The First Mistake(18)

Sylvia: I thought it might be our daughter’s, but I can’t ever remember buying her anything like that. It may be the babysitter’s, as Paul often gives her a lift home . . .

Anne: Is it definitely not yours?

Sylvia: No, it’s definitely not mine. Though I do recall having something similar when I was a teenager. I wonder if it could be that?

I absently turn the ring on my right hand, its significance slowly burning into my brain. I stare at it, as if shocked by its presence. Am I not as culpable as the man I’m accusing? This ring, that I’ve not been without for almost ten years, immediately consumes me with guilt. How can I have the audacity to be so self-righteous? To denounce my husband for an imagined wrongdoing, when all this time I’ve been wearing another man’s ring. And I’ll not take it off, come hell or high water.

It was from Tom, wrapped and ready to give to me when he got back from his skiing trip. But he’d never made it home – instead I found it four months later when I eventually mustered the strength to go through his things. It had been in the inside pocket of a suit jacket, wrapped in gold and tied with a perfect red bow. I’d left it untouched for days, putting it on his pillow, silently willing him to come back so that he could give it to me as he’d intended.

When I finally built up the courage to open it on our tenth wedding anniversary, I asked my mum to have Sophia for the night. I cooked beef stroganoff, Tom’s favourite, laid the table for two, lit a candle and played Elvis’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’, our first dance at our wedding. If I tried really hard, I could see him, sitting there opposite me, smiling.

‘How was your day?’ I had said aloud as I sipped on a chilled glass of white wine. I left time for him to answer.

‘Do you want to see your present?’ I asked. I imagined him nodding his head as I got up and walked towards the fireplace. With a flourish, I pretended to pull a sheet off the painting that hung proudly above it. ‘Ta-dah.’

I could see his wonderment, feel his elation as he looked up at the Venice scene in awe. He would marvel at how the delicate brushstrokes brought the magical city on water alive, depicting perfectly the memories of our honeymoon there. We would reminisce about the gondola ride we took through the waterways, the exorbitantly priced pasta arrabbiata we had in St Mark’s Square, and his morbid fascination with the Bridge of Sighs. But mostly, he would praise my ingenuity, for always knowing him so well.

‘So, what’s in the box,’ I’d said, lifting it from his side of the table to mine. My fingers wrapped themselves around it, knowing that he was the last person before me to touch the shiny paper and tie the tiny bow. If I put it to my ear, I could almost hear his heart beating from inside.

I carefully unwrapped it, knowing that even the Sellotape that he used would be going in my ever-increasing keepsake box. The anticipation of what was inside was almost palpable. I didn’t want to lift the lid, so I could savour the moment forever.

‘Oh Tom, it’s beautiful,’ I gasped, as the diamonds on the platinum band sparkled in the candlelight. I had slid it on my finger, vowing never to take it off. ‘It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.’

And it still is, despite another, even shinier engagement ring and wedding band on my left hand. The admission fills me with remorse.

I’m still sitting up in bed when I hear the front door shut and Nathan’s shoes as he crosses the hall, dropping his keys into the bowl on the console table. I hurriedly close my laptop, turn off the lamp and lie down in the darkness, my heart thumping. I don’t know what I’m scared of. I guess it’s the thought of being presented with the truth.

Four ice cubes fall noisily into a glass from the fridge’s inbuilt ice maker and I picture him going through the post that I left propped up against the vase on the kitchen island. He’s at least ten minutes away from coming upstairs; he’ll need to check through his emails, lock all the internal doors, perhaps call his mistress to say goodnight?

I banish the last thought from my mind; Nathan can’t be having an affair. When would he have the time? If he’s not in the office, he’s with me and the girls, and if he’s not with us, he’s away on business. The poor man barely has a minute to himself. Yet he manages four hours on a golf course and dinner afterwards, I think, my brain contradicting itself. And are all his work meetings really work meetings?

Stop! my brain screams, just as Nathan comes into the bedroom.

I squeeze my eyes shut as he places the glass on his bedside and goes into the bathroom, careful to put only the low-amp wall lights on. I can’t help but marvel at how considerate he is. Would he bother if he loved someone else?

He slides into bed and straight up to me, spooning me. I hear his breathing in my ear, smell the alcohol on his breath. His hand reaches out, stroking me. Despite myself I feel a pull in my groin, but I’m not going to respond.

He plants light kisses on my neck and I will myself to stay unmoving. His hand travels up and down my leg, around the curve of my bottom and I arch my back. He knows I’m alert to him, my body disappointingly letting my mind down. I murmur, and he gently turns my face towards him. I turn back but his lips are on my neck, his mouth working its way up to mine.

‘I’m tired,’ I say sleepily, pretending he’s woken me up.

‘Okay, so just close your eyes . . .’ he starts, as his head moves down to my breast.