by Sue Watson
I explain a little about Caroline, a vague sketchy outline about ‘a colleague’, with a few choice words thrown in. She seems incredulous, doubtful even, and I’m tempted to tell her about the emails. I know what I saw, but I don’t want to say it out loud. It makes it too real, and I’m not sure I can trust Jen not to tell the whole playground.
She raises her eyebrows, calls the waitress over and orders two more skinny flat whites. ‘I shouldn’t have a second one. Too much dairy. I’m trying to lose weight but I’m just so… surprised and upset for you. We need the caffeine, my love.’
I’m soothed by how the inclusive ‘we’ makes me feel like there’s finally someone batting for my team. I excuse myself and go to the toilet, where I start to cry, I’m so overwhelmed by Jen’s kindness. Then I throw up. So much for the extra tablet I took this morning, that’s now sailing down the pipes. I just hope I can keep everything together. Telling Jen has made it real; until now it was just inside my head.
‘So have you said anything to Simon?’ she asks on my return. Our fresh coffees have arrived and she puts her spoon in her cup, stirring too slowly for too long, her eyes on me all the time.
It crosses my mind that he may have already got to her: ‘Marianne’s ill – she imagines things. She might tell you I’m having an affair, several in fact. She always does this when she’s ill.’ I can hear him saying it now. ‘Of course it isn’t true, she’s not herself, poor love – we call it a headache, but it’s so much more.’ I know the script because he’s used it before on other friends I’ve dared to have over the years.
I shouldn’t have said anything, I want to swallow my words back down with the second skinny flat white.
‘No,’ I say, taking a sip of the hot, milky drink. ‘I haven’t confronted him.’ I say this quietly.
Jen now has her head in her hands, shaking it slowly, eventually emerging to announce loudly, ‘But Simon’s the perfect husband. You two seem so happy… I can’t believe he’d do this to you. Like on the first day of term when I saw him in the playground, he’d left you in bed, he was so worried about you being ill, having a headache…’
At the word ‘headache’, I bristle.
‘I didn’t have a…’ Her interest is so piqued, I feel like she’s interrogating me and I want to run away. ‘I… I don’t know, Jen, I can’t be sure, perhaps I’m putting two and two together and making an affair,’ I say, backtracking now.
I feel claustrophobic. I’ve said more to her in half an hour than I have to anyone in weeks and as much as I like Jen, Simon’s right. She’s a gossip, and I can’t trust her to be discreet. I shouldn’t be discussing this with her; apart from anything else, what if I’ve got this all wrong – again? I was sure last time, and the time before that, and then after having a total meltdown resulting in all kinds of shit for everyone, I realised I’d imagined it all.
I need to take another pill, but I don’t have any with me, so check my watch deliberately. ‘Oh damn, almost forgot, I have a doctor’s appointment,’ I lie. I get up to leave and, shocked at my sudden departure, Jen grabs my hand as I stand up.
‘Doctors? Nothing serious I hope, sweetie?’
‘No, it’s nothing.’ I’m on the verge of tears, which Jen sees and becomes even more cloying.
Still clutching my arm, she tries to make me stay, but I have to get out of here and pull my arm away. ‘Marianne, you can’t leave like this, you’re upset… what are you going to do?’
I say I don’t know but I’m fine and run out of the coffee shop, leaving her standing by our table, filled with half-drunk coffees and uneaten muffins, pleading with me not to go.
I feel bad. Jen’s such a caring person, and that’s what I need at the moment, but I panicked; I find it hard to judge people these days. In spite of my sudden doubts about telling her, Jen made me feel like I have a friend. And even for a little while it’s just what I needed. I hope I haven’t offended her by leaving so abruptly, but, as Simon says, if a friend’s worth having she’ll accept you whatever.
