Hey love, you wont believe the mess Ive been stuck in lately. So, theres this story I have to get off my chest. My husbands lover, Sophshes a stunning sort of woman, the kind youd pick for yourself if you were a bloke. You know the typeshe knows her worth, walks with poise, looks straight ahead, really listens. No frantic gestures, she doesnt have to flash her chest or back to get attention; shes regal, calm, never loses it.
Shed have chosen me too, the exact opposite of who I am. And why am I the opposite? Im always racing around, yelling at the kids and Mark, dropping everything from my hands, never getting anything done. Works a nightmare, the boss is forever annoyed. Im stuck in the same old jeans and sweatshirts. Ironing a dress or a blouse feels like a monumental task. I even forgot the last time I ironed those rufflesits a good thing our newmodel dryer smooths everything out, so I barely need an iron.
Meanwhile Soph is the picture of chicfigure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, faceshe could stop a rooms breath. Shes been holding her breath ever since she saw him. Let me tell you how it happened.
She was on a work trip out in a faroff suburb of Manchester and popped into the first cafe she could find for a bite. The job was done, the hunger was real. The place was packed, but there was a tiny corner seat, so she tucked herself in, grabbed the menu, and looked up. And she didnt just imagine itshe spotted Mark right away, from behind, and saw me there too.
He was holding Sophs hands in his palms, kissing her fingers. Ugh, how crass, Soph thought, your fingers smell like incense. Yet she was undeniably attractive, objectively so.
Soph ordered soup and a salad, ate it without tasting much, and lingered, waiting for us to leave. She was scared to be seen. Silly, because Mark wasnt interested in anyone else at that moment. It was a weird feeling, like after a burnyou see the mark, you know the pains coming, and for those lingering seconds youre just waiting for the agony. You try to blow on the reddened skin to ease it, but inside it feels empty, not a single spark of pain.
Mark came back on time, as always, in a good, steady mood. I was the one always in a rush, hurrying everyone along. Hes a solid sanguine, relaxed, with a decent sense of humour. I could really use that humour now. It just didnt fit this situation.
All evening I imagined him asking, deadpan, Hows your lover? Id picture him at the next cafe, Shes lovely, I get it, Id have done the same. And then watching the sweat beads on his brow as he tried to keep his composure. Id keep going, So what now? The kids need a new mum, what about me? Am I getting a flat, or are you bringing her home?
I didnt say any of that. Mark just pulled me close in bed, held me, and fell asleep fast. Maybe we havent been having sex yet, I thought, slipping onto my side of the bed, and I laughed silently. Here I am, feeling like the woman whose husband was caught cheating right in front of her, yet I keep telling everyone its just my imagination.
Maybe theres no sex yetjust the first stage, the flirtation, the breathing in sync, thoughts lining up. Hes still the mysterious lover, not a single word, not a twitch. I tossed and turned, slept in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and other women in scarlet dresses.
I woke with a heavy head, moved slower than usual around the flat, calmly got the kids ready for school. And all the while I kept wondering what to do. What do women usually do when they find their husbands with mistresses? Google it? It didnt help. I had no answers. Keep living?
Whats there to try? Im already living on autopilot: the usual routine, Mark home on time, no lipstick on his shirt, no stray perfume, the kids bouncing around, Sunday cinema trips. No change in behaviour. Same sex routinetwice a week, sometimes three if were being attentive.
Did I maybe go into the wrong cafe that day? Nope. I called Mark at lunch, he didnt pick up. I grabbed a black cab and rushed back to that same cafe. In the cab I made up a story for the driver about waiting for a package for work. Marks car was parked across the lane. He and Soph walked out together, got in his car, and drove off.
I went pale, asked the driver for water, pretended to call someone, shouted into the empty phone, Well, screw you and your package! I cant wait any longer, Im off to work! I guess I didnt care about the drivers opinion.
Finding out about a lover always flips your world. Divorce? Probably. But how else do you live? Tolerate? Why bother? Whats the point?
I remembered a couple of years ago a friends husband had a mistress too. He hid, tried to mask it, but his wife still figured it out. There was a big scene, he denied everything even when they showed him the messages on his phone. He claimed they were sabotage from jealous rivals. Then he finally said, Id never lie. If Ive messed up, Ill own up. If you love your family, end it. Or leave, but support them. I was oddly proud of his honestyso responsible.
Its easy to sort someone elses mess from a distance, especially when you dont have to face any responsibility. But when youre in the thick of it, seeing both your wife and the other woman, courage and confidence vanish in an instant.
So I walked over to their table, sat on the free chair. Sophs eyes widened. Mark froze, then slumped slightly on his seat. We all sat in stunned silence. I found it funny watching them. Soph instantly knew who I wasmaybe shed guessed.
Mark tried to say something. I raised my hand and stopped him: Thats not what I thought, is it? Honestly, theres nothing shocking about this. It happens. But now think about how to untangle thiskids, shared flat, aging parents. Youre smart, youll manage.
I stood up, left the cafe, my freshly pressed dress swaying nicely. Id been avoiding that dress for ages, but it finally felt right. Cheers, lovejust needed to get it off my chest.
