She loved being Mrs David Chatsworth. She loved David, warts and all; her love for him had never wavered, though he had tested her patience over the years. Friends had had their doubts about whether the relationship would last, but she and David had not only survived, they had flourished. Not that he was perfect by any means. She accepted David’s flaws and loved him more for them. Like the time he’d accidentally tried cocaine on a stag night. In a state of paranoia, he’d called her at four in the morning to collect him from an outdated holiday camp in Bognor Regis. Then there was the way he could never replace a depleted toilet roll. He was oblivious to dishwasher etiquette. He left his toenail clippings on the side of the bath. When incensed by the neighbour’s dog using their garden as a toilet, he’d embarrassed the entire street by hollering from the front door, ‘HONEY, THERE IS A STRANGE DOG TAKING A SHIT ON OUR LAWN,’ ignoring the fact that the offending Dalmatian was literally attached to their neighbour by a lead. And the time he forgot Rachel was allergic to apples, which resulted in a visit to Accident & Emergency. And even then, they still managed to laugh. They’d had years of happiness together – or so she had been led to believe.
Not once, in all their years of marriage, had she suspected David of having an affair. Where were the warning signs? He had been spending less time at home recently, it was true. He was working late at the office, preparing for the buy-out of his IT company. Rachel wondered if the sale would happen at this rate, or was he drawing out the process to gain extra time with his mistress before he announced that the deal had fallen through? In the last few months he had swapped running for attending the gym. The gym! she thought. It was surely a ruse to climb upon his gym bunny thrice-weekly. The redhead had the body of a personal trainer. Rachel Googled David’s gym and searched the website for the staff section. She swiped through all the beautiful profiles. No redhead.
Back to the drawing board.
When friends complained about cheating spouses, they were almost gleeful about spotting the blatant philandering, as if their marriages were cosy crime dramas where the ‘butler/husband did it’. There had been nothing visibly amiss in Rachel and David’s life together though. True, they’d both been busy at work, David preoccupied with the buy-out and Rachel accepting more clients than she should have, afraid to turn away new business. They were tired in the evenings and intimacy was largely replaced with TV box sets while sex was sometimes substituted with chocolate Gü pots. They still had sex though, still kissed each other goodbye in the morning, still spooned in bed. David hadn’t become secretive or changed his passwords. He was such a terrible liar. However, when it really counted, Rachel had not suspected a thing. On reflection, it was clear he’d used text messages and notes left on the kitchen top to keep her updated with fictitious movements, resulting in few to no lie-detecting opportunities.
Rachel regretted not confronting her husband and his new squeeze right then and there on the street when she had the chance. What if she’d run them over? Would the police have believed it was an accident? Probably not. She could see the headline: Husband and MUCH younger lover mowed down, wife says it was an ACCIDENT. There wasn’t a jury in the world that would find her not guilty.
Still, how could she have just sat there and done nothing? She should have jumped out and unleashed an almighty verbal assault on them both. But she hadn’t. Ultimately, it was the right call. If she had caught her husband in the act and confronted him there and then … now it would be game over! Some marriages survive infidelity, but she’d always assumed she was the sort of person who wouldn’t tolerate a partner’s affair. She’d never seriously thought she would have to contemplate such a thing, though. Of course, that was if David wanted to save their marriage. A damning thought occurred to her: what if he was madly in love with the mystery girl? What if he’d already planned to leave Rachel, and shack up with the twenty-something redhead and live happily ever after with her?
It was clear to her now that she was destined for jaded divorcee-spinsterhood. She’d wallow in self-pity, drown in wine, and warn young people never to fall in love. She would stop being invited to weddings for fear she would make a scene. She’d adopt an unreasonable number of cats and become a modern-day Miss Havisham. She had always wanted an excuse to wear her wedding dress again. It was last seen in the attic. She picked up her phone to Google how to upcycle a wedding dress.