Arriving back home, I feel like I left something behind at the coffee shop and it’s made me uneasy. I question myself again about telling Jen. If she’s the gossip Simon makes her out to be, she could be repeating what I’d told her to one of the other school mums right now. Then again, Jen’s my friend and is concerned about me. Surely she knows that I told her my fears in confidence and wouldn’t discuss them at the school gate?
I am drawn upstairs to Simon’s office; now I’ve shared my suspicions with Jen, albeit briefly and vaguely, I feel the need to double-check I’m right. I can’t help but doubt myself after everything that’s gone before. It’s easier to access the emails from his laptop and as he sometimes checks the history on my phone he’s more likely to find out I’ve been snooping if I use that. I have to smile. Jen would be horrified at the prospect of Peter checking her phone’s history. Recently I’ve asked myself how Jen would react to the way Simon treats me. She wouldn’t sit by and watch him have an affair, she wouldn’t allow him to usurp her in the family, talk disrespectfully in front of the kids. Then again, Jen has a family who love her and isn’t grateful for any crumb her husband throws her because she’s scared she might lose him, and everything else she has.
I open Simon’s office door and once again step in, like Alice in Wonderland – the nightmare version. I open up the laptop, and go through the looking glass again, uncertain of what I might find. I type ‘Caroline’ and, like magic, his secret life emerges before me, and I wonder what fresh hell there is for me today.
I go straight to the emails and, yes, there’s no doubt – I didn’t imagine this. But today, among the heart emojis and kisses, there seems to have been a hint of trouble in paradise. Apparently she’s still upset that he was a little ‘grumpy’ when he arrived late at hers the other evening.
Ah, so she’s disappointing him already? Isn’t it the wife who’s not supposed to understand?
But even a sign of trouble in paradise can’t stop the sting when I read the next few lines.
Babe, I just can’t help but feel upset that you didn’t tell her last night. I know these things can’t be rushed, but it’s been six months now and I can’t bear for you to stay there in that hellish atmosphere. You adored Nicole, and if you ask me, you were grieving when you met Marianne and clearly don’t love her the same way, the right way. I hate to say this, but do you think you may have married Marianne on the rebound? She’s not your forever person, is she? And clearly not the mother you’d choose for your children.
I feel like I’ve been whacked in the face and ask myself again why I keep flagellating myself with this. I am filled with hatred for this woman, this stranger who, having met me once in the fucking wine aisle at Waitrose, thinks she’s qualified to asses my faults, my personality, my capability, my marriage. How dare she condemn me with her tin-pot psychology and thirty-something naivety. It isn’t all marriage by numbers, and it isn’t all black and white. There are grey areas, Caroline, but don’t dig too deep into your lover’s marriage – you might not like what you see.
I scroll down for his response.
Oh darling, it’s so like you to think of the children, if only Marianne had your thoughtfulness – but she doesn’t and that’s just one of the problems. I know I’ve been dragging my feet, but trust me I’m working on it, we’ll be together soon. I hate that you feel insecure, darling, and you might be right, I think I probably did marry her in a state of grief.
He’s working on it, they’ll be together soon. Over my dead body.
Our marriage has been a sham. As you know, we haven’t had sex since the boys were conceived and we barely speak, except for her whingeing about how bored she is and how she hates spending time cooking meals for me. Last night she was so angry she hadn’t made me anything to eat and, of course, I’d have made myself a snack, but after a long day in surgery, I was too tired so just went to bed.
I am furious. The injustice, the lies. Yes they might be little lie
s about the minutiae of domesticity, but these little lies define me. He’s making me look like I’m cruel, incapable, unwilling to even try to be a wife and mother. None of this is true. He’d come home late after drinking with a colleague he ‘admired’, opened a bottle of wine, tried to start a row about my mother’s mental state, thus implying mine was inevitable, and stormed off to bed.
And we haven’t had sex since the boys were conceived?
He’s lying to you too, Caroline.
I scroll to her response. Surely she’s not buying the well-worn cliché that this married man doesn’t have sex with his wife?
