Tess Stimson - The Adultery Club (45 page)

the sink. Only by the whiteness of his knuckles can I see

that this is just an act.

‘Why don’t I go home and give you a call in the

morning?’ he says, his voice carefully neutral. ‘It’s late,

we’re all tired, and it’s been a long journey. Perhaps

next week we should—’

‘Trace,’ I say gently. “This isn’t going to work. Us. You

know that as much as I do.’

His eyes darken. A muscle moves in his jaw, but he

doesn’t speak.

‘You know I’m right,’ I press. ‘We’re just too different,

Trace. We want different things. It’s been fun for you

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playing at being a husband and father these last few

months, and you’ve been wonderful with the girls, but it

isn’t you I say. ‘Not yet, anyway. We don’t really fit into

your life. I’m not the person you should have on your

arm. You should be escorting some glamorous, leggy

model up the red carpet, not an old married woman like

me.’ I touch his arm; he doesn’t respond. ‘That life isn’t me, Trace. Never was. It was exciting for a while, but it’s not my world. And this world -‘ I spread my arm,

taking in the paintings Blu-tacked to the kitchen wall,

the anoraks slung over the backs of chairs, the Lego in the

fruit bowl ‘ - this isn’t yours. We’ve both been stuck in

the past, seeing each other the way we were thirteen years

ago. But life has moved on since then. We’ve moved on.’

‘I’d learn all of this,’ he says, painfully. ‘The nappies

and the Pony Club and the rest of it, if that’s what you

wanted.’

‘It isn’t that—’

‘Nicholas he says heavily.

‘Nicholas I agree.

We both know there is really nothing more to be said.

Trace heaves himself away from the sink.

‘I should go he says awkwardly. ‘There is - there’s

someone I should call. Someone - nothing would have

happened if - anyway. I said I might ring. And I should

go’

We both know there isn’t anyone. But there will be.

‘Friends?’ he asks, his voice catching slightly.

“The best I whisper.

For a long time after he’s left, I sit at the kitchen table,

wondering if I have made the worst mistake of my life,

pushed away the man I love for a second time. And then

I finger the wedding band on my finger, and I know that

however terrifying it is to let him go, I’m right. I care too

much for Trace to condemn him to life as second best.

And for as long as I’m in love with my husband, that’s all

it would be.

Four days later Nicholas files for divorce.

I can’t believe he’s done this. Actually gone to a solicitor,

sat in an office and regurgitated the story of our marriage

to a virtual stranger, sifted through the dirty laundry of

our lives together for something to fling at me, to make

this outrageous charge of unreasonable behaviour stick.

How could he? How could he do this to me?

I bury my head on my arms, the ugly legal papers

scattered over the table in front of me. I can’t bring myself

even to read them through; the first paragraph was

enough. I can’t bring myself to move. I know I should eat,

get dressed, clear up the kitchen, but I’m unable even

to summon the energy to lift my head from my arms.

Thank God for Liz, answering my howl after I opened

the morning post and called her, dashing over to take the

girls to school.

It’s real. It’s really over. He isn’t going to come back,

throw himself at my knees and beg me to forgive him.

He’s left me, and he’s going to marry this girl.

A bloom of hatred wells in my heart, and as suddenly

dies, unable to find purchase. My despair and grief are so

all-consuming, I have no room for anything else.

Suddenly I can’t stop the tears. I keen like a wounded

nnitnal, crying for hours until I have no tears left, and still

I weep, dry, racking heaves. Darkness oozes through my

soul. I cannot even imagine how it might feel to smile.

Hours later, dimly, I register the sound of a car on the

gravel outside. A minute or two passes, and I become

aware of a presence behind me. I look round and see Sara

standing outside my kitchen door.

It doesn’t matter any more. Nothing matters any more.

I open the door, then retreat to the safety of the Aga,

wrapping my dressing-gown tighter about my body.

She takes a huge breath. I realize she’s nervous. How

strange. I can’t imagine feeling nervous, or anything else,

ever again.

‘Do you want him back?’ she asks.

She makes it sound as if she’s returning my ball. This landed in my garden, and I was just wondering-I stare at her for a few moments, at this girl - no, that

lets her off the hook too easily, as if she is too young to

know any better, as if she isn’t responsible for what

she’s done - this woman, I think, this woman who has so

casually picked up my life, shaken free what she wanted

from it, and cast the rest aside. An angry red spot, like an

insect bite, disfigures her chin.

I put the kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. ‘Tea?’

She hesitates, then nods.

‘It’ll take a while. It’s not like an electric kettle.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘I’m sorry I’m not dressed. I wasn’t expecting—’

T know. I should have called, but I thought you

wouldn’t see me—’

‘I wouldn’t I say, ‘if I had a choice.’

‘No.’

The silence spreads.

I gesture to the table. ‘Why don’t you sit down. I’m

sorry about the rabbit, one of the children let it out this

morning and I haven’t been able to persuade him to go

back in his cage.’ I rub at a patch of eczema on the inside

of my left wrist. ‘I can’t say I blame him, I wouldn’t want

to be cooped up in there all day myself, I’d let him wander

around in the garden but something might get him. Last

time he was let outside he was nearly eaten by next door’s

dog’

‘Evie?’ Sara hazards.

‘She wanted him to go organic,’ I say, sighing.

She smiles. Ambushed, I smile back.

We’re like tourists, trapped in a foreign land, trying to

find common ground - ‘From which part of Wiltshire?

Oh, how extraordinary, my son’s godfather lives not far

from you’ - so that we feel less alone. Safety in numbers.

The kettle boils; I busy myself making us tea, choosing

two mugs that aren’t chipped, setting out milk and sugar

on the table. Hurriedly, I heap the divorce papers into a

pile, and hide them beneath one of Metheny’s paintings.

