by Sue Watson
I’m so wicked and I love it. I think I may have discovered a latent talent for emotional torture – no surprise, I learned it from the master. And the lunch went so well, I’m thinking that instead of pretending I’m going to host a surprise party for Simon’s promotion, why don’t I actually do it? Until now I had a vague idea of stringing her along and cancelling at the last minute, or even accidentally on purpose forgetting to tell her it had been cancelled and allowing her to turn up. I rather liked this scenario, the three of us sitting awkwardly on the breakfast stools in the kitchen while I prattled on about our perfect life. But no, I might as well go for it, and throw him a surprise party. Simon’s worst nightmare – his stuffy colleagues, his boss, his lover and a few of our friends for surprise drinks and nibbles in our lovely home. What could possibly go wrong?
Before I know it, it’s time to pick up the boys and, arriving at school, I wave to Jen and call to her that I can’t chat as I have to get home for ‘the plumber’. There is no plumber. It’s another little lie – I don’t have time to hear all about the minutiae of Jen’s life today. I finally have one of my own. I’m dying to see the email fallout from lunch, and I’m hopeful I managed to convince Caroline that I’m not mad – well, not as crazed and cruel and horrible as Simon has inferred to her on email. God only knows what he actually says about me when they’re together.
As for the surprise party, Simon will loathe it; he’s a very private person for obvious reasons and to arrive home in a foul mood and be confronted by work colleagues and yummy mummies is his worst nightmare. (Oh yes, in a delicious twist, I’m inviting all the women he flirts with at the school gate that I’m not ‘allowed’ to fraternise with because they are beneath me. I’m hoping they’ll do their bit by getting very drunk, saying stupid things and embarrassing him in front of his stuffy old colleagues – and, of course, Caroline.)
This party will be where I finally come out from under his thumb, where I prove I’m okay, where I show the world I’m a sane wife and mother, and he’s the dysfunctional one. After all this time doing his bidding, walking on eggshells, I’m going to reclaim my kids, my life and the Marianne I used to be. I am suffocated by him. He has to know where I am all the time and has opinions on anyone and everyone I so much as talk to, yet I’ve always been kept away from his world. He’s always had his secrets – never involved me in his working life. I know few of his friends and, as much as he can, he avoids doing anything with me that involves other people. Perhaps he’s worried I might bump into the skeletons in his closet or the women sharing his bed? Too late Simon.
I collect the boys, give them home-made vegetable soup and when they’ve finished let them play in the garden to run off some energy. Sophie’s already home from her driving lesson and doing her homework. I’ve never known her to be so conscientious – I’m hopeful she’s finally settling in at school. I make a cup of camomile tea, take two pills, dig out Alfie’s iPad and sit in the kitchen, watching the boys through the window. I feel a little guilty using my six-year-old’s tablet to spy on my husband and his lover, but needs must.
Delighted to see there’s been a flurry of emails this afternoon, I settle down to read them.
Hi babe, sorry I missed you earlier, had lunch with an old friend.
So, Caroline, you kept our secret?
‘Are you coming over tonight?’ she asks.
Yes, but only if you promise to wear my favourite underwear.
Underwear? God, he’s such a cliché. I almost regurgitate my seafood linguine. I bought new underwear last year, when I thought he was seeing the barmaid. I ordered it from the internet. It looked great on the model – black silk slip, stockings and suspenders, not brash but classy. So all dressed up by lamplight, I waited on our bed for Simon to come home after drinks with ‘colleagues’, hours after the pub had closed. I was sure he’d been with the twenty-two-year-old who served his red wine at room temperature, but I’d also tried to convince myself I was mistaken and hoped that if I wore something nice he might just love me again. But when he walked into the bedroom, the look on his face wasn’t one of passion, it was one of disgust. I’d felt so vulnerable and quickly reached for the sheets to cover myself before he could say what he was clearly thinking. I wanted to protect myself, but I couldn’t, and he tore the sheet away and beat me with his words.
