The Invisible Wife
Emily! a cheerful voice rang out as my friend plopped onto the chair opposite, shaking the rain off her bright red mac. Sorry, the traffic is just awful. Have you ordered?
Just coffee, I managed a faint smile. I was waiting for you.
Rebecca shrugged off her mac and eyed me critically, whistling under her breath.
Good Lord, Em, do you even look in the mirror these days? What are you wearing? Grey jumper, grey trousers Are you depressed, or have you made up your mind to become invisible?
It’s just comfortable, I shrugged. I’m fifty-two, Becks, a fashion statement is the last thing on my list.
Uh-huh, Rebecca ordered a cappuccino and a pastry with one dismissive gesture. And wheres your Tom? Off fishing again, is he?
I nodded.
Left Friday night. Back for Sunday lunch. As per usual.
As per usual, Rebecca echoed, mocking. And you, as per usual, stuck at home on your own? Watching telly, darning socks? Em, whens the last time Tom invited you anywhere? Restaurant, theatre, even the flicks? Come on, stretch your memory!
My cheeks burned.
We well, we were at the allotment together in July.
The allotment! Rebecca howled with laughter. Where you were pulling weeds and he was fixing the shed! Oh, the romance. Listen, love, lifes passing you by. Were not schoolgirls anymore, sure. But were not old crones yet either. And here you are, burying yourself alive.
Dont be ridiculous, I sipped my coffee. It tasted bitter. Were a normal couple. Twenty-eight years together. That must mean something?
Twenty-eight years of habit, she cut in. Heres how it looks to me: youve turned transparent. To Tom, youre like the fridge or a kitchen stool there, useful, no need to pay it any mind. Whens the last time he paid you a compliment? Or just asked how you are?
I wanted to argue, but the words stuck. The truth was that our evenings passed in silence. Tom reading about angling gadgets on his tablet, I knitting or watching a series. Occasionally, hed ask what was for tea. Occasionally, Id remind him about the bills. That was the sum of it.
Ive hit a nerve, Rebecca leaned in. Her eyes shone. Listen, Ive met someone, actually. A photographer. His names Andrew. Fascinating bloke, knows how to talk, and how to listen too. His exhibitions opening this Saturday, in a little gallery near Piccadilly. Come with me? Itll do you good, a bit of a change.
Becks, I dont know
No weaselling out, she brushed it away. You need to come out of this shell. Just have a look at people, let people see you. Dress up, Ill help you. Youll see its wonderful when someone notices you, talks to you about something other than dripping taps.
I sighed. Arguing with Becks was never fruitful. And if I was honest, the thought of going somewhere didnt sound half bad. The house had been far too quiet lately.
***
Come Saturday evening, I stood before the mirror, not recognising myself. Rebecca had brought round a wine-red dress, simple but elegant, waist cinched by a slim belt. Id done my face for the first time in months and even sorted my hair.
Well look at you, I mumbled, staring at the reflection. I thought Id
Become a grandma forever? Rebecca huffed, satisfied. Nonsense. Theres plenty of life in you yet, love, youve just forgotten.
The gallery was a small and cosy place, high ceilings and white walls. Black-and-white photographs hung everywhere; old back gardens, faces of strangers, abandoned platforms. There were no more than thirty people, all gathered with glasses of wine, speaking quietly.
Rebecca ushered me straight to a tall man, hair peppered with grey, black turtleneck and jeans.
Andrew, this is my best friend, Emily, she said. Em, this is Andrew, the man behind all this beauty.
Andrew turned towards me, and I met his steady gaze. Grey eyes, a warm smile, a few lines round the corners.
Lovely to meet you, he offered his hand. I hope you enjoy it.
I Im not much of a photography buff, I admitted, shaking his hand. His palm was dry and warm.
No need to be, he grinned. Youre here to feel it, not analyse it. Come, let me show you my favourite piece.
He led me to a photo in the corner. An elderly woman by a window, the light catching the lines on her face as if they were stories lived, and her eyes, deep and sad, looking on into the world.
