Surprise Me(89)

‘I meant to tell you,’ he says at last, in a voice that doesn’t ring true. ‘I’ve got a trip tomorrow. I need to fly up to … Glasgow. I might as well go and stay at an airport hotel tonight.’

‘Glasgow?’ I stare at him. ‘Why Glasgow?’

‘Possible new supplier,’ he says, looking away, and my heart plunges. He’s lying. I can tell.

He’s going to her.

‘Fine.’ I manage the single syllable, even though my lungs feel like they’re packing up.

‘Tell the girls I’ll be back soon. Give them a kiss.’

‘Fine.’

He turns and trudges up the stairs and I stand, motionless, replaying our conversation in my head on a loop, feeling as if any move I make might be wrong. After a few minutes he’s back, holding the leather weekend bag I gave him our first Christmas together.

‘Dan, listen.’ I swallow, trying not to sound desperate. ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight? Couldn’t you drive to the airport in the morning?’

‘I have stuff I need to do,’ he says, staring resolutely past me. ‘It’ll be simpler if … I’ll text Karen. I’m sure she’ll do some extra hours, take care of the school run …’

The school run? Is that what he thinks I’m worried about? The school run?

‘OK.’ I can barely get the word out.

‘I’ll be a day or two. I’ll keep you posted.’ He kisses me on the forehead, then heads to the front door with his swift, determined stride. Within ten seconds he’s gone, and I’m still standing motionless, almost light-headed with shock. What just happened?

A sudden thought comes to me and I dart upstairs to his study. I wrench open his top drawer – and his passport is inside, where it’s always kept. Dan’s not the type to forget his passport. He’s not flying anywhere.

I pick up the passport, open it and stare at Dan’s impassive photo face, feeling sick. The man I thought couldn’t keep secrets from me turns out to be a pretty good liar.

And now humiliation is descending upon me like a suffocating blanket. It’s so sordid. So predictable. My husband has walked out on me for his mistress, leaving me to look after the kids. This is my reality. I thought we were different. Special. But we’re just like every other tedious messed-up marriage in south-west London. With a sudden half-sob, half-scream, I grab my phone and start texting him with stabby fingers:

Go off and enjoy yourself, then. Talk about surprising each other. You’re such a predictable, boring, fucking cliché.

I send the text, then collapse down on to the floor. I’m beyond crying. I’m beyond thought.

We were that couple. We were always that couple.

Now we’re that couple.





FIFTEEN


I remember this from when Daddy died – at first you’re numb. You function perfectly. You smile and crack jokes. You think, Wow, it’s actually all fine, I must be a really strong person, who knew? And it’s only later that the pain swallows you up and you start dry-heaving into your sink.

I’m still at the numb stage. I’ve got the girls ready for school. I’ve chatted merrily with Karen and mentioned Dan being really busy with work. I’ve waved at Professor Russell – John – through the window.

I could easily have done the school run, but Dan clearly texted Karen last night claiming a state of emergency, because she pitched up at 7 a.m., all ready to swing into action. They’ve just left, and the house has that super-silent feeling it gets whenever the children leave it. It’s just me and the snake. Which, thank God, does not need feeding for another five days. If Dan isn’t back by then, I’m giving it to the RSPCA.

I put on more make-up than usual, savagely jabbing at my eyes with the mascara wand. I step into a pair of high heels, because I feel height will help me today. I’m in my jacket, ready to leave for work, when the post rattles through the letter box, and I pick it up, thinking dazedly, What do I do if there’s post for Dan? Forward it on? Where?

But it’s just a couple of catalogues and a handwritten envelope. Creamy and expensive. Nice handwriting, slanted and elegant. I stare at it in mounting suspicion. That can’t be from … She wouldn’t have …

I rip it open and something seems to stab my stomach. It is. It’s from her. She’s written us a bloody thank-you letter. I scan the anodyne words, but I can’t digest them. I can’t focus. All I can think is: How dare you, how dare you?

Both of them.

Him.

Her.

With their texts and secret hugs. Treating me like a fool.

A new energy is suffusing me. A new, incandescent fury. Last night I played it all wrong. I was wrong-footed. I didn’t react quickly enough. I didn’t say the stuff I should have said. I keep going over the scene, wishing I had confronted Dan with those texts, that I had shoved everything out in the open. What was I thinking of, waiting for him to confess? Why was he ever going to do that?

So today, I’m taking charge. My husband’s lover may get to do a lot of things. But she does not get to write me a two-faced thank-you letter, laughing at me behind my back. She does not get to do that.

I send a text to Clarissa: Just popping to London Library for research, then google Mary’s company, Green Pear Consulting. It’s in Bloomsbury. Easy. As I emerge from the tube at Goodge Street I’m walking snappily, my legs like scissors. My fists are clenched at my sides. My jaw is tight. I feel ready for body blows.