‘For Christ’s sake, Marianne, you’re a mother not an ageing streetwalker.’ Remembering it stings afresh, even now, like salt in an old wound that won’t heal. But I’m not the old Marianne any more and my husband’s longing for another woman in lingerie will not be the end of me.
I’m sure our lunchtime meeting has cast doubt on Caroline’s relationship with my husband. I find it hard to believe that she will be ‘normal’ with him having just found out that Simon and his wife are buying a ‘forever’ holiday home. My references to our sex life and marital bliss including ‘fresh starts’ and ‘past indiscretions’ will all be in the mix in her head now. She’ll be torturing herself and, hopefully, torturing him soon.
And just then a new email pops up from her that indicates everything is going to plan. Their emails are instantaneous, just like texts, but so much safer, more hidden. Think again.
Hey I didn’t realise you were thinking of buying a place in Tuscany?
I’m not, why would you think that?
Oh, just something Roger was saying this afternoon about buying a place there, he seemed to think you were doing the same?
Telling him little white lies already, Caroline? Naughty girl.
No, but I’d love to buy a holiday home together with you one day.
I’d rather talk about how you’re going to take all my clothes off and…
My heart sinks a little – she isn’t exactly pushing him on this, is she? In fact she seems to be over our lunch already, and back to seducing my husband! God, Caroline, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you that desperate?
I read on as the emails get heavier, more intense, the sexual dialogue hinting at different, more adventurous acts, involving sex toys and pain. Simon loves to hurt, be it in the kitchen or the bedroom, the mind or the body, and this comes through in his sexual proclivities too. The first time he wanted to slap me during sex I was horrified, but over the years I’ve endured more because I was scared he’d might leave me if I didn’t. He knows how I feel but rolls his eyes at my tears and slaps me harder if I don’t pretend to be enjoying it. It’s become more frequent over the years, but I’ve learned how to escape in my head.
Once, I asked him to stop and he was so angry with me, I cowered on the bed, waiting for my punishment. But instead he slowly got up, got dressed and left the house, leaving me tied to the bed. I couldn’t release my wrists from the manacles, and I just lay there naked in the dark crying silently, waiting for him to come home and release me. At 7 a.m. the next morning my alarm went off and when I couldn’t reach it to turn it off Sophie came in to find me, shivering and crying, on the bed. She let out a little yelp when she saw me and I told her, through tears of humiliation and hurt, that Daddy and I were playing a game and he’d run away to tease me. I told her where the key was and she opened the locks on my wrists. She never mentioned it again, nor did I. She was ten.
Chapter Twenty
I call Caroline on Wednesday evening. After the briefest of greetings, I waffle on to her about drizzled olive oil over bloody figs and Parma ham and then channel my inner Julia Child and talk long and hard about the pros and cons of unmoulded chicken liver custards. ‘A Julia classic,’ I guffaw down the phone like a lunatic chef on crack. I don’t give a fuck about canapés for Simon’s ‘promotion’ party. My primary aim (along with a desire to irritate her and ruin her evening) is to establish whether Simon’s with her tonight – and after about forty-five minutes of my culinary nonsense, I think I can safely say she’s alone. This means he’s with our solicitor – planning my future without my knowledge. Oh how I’d love to lace those pretentious liver custards with the finest arsenic and
serve them to him on a dainty platter at his surprise party.
I’d honestly hoped that by now our lunch meeting would have taken seed and they might have split. But it looks like she’s not budging – the explicit emails and constant smiley selfies confirm this – and it seems Simon is also continuing with his plans to divorce me. So before I find myself certified and locked up in a mental institution for the rest of my life, I will bring out the big guns, throw my party and ruin them both. Let’s see how long their love lasts after that.
I put the phone down, angry and hurt that he’s with his solicitor right now going through with his plan to get rid of me. But I am comforted by the thought that I have a plan too, and I log on to his emails for a rummage around in his tawdry love life. Simon said it was a waste of time making handbags and, compared to this latest hobby, he’s right – there are far better ways I can spend my time. I love coming up with new ways to inflict a fresh sting of insecurity on Caroline, another layer of doubt into her smug life, then checking the fallout online. She won’t forget what I’ve said. I just need to prepare for the party while building on my already good work of layering on the perfect marriage, the perfect kids, the perfect life – and all the time revealing the lies her lover tells her. Along with my perfect Instagram posts, I feel like I’ve finally discovered a way to erase his lies and have a voice.