You see? Andrew leaned in, speaking quietly. Thats my neighbour. Shes eighty-three. I took this a year and a half ago. She told me about the war, about losing her husband, about raising three kids alone. What struck me is that in her eyes there wasnt any self-pity. Just this incredible sadness and dignity.
I stared at the photograph, something tight and aching inside my chest.
Shes beautiful, I whispered.
She is, Andrew agreed. Beautys not just youth and smooth skin, you know. True beauty comes from a life lived, and suffered through, and yet somehow staying yourself. He gave me a gentle look. You know, youve got that touch of sadness in your eyes too. Interesting. As if youre always thinking of something but never saying it aloud.
I felt awkward. No one had truly looked at me for years. Tom glanced at me but never really saw. This stranger, though, looked right through to the core.
Im just tired, I suppose, I managed.
Of what? Andrews tone was easy, almost companionable.
Id meant to joke, push the question away, but the words poured out.
Of sameness. Every day bleeding into the next. Get up, make breakfast, housework. Tom off to work or fishing. Kids grown, left home. I just sit in that flat and wonder where Ive gone. Wheres that girl who dreamt of adventures, of something bigger?
I stopped, mortified by my honesty.
Sorry, I muttered. I dont know what came over me.
No need to apologise, Andrew patted my arm, a comforting touch. Thats called honesty. Rare enough these days. Tell you what I run a little club. We meet once a week, talk about photos, books, sometimes go out sketching. Why dont you come next Wednesday? I think youd enjoy it.
I meant to say no; meant to say I was too busy, had too much on. Then I heard myself say:
Alright, Ill come.
***
Tom came home Sunday, same as ever, carrying the smell of river water and bonfire smoke.
Any luck? I asked him at the door. Catch anything?
Couple of perch, Tom dumped his rucksack in the kitchen. Decent trip. How about you? All okay?
Yes, fine, I replied. I went to an exhibition with Rebecca.
Oh good, he said, pulling ham out of the fridge. You ought to get out more. No sense in you moping about at home.
He said it offhandedly, eyes already searching for something else, mind elsewhere. A flare of irritation rose in me.
Tom, why dont we go out? Together, I mean. Go to a restaurant, or the theatre? Just the two of us.
He stared at me, surprised.
What for? Its expensive, that sort of thing. And Im shattered after fishing. Maybe another time, alright?
Later. Always later. I nodded and left the kitchen. In the lounge, I texted Rebecca: Send me the clubs address. Ill go next Wednesday.
***
The club met in the basement of a Victorian house converted into a snug room with squashy sofas, bookshelves, cameras splayed across coffee tables. About fifteen people, most in their forties or fifties. Andrew met me by the door.
Glad you came, he said warmly. Sit wherever you like.
The evening flew by. We discussed a French photographers work, read snippets of Auden, then just chatted. I was mostly quiet, just listening. And it was unexpectedly delightful. No one asked about utilities, or household chores; no one saw me as a cleaner or a cook.
Afterwards, Andrew walked me to the bus stop.
Did you enjoy it? he asked.
Honestly, yes. Id forgotten what it felt like to be somewhere new. I felt like Id stumbled into another world.
You have, he smiled. You know, Emily, when I look at you, I see someone who hasnt lived for herself in a very long time. Always for someone else. For your husband, your kids, the house. When did you last do something just because you wanted to?
I thought. I couldnt remember.
Thats the trap of middle age, Andrew went on. We wake up and realise weve given everything to others, and forgotten ourselves. And then you get this sense, almost panic, that lifes slipping away. But you know what? Its never too late to remember who you really are.
His words felt like a balm. I stood there, listening.
Tell you what, Andrew said suddenly, Lets drive out of town on Saturday. I know this old manor house, its beautiful in autumn light. Come along, Ill take some snaps. I promise youll enjoy it.
I hesitated. Saturday. Tom would be off fishing again, leaving me alone, as ever.
Im not sure, I muttered. It feels
Feels wrong? Andrews tone was gentle. Emily, its just a day out in the fresh air. With a friend, in a beautiful spot. Nothing more. You have the right to your own life, dont you?
