The Soulmate(34)

30


AMANDA

BEFORE



Falling in love with Max was, at best, an inconvenience. At worst, it was a fucking disaster. People always talk about love like it’s a magical thing, a gift from the gods, a sunbeam of euphoria from above! But it’s horrible, being in love. The vulnerability it exposes. The person it makes you. It sent me nutty for a while. Made me lose my edge.

It started with little things. The faintly desperate pitch of my voice when I suggested Max make it home in time for dinner. The way I stuck to his side at dinner parties when I knew my role was to work the room. How I found myself thinking about him all the time.

I started making phone calls to his office, just to say hello. Max was unfailingly polite but his mind, I knew, was elsewhere. He had always worked a lot, but while he was growing the business I barely saw him. His TV and newspaper business was doing well, but online media was the goal. He was so hungry for it. The internet was still niche, and Max had decided it was the way of the future. He wasn’t wrong, of course; he rarely was. But that meant very little to me when I was alone at home night after night.

It was only natural that, after a while, I began to question if Max really was where he said he was. Growing up with a philandering father teaches you to stay vigilant. I adopted the expected rituals. I checked his phone while he was in the shower. I eavesdropped when he left the room to take a phone call. I scanned his emails when his computer was left open and unlocked. I never found any evidence of infidelity. But there was one thing I often wondered about.

It was midweek, and I’d woken in the dead of night to find Max hadn’t come to bed. On my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I found Max in his study, sitting in the glow of his laptop, fully dressed, even though it was three or four in the morning. There were two things about this that caught my attention. First, he was using a laptop I’d never seen before. And second, his face was crumpled, as if he was on the verge of tears.

He looked startled when he saw me in the doorway and immediately his expression changed to one of impatience. ‘Go back to bed, love. It’s just work.’

I did what he said. But I didn’t go back to sleep. When he eventually came into the bedroom, I watched in the darkness as he put the laptop into the safe in the walk-in wardrobe. From then on, I was obsessed with that laptop. I knew there’d be a time when he left it out or forgot to lock the safe. And I planned to be ready for that day.



I was desperately lonely. The kind of loneliness that claws at your insides. I found it hard to concentrate on photography. I still accepted invitations to take photos at events that interested me, but it became more of a hobby than a career. After all, we didn’t need the money, and two big careers were a lot to manage. That’s what I told myself, at least.

I drank a lot, alone at night. I slept a lot during the day. At functions, we looked like an adoring couple. Max always spoke about me with the utmost respect. He made playful comments about how good I was to put up with him. When he looked at me, even though I knew it was part of the act, it did something to my insides. I wanted the way he looked at me to be real. I wanted the things he said to be true. I yearned for a real marriage, one that was bigger than the exchange of loyalty for fidelity. But that wasn’t the deal I’d made.

And so I created a life for myself with Pilates, tennis, taking pictures of beautiful people and beautiful things. I made friends with women I found superficial, and I started to become superficial myself. I bought things I didn’t want. I renovated the kitchen and bathrooms and then renovated them again. I hired stylists, for me and for my house and for the garden. I learned to cook at expensive cooking schools that paired the meals with wine and featured celebrity chefs.

Once, after one such cooking course, I recreated a Spanish feast at home – sautéed chorizo, garlic prawns, seafood paella. Max had promised he’d be home on time. I lit candles, put on some music, wore a flamenco-style dress.

Max arrived home fifteen minutes late, which wasn’t bad for him. But then he looked around as if confused. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Dinner,’ I said proudly. ‘I told you I was cooking Spanish tonight!’

In his defence, he did look ashamed. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He was apologetic when he said, ‘I have to go back to the office. I’m so sorry. It can’t be avoided.’

I’m not sure who was more surprised when I threw the paella at the wall. The worst part was that it was very unsatisfying. There was no thud or smash. Just rice and seafood all over my new Shaker cabinetry and marble benchtop.

Careful, Amanda, I thought. You’re following your heart. Look what it’s doing to you.

‘Sorry,’ Max said again, and then he went to the bedroom, changed his clothes, returned with another briefcase. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

He stepped over the paella as he left.



When I was forty-one, I had a late period. Not very late. Two days. But it was unusual for me. And when you don’t have much else to do, you notice these things.

‘My period is late,’ I said to Max when he came home from work that night. It was after midnight, and I’d been staring into the dark for hours. ‘I’ll do a pregnancy test in the morning, and if I am I’ll take care of it. I just thought I would . . . should . . . let you know.’