As much as I’m enjoying all this, there are days when I just wonder if I should confront him about the affair and be done with it. But the emails won’t be enough – he will deny it or, worse still, use it to justify the divorce and ensure I’m the one who comes out of if childless and homeless. No, I’m doing the right thing. I have to confront them both. I have to be clever and end this once and for all. I want his relationship in tatters, his career over and I want him on his knees. And if that sounds harsh, I have to remind myself that this is exactly what he’s done to me – and he recruited help in the form of the fragrant Caroline, who will go down with him. I don’t want to be too cruel, but she started it and whatever happens to the pregnancy would be collateral right?
I’m just about to log off when I see earlier he made an order for silk underwear; seemingly his favourite set needs an upgrade. He’ll be with David now, so won’t be accessing his emails and I open it and see the lovely scarlet set, frilly and silky and soft to the touch. I feel sick but realise that life is handing me these lemons to make lemonade, so I immediately go through the order and see there’s a two-hour window to make changes to the order. So I change the delivery address to our home – how delighted I’ll be when it arrives, and I’ll thank my husband and tell him how wonderful he is, as he stands there dumbfounded, unable to work out exactly what happened.
Next, I go on to her Instagram and officially follow her. That will freak her out and make her feel exposed, but now we’re friends, ladies who lunch, I think it’s perfectly acceptable for me to ‘like’ all her posts. How frustrating for her. No more glamorous pictures with cryptic notes and secret hashtags bragging to her girlfriends about the married lover. So I’ve now ‘liked’ all those, and congratulated her on her ‘wonderful baby news’ under the photo of the bloody embryo – talk about too much information. She’ll be posting her bloody smear test results next!
Finally, I take a photo of a half-drunk bottle of Merlot with two glasses by the bed. #DateNight #EarlyNight #MarriedLife #TwoCanPlay.
Read it and weep, Caroline!
My underwear parcel arrives a couple of days after I ordered it, and I open it, lay the red silk on the bed, photograph it and put it straight on Instagram. #AGiftFromMyHusband.
Hope you like it, Caroline – apparently red underwear is your favourite.
Then I text Simon one of the photos, thanking him profusely for the lovely gift. He doesn’t respond; he probably thinks he’s going mad.
Welcome to my world, Simon. #GaslightingForGirls.
Later in the week I suggest ‘a great idea’ to the kids: that we put up our Christmas tree early. The boys are on the ceiling with excitement and I ask them to text Dad and tell him their great idea. Simon has to go along with it when he comes home because the boys are so excited and Sophie thinks I’ve lost the plot but also finds it hard to say no to two excited six-year-olds waving tinsel.
I post our early family Christmas with gusto; it’s early October but I reckon I can get away with it – #Only12WeeksToGo. I’m worried if I don’t bring Christmas forward and really screw with her head I could be locked up by then. My three gorgeous children are sporting matching Christmas jumpers and drinking hot chocolate and the five of us are decorating the tree (which Simon did under duress). We are all smiling for the camera, and it hasn’t even occurred to him in his stupid elf hat that these photos will be seen by his sophisticated lover. It’s hilarious. I even dig out some plastic mistletoe and ask one of the boys to take a photo of Daddy and I ‘under the mistletoe’ and kiss him just as it clicks. I’m delighted with the results; you could mistake the grimace on his face for a smile as I pucker up. #EarlyChristmasKiss.