I do, I whispered.
Good. Well meet by the tube at ten. Bundle up can get a bit windy out there.
He waved and walked away. My heart hammered as if I were twenty again.
***
On Friday night, Tom, as usual, was packing for fishing.
Back Sunday, he said, zipping up the rucksack. Got my phone if you need me, ring if anythings up.
Alright, I watched him testing his tackle. Tom, maybe Ill come with you this time? For a change.
He blinked at me in surprise.
Why? You always say youre bored stiff, and last time you moaned about being cold and bitten by midges.
I just thought We could spend some time together, I tried.
Em, were always together, Tom shrugged. Have a rest, catch up on your series.
He pecked me on the cheek and went. I waited for the familiar sound of the door closing, then just stood there.
Were always together, I repeated in my head. But were we? Really?
Next morning, I got up early, fussing over what to wear. Settled on jeans and a warm jumper, grabbed my coat. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright; I looked younger, more alive.
Its just a day out in the countryside, I told myself. With a new friend. Nothing wrong in it. Its just a walk.
Andrew met me with two takeaway coffees.
Morning, he smiled, handing one over. Ready for an adventure?
We took his battered Volvo, listened to tunes, talked the whole drive. Andrew recounted stories from his travels, made me laugh; I felt light in myself for the first time in years.
The manor was half-ruined, but beautiful: tumbling columns, overgrown grounds, a dark pond. Andrew took pictures while I wandered, gathering yellowed leaves.
Stand there, for me by the pillar, he called at some point. Yes, thats it. Dont look at the lens, stare into the distance.
He snapped a few shots, then showed me the camera screen.
See? You photograph beautifully. And that sadness in your eyes it gives you real depth.
I looked at the picture a woman with hair blowing in the wind, lost in thought. Was that really me?
We spent the whole day there, ending up in a little cafe in the nearest village. We ate warm pasties and drank tea, and gradually the talk got more personal.
Youve been married long? Andrew asked.
Twenty-eight years, I replied.
Are you happy?
I was silent. What does happiness mean? Habit? Security?
I dont know, I whispered. Used to think so. Now I dont even know what I feel. Its like Im sleepwalking. Everythings right, everythings in place, but somethings missing.
Passion, Andrew said softly. Thats whats missing. The sense that youre alive, that you feel. That youre not just a role in someone else’s life, but your own person.
He put his hand gently on mine.
You are a remarkable woman, Emily. Clever, beautiful, thoughtful. And you have every right to happiness. To your own happiness.
I looked down at his hand on mine; my heart pounded. I was meant to pull away, stand up, leave. But I didnt. I didnt want to.
***
The weeks that followed passed in a feverish blur. I was meeting Andrew more and more at the club, at galleries, just wandering round town. He gave me what Id been starved of: attention, compliments, real conversation.
With Tom, nothing changed. He worked, fished, watched the news. I cooked, cleaned, did the laundry. Bare minimum chat between us.
Did you buy milk? hed ask.
Yes, Id reply.
Good. Where are my socks?
Drawer. Same as always.
And that was that. No asking how I felt, what was on my mind. But Andrew always wanted to know, and I opened up to him like a flower in sunlight.
Rebecca, of course, picked up on it.
So, youre in love, she grinned, catching me in the same old cafe.
Nonsense, I flushed. Were just mates.
Yeah, right, she rolled her eyes. Em, youre glowing! Havent seen you this alive in fifteen years. You deserve a bit of happiness.
But Im married, I whispered.
So what? She shrugged. Tom doesnt even notice you anymore, he lives his own life. Why must you give up yours? Youre not a saint, youre a living woman. If Andrew makes you happy, what does it matter?
Her words landed where they were meant. Id already started telling myself the same things. Im just living, I thought. Surely Im allowed a bit of joy.
The real turning point came in November. Andrew suggested a trip to a little town a couple hours north, for a street photography festival.
Well spend the night there, he said. Booked two rooms at the hotel, dont worry.
Two rooms. I clung to that to keep myself in check, I told myself.