Babe, that’s outrageous, she’s supposed to be your wife, your teammate. I know your sex life has been non-existent, and I think you’re a bloody saint, but there’s no excuse for her laziness. She’s at home all day, the least she could do is make you a sandwich.
I laugh to myself at this – I’d love to see his face if I handed him a sandwich one evening. She really has no idea. And my laziness?
I read on, barely able to contain my anger at his lies, at the homewrecker’s sanctimonious reaction to his far-fetched stories…
It’s clear that your wife doesn’t appreciate what she has and, as you’ve always said, it’s not like she cares about you. Simon, babe, please just take her to the doctor’s and get her some appropriate care. I know how it is. After we talked last night, it helped me to understand what you’ve been through. I know there are times you wish you could turn back the clock, but you can’t, you married her and you now have to extricate yourself from this damaging situation. You’ve tried your best for her, God knows you’ve given her everything, including your love and support, but illness aside, she seems to get off on complaining, on being permanently unhappy and all she does is moan about her privileged life. I understand the dynamic so much more now. She is one of those people who just take and don’t give, and however much you try to love and help her, she can’t love you back. From what you tell me, she clearly set her sights on you, a surgeon, and got pregnant quickly so you had no choice but to marry her. I know you only got married for your lovely mum, but Marianne tricked you, she knew you’d do the right thing by her because that’s the kind of wonderful man you are.
Oh, my God, he’s even lied about when I got pregnant and why we married. He wasn’t forced to marry me. He loved me, he wanted marriage and a family – with me. But he can’t even admit that now. And ‘your lovely mum’. I don’t think so – I have to smile at this.
I continue to read, drinking it in, all the lies, all the posturing, all the ‘babes’ and the fucking ‘darlings’.
You’ve given Marianne so much, please don’t give her the rest of your life, because I don’t know how long I can wait. I don’t mean to sound horrid, but you’ll be doing the kindest thing by saying goodbye to her and she can then find her own life and hopefully some happiness, because she isn’t happy with you.
Oh Caroline. I expected more of you.
I bet she calls herself a fucking feminist. Well, what about her sister over here who’s bleeding while she sticks the knife in even further?
And his response to her diatribe of crap is… even more crap.
Darling, I will finish things, but before I do I have to check with David and make sure everything’s watertight. He’s been my solicitor for years and he knows the score. I’ve arranged to have drinks with him next Wednesday evening and I’ll lay it on the line. He’ll know exactly what I need to do so we can keep the house and the children. This is all new to me, darling, as you know I’ve never strayed before, never even thought about another woman until you. I’m afraid you’ve changed everything, in a good way, but I just need you to hang on in there. I need you and can’t imagine the rest of my life without you. I love you so much. X
So, he’s seeing our solicitor next Wednesday? This is even more serious than I’d feared. This isn’t a fling that he’ll get over and leave behind, but the end of our marriage – sooner rather than later if Simon has his way.
My mouth is dry, my chest tight as I scroll down to see one final message from her.
Oh babe, sorry to go on. She needs to be somewhere safe where she can’t hurt herself or anyone else for that matter. I’m going to say this now because I can’t say it to your face, it’s too painful – but, Simon, you already lost one child because of her. Aren’t you worried you might lose another?
I am so hurt; each tiny shard of information pierces my heart and lodges in my brain. Yes, I figured he’d tell her that I was mad and a liability as a mother, but I was thinking biscuit crumbs and McDonald’s. This is on a different scale – I honestly didn’t think he’d tell her about Emily.
Finally something’s going to happen for them. And to me.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Hello, darling.’ He’s back from work and I’m strutting down the stairs, greeting him with a confident hug. I feel different, empowered. Reading today’s emails made the fog clear from my head. I’m not mad. I’m not delusional. He wants an end to us, to our marriage, our family and our lies. And now I’m reading his thoughts – his perception of me and our life together – I’m beginning to feel the same. So my marriage might be over, but if Simon and his homewrecking mistress think they’re going to take my children they have another thing coming.