If I could make a wish, I’d love for Caroline to disappear into thin air and for us to continue as a family. I know he isn’t perfect, but Simon has been less present of late and I’ve been able to keep up appearances and keep him happy by cooking and cleaning. He’s been so busy with his new role at work he didn’t even notice an errant throw over the back of the sofa, and the empty bag of Monster Munch Charlie left in the car. Even the sex has been quick, perfunctory and painless. I could carry on like this: no highs and lows, just life and lies in my handmade German kitchen along with my family of five. But while she’s waiting in the wings, I’m in serious danger of finding myself back in the clinic and I can’t let that happen, so I have to fight. My ultimate goal is to keep my children together – with me. I won’t move my family again, nor do I have any intention of leaving – I’ve messed the kids around so much, I owe it to them to stay here. So the only answer is to scare her off, get her out of Simon’s life and therefore mine – if I don’t, I could spend the rest of my days sitting on a bench in an over-manicured garden doped up to the eyeballs.
* * *
I’ve spent the whole week preparing for the surprise party – planning canapés with the catering company, ordering several crates of champagne and flowers, so many flowers. I’ve also bought my dress – midi-length red velvet – which will set off my new highlights and be perfect for this evening’s soiree. I’m sure Simon will hate me being blonde, after all he already has one blonde, but tonight he’ll have other problems to deal with.
Tonight I’m going to show Caroline what I have, and what I hold. Till death us do part. I want her to be under no illusions: these are my kids, it’s my home, it’s where I live with my family, and I’ve worked hard and endured much to remain here. Despite everything, I still have feelings for Simon. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved and the father of my children. He’s the man who saved me – but he also destroyed me.
Now it’s my turn to destroy him.
I’ve filled the house with white roses, huge hydrangeas and lilies, inspired by Simon’s beautiful, fortnightly bouquet.
Expensive, out of season blooms, Caroline… because I’m worth it.
His bouquet arrived yesterday and I couldn’t help but remember the time when we were first together and the first time he came home one evening with a dozen roses.
‘Who are they for?’ I’d asked. ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’
He’d laughed and said I was so sweet, so unaffected, and that’s why he loved me. #Vulnerable #RipeForThePicking.
No one had ever given me flowers before, and he was incredibly touched by my delighted, tearful response. He’d held both my hands in his and said, ‘I promise to fill your world with flowers, Marianne… flowers and happiness always.’ I still get the flowers, every two weeks; the happiness is more sporadic and rare these days. But that will all change tonight when I take back my life.
Does he bring you flowers, Caroline?
&n
bsp; Ironically and hilariously, given that I forced her to meet with me and hand over names of ideal guests, I’ve invited no one on Caroline’s list. As it all began as a ruse and I never intended on having a party, it wasn’t important whose name was on her sad little list. But now the party is really happening I can’t bear to think of her friends in my home; it’s bad enough that she’ll be here. I’ve invited my friends though – Jen and Francesca, and some of the other mums too. I need tonight to go viral, and with the playground gossips that’s guaranteed. I mentioned at the school gate that I was planning a surprise party for Simon and if anyone would like to pop in it would be an open house, but not a word to Simon. I want to take him by surprise. I’ve never done anything before that I haven’t checked with him first – I’m feeling rather rebellious. What have I got to lose?
Everything.
Chapter Twenty-One
Since I found out about the affair, I’ve focused all my resentment on Caroline – she only had to say no to save me and my children. But now I realise that she is merely the symptom, not the cause and, as much as I dislike her, she isn’t the one who lies to me, puts me down, controls me and hurts me physically and emotionally – that’s all my husband’s work. It’s taken a while for everything to sink in, and for a long time I believed I loved Simon, thought he was everything – and in a way he was, because, thanks to him, I had nothing and no one else. But just reading the emails has slowly brought me out of the hibernation of my marriage. The brainwashing that he inflicted on me turned my head to mush and I needed this wake-up call. Yes, Caroline is the catalyst, and she’s been instrumental in breaking up my family, but he’s my husband, the father of our children, and he is happy to tear us apart from within. So now I’m turning my focus to both of them, and however difficult my life might be as a result, I just need all my children with me. No more moving house, no more affairs imagined or otherwise – I will take control of my destiny, and tonight I’ll cut the cancer out of my life.