I told Tom I was going to a big sale with Rebecca.
Okay, he muttered, not even glancing up from his tablet. Just dont blow the lot.
At the hotel, Andrew really had taken two rooms. We spent the whole day at the festival, saw the exhibits, listened to talks, dined together, sipped wine in the evening. Andrew kept saying how important it was to seize the moment, how short life was, how you couldnt put off happiness forever.
You know, Emily, he said, holding my gaze, Ive met a lot of women, but you youre something special. Theres a sort of untouched soul to you, and such deep sorrow. All I want is to make it go away.
He took my hand.
Im not here to rush you, not to pressure you. I just want you to know you really matter to me. Very much.
It all spun in my head wine, his words, the way he looked at me. When we went up to the rooms, he saw me to my door, kissed my cheek.
Goodnight, he whispered. If you feel like talking, Im just next door.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as my heart drummed.
Im married. I have a husband. Twenty-eight years. I cant.
When did he last kiss you? Or say you matter to him?
This is betrayal.
This is life. The last chance to feel alive.
At two in the morning, I got up, pulled on my dressing gown, padded down the corridor, and knocked on his door.
Andrew answered straight away, as if hed been waiting.
Emily, he whispered.
I stepped over the threshold.
***
The morning brought a hangover, though Id hardly drunk. I lay in someone elses bed beside someone elses sleeping form, not quite believing what Id done.
Andrew slept soundly. I dressed quietly, slipped back to my own room, and sat on the bed, head in my hands.
What have I done?
Driving home, Andrew was sweet and attentive, holding my hand, making me laugh. The guilt ebbed away, replaced by something sharp and intoxicating.
Im alive for the first time in years, I really feel alive.
At home, Tom welcomed me back as ever.
Get anything at your sale?
Not much, I avoided his eyes. Not a lot on.
Okay. Whats for tea?
Life slotted back into its rut. By day I was Toms wife, running the house, popping to the shops. By night, I messaged Andrew, met him in secret. He took me places, brought me books, read poetry aloud.
Tom and I barely spoke beyond the logistics.
Well need to sort the pipe out at the allotment, hed say.
Spring, I reckon, Id reply.
Alright then.
Silence. Heavy, endless silence.
Rebecca was triumphant.
There you go, shed say. Youre living now. No more drowning in that swamp.
I tried to justify myself. This is Toms fault, he pulled away first. He chose fishing over me. I deserve happiness.
But lying awake in the dark, while Toms breathing was steady beside me, I felt something inside me crumbling to pieces.
***
December brought frost and snow. Andrew and I now met nearly every week. He had a little studio for his shoots; I told Tom it was a computer course.
Tom merely nodded.
Andrew was marvellous attentive, passionate, always flattering. Now and then, though, I wondered if hed said all this before, to someone else, or to many someones. But Id gone too far now.
Just before Christmas, fate intervened.
I nipped to the chemist for Toms cold remedy. At the till, rummaging in my bag, a little box fell out. I didnt notice. It was a box for the perfume Andrew bought me Moonlit Sonata, sweet and musky.
That evening, Tom came home early from work. I was cooking when he came in and set the little box on the table.
This yours? he said quietly.
I turned and saw the box. My heart thudded.
Um, yes, I found it on the street, I blurted.
On the street, Tom repeated, voice like stone. A bottle of scent worth a hundred quid, just found it, did you?
He opened the box, sniffed, paused.
Im not an idiot, Em, he said, voice still soft but hurting. You think I havent noticed? Youve changed. Youre going out all the time. You look at me like Im a stranger.
I stood by the cooker, plastered to it.
Tom, I
Who is he? he cut me off. Whos this bloke?
Nobody, I whispered. Just a friend. We
Dont lie, Tom clenched the box in his fist. Dont you dare. Youve cheated, havent you?
The silence was deafening. Something in his face shifted, all the gentleness of years together draining away.
Yes, I gasped. I have, Tom. Im sorry. I never meant it, but
Never meant it, he said bitterly. But you did it. Right.
