When I opened the wardrobe in our hotel room, I found a dress in my husbands suitcase that Id never seen before. It was silk, midnight blue, folded with delicate care between his shirts. Beside it was a small card from an upmarket boutique.
Im not naturally nosy, but this dressit was certainly not mine.
The hotel was opulent, like something stitched halfway between a stately home and a cloud. We were here for his companys annual gala. The mirrors in the corridors shimmered, the carpets swallowed my footsteps, and from the dining room below drifted the scent of expensive dishes and chilled champagne.
I looked at the dress again. The size tag mocked me: it was too small.
Thats when James walked in.
Are you still getting ready? he asked, knotting then unknotting his tie, like his hands belonged to someone else.
I stood holding the dress.
He pausedjust for a flicker. But it was enough.
Whose dress is this? I asked, my voice calm but caught in the same blue as the fabric.
He moved closer, slow as midnight.
It isnt what you think.
That phrase, in dreams and real life, always means exactly what you think.
Youve bought someone a dress, I said. And that someone isnt me.
James blew out his breath, the tie dangling forgotten.
Lucy, please, lets not do this now. Were meant to be heading down soon.
Interesting, I replied, voice barely above the hush of the air con. So the drama is the problem, not the dress?
He glanced at the door, as if the corridor might swallow him whole.
Its a present.
For whom?
He didnt answer. And not answering is very much an answer.
Silence stuffed itself into the corners of the room. Only the air conditioning whispered.
How long has it been? I asked.
Lucy
How long?
It doesnt matter.
I touched the fabric again: smooth, cold silk, like water running over a stone.
So shell be wearing this tonight? I asked.
He said nothing.
At the same event, where Ill be sitting beside you?
James pressed his lips shut.
It wasnt supposed to be like this.
But it is.
I slipped the dress back in the case, closing the zip with a click that could have been thunder.
Who is she?
A colleague.
Of course.
I picked up my handbag from the bed, stepping into my shoes, one after the other.
Where are you going? he asked.
To the party.
He blinked, dazed. Seriously?
Absolutely.
I opened the door.
Im quite curious, you see. I want to know which woman will be wearing this dress.
Ten minutes later, we entered the hotels vast ballroom, light flickering from chandeliers, music unrolling across the carpet, people dressed as though the whole world was made for them.
At one table, a young woman with long blonde hair sat, as though shed been poured there by moonlight. She wore a deep blue dress.
The same dress.
She saw us and smiled at Jamesa flickering, gentle smile.
That was when the dream became sharper, as if the world wanted me to see: this wasnt a secret tryst, pressed into corners. It was something everyone here probably already knew.
I walked to their table.
The womans posture was as poised as a cat on a garden wall.
Hello, she said.
I looked at the dress. It suits you.
Her smile widened, bright as St Marys bells on a Sunday morning. Thank you.
James stood beside me, brittle as autumn frost.
I slipped my wedding ring from my finger and placed it quietly on the table beside his glass.
Gifts have a way of telling the truth, I said softly. Sometimes they just end up in the wrong hands.
Then I turned and headed for the ballrooms exit, the ring glinting gold against the tumbling chatter.
Behind me, whispers rose and chairs scraped the carpet. But the most surreal partthe dream inside the dreamwas that, for the first time in what felt like years, I didnt feel ashamed.
Only free.
Tell mewith the strange logic of dreamsdoes it hurt more to stumble upon betrayal in secret, or to discover it in front of everyone?
