: So, whats the story with the mistress? I saw you yesterday at The Green Café, she was striking. I understand, I wouldnt have held back either. I imagined him sweating, his forehead glistening, his cheeks flushing, struggling to stay composed.
The conversation would have continued: Alright, and now? Should the children meet her? Should they see this new mother? And where do I move? Does she bring her own flat, or are we thinking of moving her into our house? He said nothing. As usual, he embraced me and fell asleep quickly beside me.
Perhaps we never even reached the bedroom, I thought, running in my mind to the side of the bed. I laughed inwardly. Look at how a womans mind worksseeing betrayal with her eyes yet insisting it felt right.
Maybe we were only at the beginning, the phase of glances, the heartbeat syncing. He certainly knew how to hide, betraying nothing, not a glance, not a movement.
I tossed and turned, sleeping in fragments, dreaming of colourful flowers and mistresses in unknown scarlet dresses.
Morning found my head heavy, my movements slower than usual; I prepared the children for school with a practiced calm.
All day I wondered what to do. What do women usually do when they catch their husbands with another woman? Search Google? Google offered no answer. I had no plan. Should I try to keep living?
I didnt think I needed to try. I was already living, just as before: the same routine, the same husband arriving home on the hour, no foreign scent on his shirt, the noisy, cheerful children, a Sunday cinema outing. Everything unchanged, the same two or three trysts a week if I paid attention to the details.
Had I erred in the café? No. I called him at lunch; he didnt answer. I hailed a black cab and returned to that same café, giving the driver a brief excuse about awaiting an important envelope for work. My husbands car was parked opposite. I saw them both step out and climb into the vehicle together.
My face went pale; I asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended a phone call, and shouted theatrically into the dead handset: Shame on you and your package! Im done, Im off to work! Even then I cared little about the drivers opinion.
When you discover a mistress, your world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how to live differently? To endure? For what, for whom?
I recalled a couple of friends whose husband also kept a lover. He hid, lied, and eventually his wife uncovered the truth. A scandal erupted; he clung to denial until the messages on his phone were producedhacked, they claimed, by jealous rivals.
Then his wife declared firmly: I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny. If you do something, you own the responsibility to admit it. Choose: cut off the mistress and stay with the family, or leave, but look after your own.
It seemed admirable then. What a steady man she had by her side! Yes, its easy to give advice from the sidelines without being directly involved. When life puts you in the middle, when others await your decision and balance, courage and poise evaporate in an instant.
I entered that same café and sat at their table. The mistress lifted her eyes, wide with surprise. My husbands hands tightened, then he fidgeted under the table. Silence. Observing them felt oddly fascinating. The mistress understood instantly who she was dealing withor perhaps she already knew.
My husband tried to speak, but she raised a palm: Its not as if I didnt notice, is it? She whispered: Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please, think about how youll resolve thischildren, a shared flat, elderly parents. Youre mature adults, you can manage.
She stood. The freshly pressed dress she wore suited her well. A pity she hadnt worn one for ages.
Sometimes bravery means telling the truth and then moving forward with dignity, no matter how hard it feels. And a womans dignity isnt measured by shoes or ironed dresses, but by the serenity with which she finally gathers her strength and carries on with her life.