He stalked towards the hallway.
Tom, wait, I ran after him. Lets talk. Let me explain
Explain what? He spun, and his eyes were all pain. That you slept with someone else because I didnt pay you enough attention? So its my fault, is it? Maybe it is. Maybe I got stuck in my ways. Maybe I forgot to ask how you were. But I never cheated never. Because I loved you. Still do. And you you just destroyed it.
Please, Tom, I sobbed. Dont go. Lets try to fix this.
I cant stay here, he said. I need to think. Ill stay at Richards for a bit.
He packed in fifteen minutes. I stood limply in the doorway as he shoved shirts and socks into his bag.
Tom, I whimpered. Dont leave me.
He zipped the bag, looked at me steadily.
Didnt you leave me first? he asked. When you went to him?
He left without slamming the door. Just left. The silence afterwards was categorical. Not peace emptiness.
***
I wandered about the flat, at a loss. I called Tom. No answer. Texted: Forgive me. Please come back. No reply.
I rang Andrew.
Andrew, my voice a mess, Toms found out. Hes left. I dont know what to do.
Ah, Emily, his voice sounded sympathetic. Im really sorry. Tell you what, why not come round and talk it through with me? Ill support you.
We met at his studio. I poured it all out between tears. He held me, stroked my hair.
Itll work out, he crooned. You see, it couldnt have gone on forever. You werent happy with him. You were stuck. And now you have a chance for a new life.
New life? I looked up, red-eyed. What new life?
Well, Andrew shifted uncomfortably, youre free now. You could do whatever you wish. Travel, create. Be yourself.
And you? I asked softly. Will you be with me? Are we together now?
He pulled back, scratched the side of his neck.
Em, love look I cant offer you a house, stability. Im a wanderer just here in the moment. We shared something beautiful, and Im glad. But
But what? I felt cold seeping through my veins.
But Im not someone who can settle down, Andrews hands described helpless circles. I told you from the start. I love my freedom. I thought you just wanted a taste of it, too.
I stared at him and saw it all, at last. The sweet words, the charm it was a script; hed played his part before, and would again.
So I was just your bit of fun? I choked.
No, no! He reached for my hand, but I drew it away. You meant a lot to me, really. But I cant stay. Its not me. I thought you just wanted to feel alive for a while. Isnt that what you got?
I stood.
You know what, Andrew? I found my voice level. Youre right. I felt alive. And now I feel broken. Because of you. Because of me. My own foolishness.
I left without a backward glance. Out in the street, snow blew in my face, mixing with my tears.
***
Home was dark and cold. I switched on the lamp, flopped onto the sofa and stared at the wall. After a long time, I called Rebecca.
Becks, I said when she picked up. I need to talk to you.
We met where it all began, at The Bluebell. Over cappuccino, I poured out my story.
Well, there you are, she said when Id finished. You got your emotions, didnt you? You didnt shrivel up, at any rate.
I stared at her, stunned.
Are you serious, Becks? My lifes in ruins, and you
What? She shrugged. Em, you signed up for this. I just introduced you to Andrew. The rest your choice, love. Youre a grown woman.
You pushed me, I said, anger rising. Told me Tom didnt appreciate me, kept telling me I should live for myself.
So? Was I wrong? He never did appreciate you. Maybe now hell see what he lost. Or maybe not. Thats life, love. It doesn’t go to plan.
I stood.
You know, Becks, my voice was quiet I used to think you were my best friend. I see now you just envied me my stability, my family. You wanted me as miserable and unmoored as you. Alone, always searching.
Oh, dont start, Rebecca rolled her eyes. Dont be so melodramatic.
Goodbye, Rebecca, I walked out.
***
A week passed. Tom didnt come back. I rang and messaged. His replies were short: I need time.
Suddenly, the flat felt both enormous and unbearably empty. Night after night I lay awake replaying it all: how Id met Andrew, how Id let myself get swept away, how Id lied to Tom.
What have I done?
I remembered Tom fixing the leaky tap, bringing me tea when I was unwell, planting the apple tree at the allotment. Little things so ordinary, so dull all Id ever wanted back now.
