My wifes lover was a beauty of the rarest kind. If she had been a man, Id have chosen her just the same. You know, there are women who know their own worth. They walk upright, dressed with dignity, look you straight in the eye, and listen to the very end. Theyre not hurried, their gestures are unflustered, they dont feel the need to flash their shoulders or puff out their chest to be noticed; instead they keep a regal calm and never lose their composure.
She would have chosen her, perhaps precisely because she was his opposite. After all, what was he like? Always in a rush, raising his voice at the children or at me, dropping things from his hands, never managing to finish a task. At work he was perpetually behind, his bosses forever dissatisfied. He dressed in trousers and Tshirts or sweaters, because who has time to fuss with a dress or a blouse? He could no longer remember the last time he ironed a shirt or a pair of trousers. Only a stateoftheart dryer spared him the worry of ironing.
The lover, however, was immaculate. Silhouette, gait, long legs, thick hair, clear eyes, a lovely face you could almost reach for her with your hands. From the moment I saw her, I couldnt breathe peacefully again. It happened after a business trip to a detached suburb of Manchester. Exhausted and hungry, I slipped into a café by chance. It was full; only a corner table was free. I sat down, lifted my gaze over the menu and, no, it didnt surprise me. Nothing was foreign: I recognised the man behind the counter. And then I saw her.
He cradled his hands between his palms, lingering on her fingers as if they smelled of basil. It was like a painting: his fingers inhaled the scent, and he tilted his head, trying to take it all in. Yet he recognised that the woman was something else entirely.
A strange feeling swept over me, like the burn before a cut: you see the red line on the skin and know pain is coming, but for a few seconds you live in anticipation. You try desperately to soothe the wound, hoping to lessen what follows.
It should have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
My husband arrived home on time, as he always does, calm and balanced. I was the one who always flared up, hasty and impulsive. He was a moderate sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, steadfastly the opposite of me.
How perfect it would have been if his humour matched the moment. His didnt suit the situation at all.
All evening I wanted to confront him directly, with an even tone: So, whats the story with the lover? I saw you yesterday at The Green Café; shes stunning. I understand, I wouldnt have held back either. I imagined telling him while watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, his face flushing, him struggling to stay composed.
The next line would have been: Right, and now? Should the children meet her? Should I see the new mother, and where do I move? Does she bring her own flat, or are we thinking of moving her into our house?
He said nothing. As usual, he hugged me and fell asleep quickly beside me.
Perhaps we hadnt even reached the bedroom yet; I imagined him dodging to the other side of the bed and laughing in his head. Look at the way a woman thinks when she sees betrayal and keeps insisting its just a feeling.
Maybe we were only at the beginningthe stage of stolen glances, hearts beating in unison. He knew how to hide, betraying nothing with his eyes or his movements.
I tossed and turned, sleeping in fragments, dreaming of colourful flowers and lovers in unknown red dresses.
Morning came heavyheaded; I moved slower than usual, got the children ready for school with a calm efficiency.
The whole day I asked myself what women do when they catch their men with another woman. Search Google? It offered no answers. I had no plan. Just live on?
I didnt think I needed to try. I was already living as before: the same routine, the same husband arriving home on time, no foreign perfume on his shirt, noisy cheerful kids, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same twohour affairs each week, sometimes three if I paid enough attention to the details.
Had I erred that day in the café?
I hadnt. I called him at lunch; he didnt answer. I hailed a cab and went back to the same café. I gave the driver a short excuse about waiting for an important parcel for work. My husbands car was parked opposite. I saw them both get out and climb into the vehicle together.
I blanched, asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended to make a call and shouted theatrically into the silent phone: You should be ashamed of yourselves! Im not staying here; Im off to work!
Even then I didnt care what the driver thought.
When you discover a lover, your world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how do you live differently? Endure? For what, for whom?
I recalled a couple friends who faced the same thing: he had a lover, hid it, lied, but eventually his wife uncovered the truth. It turned into a scandal; he kept denying it until the messages on his phone proved otherwise. He was hacked, they said, the competition wanted to ruin him.
Then his wife declared firmly: I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny it. If youve done something, you must own it. Either you cut off the lover and stay with the family, or you leave, but look after your own.
That struck me as admirable. What a serious man she had beside her! Of course, its easy to give advice from the sidelines, without being directly involved. When life puts you in the middle, when others expect a decision and balance, courage and composure can vanish in an instant.
I entered the same café and sat at their table. The lover lifted her eyes in surprise. My husband froze, then clenched his hands under the table. Silence. It was fascinating to watch. She understood instantly who she was dealing with. Or perhaps she already knew.
My husband tried to speak, but she stopped him with a raised hand: Its not like I didnt notice, is it? She said softly, Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please, think about how youll solve thisthere are children, a flat we share, elderly parents. Youre mature people, you can manage.
She rose. The freshly pressed dress suited her well. A pity she hadnt worn one for ages.
Sometimes courage means being able to speak the truth, and also to move forward with dignity, no matter how hard it may be. A womans dignity isnt measured by shoes or ironed dresses, but by the calm with which she gathers her strength at the end and continues with her life.