The First Mistake(22)

I unzip the various compartments, saving the inner pocket, the section most likely to harbour a secret, until last. I pull out a small bundle of Japanese yen, folded around a piece of paper. If I knew my world was about to implode, I wonder if I would’ve just slipped it back in, zipped it up and walked away.

The headed paper is concise enough; The Conrad Hotel. I smile as I read Room Service Breakfast, imagining him sat at a table in front of a floor to ceiling window, eating his eggs Benedict, overlooking the vast metropolis of Tokyo below.

I think I’d already seen the x2, printed beside the à la carte breakfast, before I’d even pictured him. I guess it’s the brain’s automatic attempt to derail us; to un-see what’s already been seen.

I gaily carry on tracing down the bill with my finger, in staunch denial of what I know to be there. I smile as I see he’d had five of his favourite G&Ts during his stay, but choose to ignore the four cosmopolitan cocktails. I marvel that he’d had time to get a full body massage in the spa, yet pretend not to see the word ‘couples’ written in front of it.

I make sure to fold it neatly, just the way it was, and fight against the overwhelming heat that is rising up from my toes. I try to stand, but feel giddy and collapse back down. I’m sure it doesn’t say what I think it said. I must be mistaken. Perhaps I’ll take another look later on, just to make sure I didn’t see what I know I saw.

I’m not going to cry, but a ball of fear is pushing itself upwards through my stomach and into my chest. Once there, I know I won’t be able to stop the tears and crushing feeling it will bring.

I look numbly at the washing on the floor. Nathan’s socks are entwined with his handkerchiefs, and my autopilot kicks in. The laundry still needs to be done, regardless of whether its owner is being unfaithful or not. I pick it up and force myself to sing a song as I carry it down the stairs.

It’s only after I load up the machine, set it to an express cycle and press start, that I allow the desolation to engulf me. I slide down the wall of the utility room, put my head in my hands, and sob.





9


I take a hot shower in a futile attempt to wash my poisoned mind clean, but the tears keep coming. As I close my eyes, my mind instantly races ahead, questioning, accusing, though of what I don’t know. I will my brain to shut down, just for a minute, so I can have a moment of peace and quiet. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t control the rattling in my head. It feels as if a dark secret is thrashing around in a cage, banging at the bars, desperate to get out. So much for the mindfulness techniques I’ve learnt during yoga these past few months.

Beth and I had suppressed our laughter as Monica, our spiritual guru, passed around the class and placed her fingertips to our temples, chanting in a meditative state.

‘What good is that ever going to do?’ laughed Beth as we had coffee afterwards.

She was more into the blood, sweat and tears of the gym, preferring a fifty-minute boot camp session to anything remotely holistic. I had to agree that I saw little benefit in lying in a dark room, humming and having my eyelids rubbed. Yet as the weeks went on, I found myself looking forward to the end of the sessions, relishing the prospect of Monica breathing in and out with me, her soothing voice helping me transcend into another universe, just for a moment, or at least until Beth’s stifled cackle penetrated the quiet, mystical mood.

I don’t know whether to be thankful or not when I receive a text from Nathan telling me that he’s going to pop into the office for a couple of hours. It certainly gives me more time to get my head together, for although I may look just the same as when he left, so much has changed. Yet it also allows my mind to wander and meander, dwelling on where he’s really going, and acknowledging how this thought will now be my immediate go-to whenever he leaves the house. For the first time, my anxiety isn’t caused by the fear of something happening to him. This new feeling is more oppressive, more claustrophobic.

I desperately claw at the possibility that he’s going to her; to tell her that I’m getting suspicious; that what they have needs to stop before anyone gets hurt. But what if my aroused suspicions push him the other way? Make him see that it’s now or never. Give him the strength to tell me that he’s met someone else and he’s leaving. Will he feel relieved when it’s all out in the open? Free to lead the life he clearly wants to lead. Or will I beg him to stay? Believing that an unfaithful husband and father is better than not having one at all.

My mind flashes back to the ‘Girls Night In’ that Beth and I had enjoyed at the Berkeley hotel in town a couple of months ago. We’d laid on the bed in our face masks, helping ourselves to the mountain of chocolate freely supplied, as we watched a chick flick: The Other Woman.

‘What would you do if Nathan was cheating on you?’ she’d asked, as room service knocked on the door with what looked like a lifetime’s supply of Ben & Jerry’s.

I’d rolled a Malteser around in my mouth. ‘Can we define cheating?’ I’d mumbled.

‘What’s your definition?’ she asked as she brazenly answered the door, mud pack and all.

The man didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘Well, everything,’ I said. ‘From a kiss to the full shebang.’

‘Okay, so if he kissed someone, what would you do?’

‘Once?’ I asked, for clarification.