On New Years Eve I cracked, went round to Richards, where I knew Tom was staying. Richard opened the door, awkward.
Em, alright? You after Tom?
Yes, I whispered. Can I speak to him?
He hesitated.
He said he doesnt want to see you. Sorry.
Five minutes, Richard, please. Just five minutes.
He went in and after a bit, Tom came out.
He looked tired, older. My heart broke for him.
What do you want? he said gently.
I just I want to say how sorry I am, the words tumbled out. Tom, I made a terrible mistake. I lost my head. Andrew was just a fantasy. Youre the real one my home. Please, give me a chance to put it right.
Tom stood quietly, then shook his head.
Em, I dont know, he sighed. When I found out it hurt so much I couldnt breathe. Even now, I still see you with him whenever I close my eyes. I cant get past it.
I understand, I cried. But maybe, with time
Maybe, he cut in. Or maybe not. I truly dont know if Ill ever be able to forget or forgive.
And I I wiped away tears. Im not even sure who I am anymore. I broke everything. Home, trust. Myself.
A long pause. Two people, almost thirty years together, suddenly strangers in a poky hallway.
I have to go, Tom said at last. Sorry.
He closed the door. I stood on the landing, listening to his footsteps fade.
Then I went outside, into the snow. The town was alive with twinkling lights, laughter, partygoers. But I walked alone, emptier than ever.
***
New Year’s Eve I sat in front of the telly, glass of cheap bubbly in hand. At midnight, I raised a toast.
To a new life, I murmured with a bitter smile. Whatever that’s supposed to be.
In early January, Rebecca rang.
Em, what are you doing hibernating? she sounded chipper as ever. Ive met someone lovely teaches yoga, really interesting. Fancy meeting him? Shall I set something up?
I gripped the phone and said nothing.
Em, you there? Rebecca pressed. Well, dont just sit there in silence.
Im here, I replied finally.
So, shall we meet? At our place, as usual?
I shut my eyes, picturing it all: the cafe, Rebecca with her schemes, some new interesting man. Round and round, the same old drama.
No, Rebecca, I said quietly. I cant do this anymore.
What do you mean, cant? she sounded baffled.
I just cant, I said, feeling myself finally crack. Sorry.
I hung up.
A few days later, I found myself at The Bluebell, our cafe, alone for once. I drank my coffee and stared out at the falling snow, watching people hurry past.
The door banged open and Rebecca strode in, spotted me, and wandered over.
Oh, Em, youre here too, she said, shedding her scarf. Listen, about that bloke I think hes just what you need. All calm and wise, with mindfulness and all that. Want me to introduce you? Hes
I looked at her: bright lips, sparkling eyes, all that endless energy. But now, behind it, I saw the emptiness. Same as mine except Rebecca pretended it wasnt there.
Well, why are you so quiet? She leaned in closer. Em, you really do need a good shake-up. Sitting at home, stewing, thats no solution. Life goes on, you know?
I opened my mouth to answer. But no words came. In my head, a jumble of thoughts flickered.
How many times will I make the same mistake? How many times will I hope someone else can make me happy? Maybe happiness was close by, and I just couldnt see it
Em, Rebecca snapped her fingers in front of my eyes, you even listening?
I looked at her for a long, heavy moment. In my eyes, pain and a dawning, bitter understanding. Realising Id been nothing but a puppet in others’ games; searching for answers in the wrong places; destroying the precious for the fleeting.
I hear you, I whispered, at last.
Rebecca waited. I stayed silent. The world outside kept on snow falling, people laughing, life unbothered by my misery. In that silence was everything: grief, regret, the huge weight of a choice that couldnt be undone.
So, what do you say? Rebecca interrupted, impatient. Are we meeting him?
I looked at her and didnt reply and in that silence, I finally found my answer. One I was only just beginning to understand.
If Id learned anything, it was that looking for yourself in someone elses eyes is a losing game. The real work the painful work is learning to be visible to yourself. Even if you have to be alone to do it.