The link between us, such as it was, dissolves.

‘What did you mean I ask abruptly, ‘when you asked

if I wanted him back?’

The grandfather clock ticks loudly in the hall. Somewhere

beneath my feet, Don Juan scrabbles, his claws

clicking on the stone floor. I don’t like her perfume: strong

and synthetic. It makes me feel slightly sick.

‘I need to know she says finally, staring into her mug.

‘I ain’t make a go of things until I do. I don’t want to

come home every night wondering if he’s gone back home

to you.’ The strap of her bag slides off her shoulder and

she pushes it back. ‘That’s all. I just want to know it’s over

between you.’

She isn’t here to put things right. She hasn’t come to apologize: if you want him back, here you are, he’s yours. She isn’t going to tell me it’s all been a terrible mistake. She’s here for reassurance: that I won’t steal him back from her.

A bubble of hysterical laughter rises to my lips. I cover

my mouth with my hand.

‘You expect me to help you?’ I demand incredulously.

Her cheeks stain. ‘I know it seems ridiculous, me

coming to you. I know you must hate me. I’ve given you

every reason. But you have Trace now she pleads. ‘You

don’t need Nicholas any more. Can’t you let him go?

Can’t you let him be happy with me?’

I lean both arms heavily on the sink, my back towards

her. ‘I’m not stopping him.’

‘But he needs to know you’ve moved on. He can’t shut

the door otherwise. You have to tell him—’

‘I don’t,’ I say coldly, ‘have to do anything.’

She swallows hard. I pull the edges of my dressing

gown a little closer.

I’m sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Of

course you don’t have to say anything. It’s just - I don’t

understand. Your marriage was dead, you have a new life

now, I know you must be upset that things worked out as

they did, but it wasn’t my fault—’

I spin round.

‘What makes you think my marriage was dead?’

‘But—’ she flounders. ‘But there’s Trace—’

‘No,’ I say tightly, ‘there isn’t. For a few weeks,

perhaps, after Nicholas left, he filled the gap. Or rather, -m tried to. Nothing, actually, can mend the rip in my heart that losing my husband to you has made. Nothing.’

She bites her lip. I’m suddenly reminded how young

she is; how little she knows.

Old enough.

‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’ I demand

fiercely. ‘Do you? The damage you’ve caused? Do you

know what it’s like to listen to your child sob herself to

sleep in the next room because her father’s left and she

thinks that somehow it must be her fault?’ My body

trembles with anger. ‘Do you know what it’s like to face her in the morning and see the accusation in her eyes, because you couldn’t protect her from this pain? You’ve

taken away from my children the one thing I wanted to

give them more than anything else: a happy, stable home.’

I close my eyes, misery rising in my throat like bile.

‘You’re not a mother: you can’t know. They’ll carry the

scars with them for the rest of their lives. They’ll take

this baggage with them into every relationship they ever

have. A mother wouldn’t do this. A mother wouldn’t

smash three little girls’ childhoods just for the sake of a

quick roll in the hay.’

She seems to shrink back in her chair with each word,

as if I’m pelting her with rocks. Good, I think bitterly. Let

it hurt. Good.

‘You think my marriage is dead because he slept with

you?’ I challenge. ‘Well, let me tell you something, Sara.

Marriage is hard work. Very hard work. If you don’t both

put everything you have into making it a success, it fails.

Sometimes it’s wonderful and romantic and everything

you ever dreamed it would be when you stood at the altar

and made your vows to love and cherish until death

parted you. And sometimes I say, my voice hard, ‘it’s

dull and frustrating and difficult and you can scarcely

bear the sight of each other. Sometimes you bore each

other to tears. It only takes one trip, one stumble, and it

can all come crashing down.’

I push my hair behind my ears, my hands shaking

with anger. What can she know of seeing ten years of your

life wiped out in a few short hours? Of watching the man

you’ve loved, whose children you’ve borne, walk away

from you to another woman?

‘My marriage was very much alive until he met you,’ I

hiss. ‘But you didn’t care. You saw someone you wanted,

and you took him. You took him.’

‘I didn’t make him,’ she protests. ‘He had a choice. He wanted me.’

‘What man wouldn’t?’ I laugh shortly. ‘You’re beautiful.

You’re young. You’re not his wife. Of course he

wanted you. But did he make the first move, or did you?’

She looks away.

‘You won’t always be twenty-six,’ I say bitterly, ‘with

your smooth unlined face and firm body. You think you’ll

be young forever at your age. Forty seems as far away

as a hundred. But it sneaks up on you when you’re not

looking. Nothing happens for years and years - and then

suddenly, wham!, you wake up one day and your hips

have got bigger and your lips have got smaller and your

breasts are halfway down to your stretch-marks and

what the hell happened? But he,’ I add, ‘he just gets

distinguished wings of grey at his temples and character in his face and secretaries’ eyes following him as he walks past their desks.’

I wrap my arms around myself, barely seeing her any

more. ‘You marry a man and give him children and tell

yourself it doesn’t matter that you’re not so young now,

that your body isn’t as taut, your face as clear, because he

loves you anyway. You let your guard down: you let him

see you snivelling with a cold or with your hair in rat’s

tails because you haven’t had time to wash it, and you

think it doesn’t matter.’ I pace the length of the kitchen,

frightening the rabbit under the table. ‘At work you get

out of the fast lane to make way for the bright young

things without families, reminding yourself that giving

him somewhere he wants to come home to is far more

important than a corner office or a promotion, that he’ll still find you interesting. You know that there are younger women than you, prettier women, more exciting women;

but you’re the one he chose to marry, you’re the one

he promised to love forever.’ I shiver. ‘You put him at the

centre of your life, at the centre of your heart, where

he should be; and then overnight, it’s all gone. Gone.’