There is a chink of light in the darkness. I don’t have to sit helplessly waiting to be destroyed – I may not win, but I can at least fight this.
I kiss him on the cheek while wanting to punch him in the face. ‘Had a hard day?’
You lying, cheating bastard.
‘A very good day actually.’
I wander into the kitchen and he follows me.
‘Oh really?’ I say, almost flirtatiously.
‘Yes… you can now address me as Mr Wilson Senior Consultant Surgeon!’
‘Wow! Well done, darling,’ I say, hugging him, wondering if he told her before me, while gazing longingly at the row of kitchen knives.
‘Yes, it’s been a tough few weeks. I heard Cookson wanted to give it to someone else, but I convinced him with my amazing skills and talents,’ he only half-jokes.
‘Well, congratulations. No one can say you don’t deserve it.’ I mean, he’s been sliming up to the revolting Professor Cookson for some time, and that can’t have been easy.
‘Well, the prof says he has faith in me, says he’s impressed by my credentials, my work ethic… the other guy is a bit of an unknown quantity, single, rented flat, no roots.’
‘Oh yes, well having a wife and family in the background always helps in these things – settled family life.’ I smile through gritted teeth.
‘I hardly think you can take credit for my new position, Marianne,’ he spits.
I’m so raw with emotion I want to lash out, want to hurt him like he’s hurt me. But instead I smile and go into Stepford mode while harbouring wicked thoughts about getting rid of Caroline. I have this urge to ask about her, how she is, just to see his face, but if I do, he’s likely to call Saskia my therapist again, ‘concerned’ about ‘Marianne’s erratic behaviour’, my apparently ‘obsessive and irrational jealousy’. He isn’t the only one. The mums at previous school gates, the neighbours from the places we’ve lived – they’ve all turned against me, assumed I’m some deranged madwoman who’s likely to kill them all in their beds.
Yes, there have been times when, driven crazy by grief, pills and life, I’ve overreacted, when I must have imagined those things that never happened. But not this time. This time is different, because I know. I know. This time I will be smarter. There will be no pints and insults hurled across a bar at some woman. I won’t scream and shout and behave like ‘a fishwife’. I won’t accuse anyone of anything – yet. I will bide my time and tear them apart from within, as they are doing to me.
I think of Caroline, lying in our bed, and newly promoted Senior Consultant Surgeon Mr fucking Simon Wilson next to her, reading Thackeray or something equally pompous and impenetrable. She’d be in a
strappy little nightgown and would lean over and take the book from him, remove his glasses and…
I need to take a couple of pills, but I want to be aware, focussed. I know I’m in danger of being removed from my life and being doped up would only assist this.
‘I hope you’ve taken your meds,’ he says absently, sitting down at the table, waiting for the food I’ve slaved over all day. I sometimes think he reads my mind… or watches me.
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘Just now, in fact. I need to get you served up before I go all groggy.’
‘Good. I don’t know which is worse, you falling about all over the place and blacking out or attacking perfect strangers… On second thoughts, I prefer the former, the medicated version,’ he says without a smile.
I don’t react – it’s what he wants – but I’m not biting. I swirl salted butter into green beans and place them with the beef on his plate. ‘I’ve made your favourite, boeuf bourguignon, a perfect celebration meal for a Senior Consultant,’ I say, smiling brightly.
I hope it chokes you, Simon.
I present the plate to him with a pretend flourish, wishing I’d crushed the pills up into his beef so he could feel what it’s like to see the world through a mist before blacking out, not sure who you are or where you’ve been, what’s real and what isn’t.
He bites into the meat and I wait for his comment. ‘Not bad… not bad,’ he says.
Oh, so nothing to complain about tonight?
‘Oh…’
I spoke too soon.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘What on earth have you done to the green beans? They’re like old rope. I can’t eat these; they’re overcooked.’