The phone buzzed in her hand. She saw Eva’s name pop up. She had sent a picture of a deep purple manicure and a text message:
Eva: What can I bring tomorrow night? X
A new husband? Or perhaps a gun? Eva was resourceful, she would know how to get her hands on weaponry. Instead Rachel replied:
Rachel: Just yourself. Rx
She was reminded that in less than twenty-four hours approximately forty of their nearest and dearest would descend on the house for a bonanza celebration. She contemplated her options; she did not want to cancel the anniversary party. She had a kilo of defrosted Marks & Spencer’s sustainably farmed smoked salmon in the fridge that she wouldn’t eat on her own and didn’t want to waste, and she was not ready to explain to all their guests that the selfish and rampant behaviour of one David Chatsworth had ruined their marriage. No, she wouldn’t cancel the party. What was one more day of pretence? She let out a sigh and added more serum to her neck.
All she wanted was to return to the state of blissful ignorance that was formally known as her happy marriage. Rachel would have to keep David’s infidelity to herself for the time being. She was determined everyone was going to bloody well enjoy the weekend and then her life could unravel in private.
She heard the front door close.
Her prodigal husband had returned.
2
For their anniversary date night, Rachel chose a slim-fitting teal dress and applied her luxurious red Hourglass lipstick. While getting ready, she had primed herself for a swift announcement from her husband that he was leaving her so he could set up home with the red-haired temptress instead. It was the only way to cope. Rachel wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t going to make a scene. She would keep her head held high and not let David see the cracks. She would dictate an amicable split, stage-manage a ‘conscious uncoupling’. And above all she would not become hysterical, because if she became hysterical, and he then called her hysterical, she might actually kill him.
Rachel wondered if false eyelashes would be too much. She decided not. She applied glue to them and, while she waited for the adhesive to become tacky, started to make a list of her settlement demands.
Rachel wanted:
1) the food processor and the coffee machine;
2) the new charcoal-coloured corner sofa – with the chaise end – that they had on order from John Lewis;
3) the cats.
How had she chosen the cats third after kitchen appliances and furniture? She really had lost the plot.
Rachel fixed the eyelashes and finished her outfit with the pair of pearl earrings David had bought her for their first wedding anniversary. At the bottom of the stairs she took one last glance in the mirror. She was ready.
‘You look nice,’ David said.
Rachel smiled. Nice? NICE? NICE!? Peonies look nice. Boats harboured in a marina at sunset look nice. Paintings by nine-year-olds look nice. When did Rachel become nice and – more to the point – when had David ever settled for nice?
He placed his hand on her neck. Rachel held her breath and stared into his eyes as she tried to move away from his embrace.
‘Your dress is …’
Rachel’s dress was open an inch at the top. David closed the zip to the nape of her neck and delicately kissed the naked skin above.
‘There, that’s better.’
A small shiver passed through her body, igniting goose pimples and awakening her erogenous zones like a steel ball ricocheting through a pinball machine. She tried to clamp down the confusion caused by his touch.
David fought melodramatically with a magnum of Prosecco
as if the bottle was a crocodile she needed saving from; one of their in-jokes that he liked to break out on every possible occasion. It seemed stupid that she’d ever found the charade remotely funny. He topped up two flutes already packed with brandy and bitters and a brown sugar cube each.
CHAMPAGNE COCKTAIL RECIPE
100 ml Champagne (Prosecco/sparkling wine may be substituted)
15 ml Cognac
1 splash of Angostura bitters
1 brown sugar cube
1 maraschino cherry to garnish
Note: If one has the time to make homemade Angostura sugar cubes, one has too much time on one’s hands.
‘To us – and our happy union.’ He kissed her on the cheek.
The words ‘happy’ and ‘union’ tightened the knot in Rachel’s stomach.
‘Fifteen glorious years. Cheers!’ Their glasses touched and the high-pitched clinking sound echoed against the high ceiling, filling the silence. Rachel wondered what he would do if she hurled the crystal flute towards his head. David took a sip of his drink and smiled his self-satisfied, lupine grin.
Dickhead.
On a normal evening, Rachel would ask after his afternoon. She would waffle on about her own day, but tonight small talk felt perfunctory; small talk for her small life. It was all too much. She was busy concentrating all her efforts on not crying.
Within seconds, Rachel was competing for attention with David’s phone.
‘So you found it? I tried calling you earlier.’ It felt like pushing a bruise. It hurt but there was a sick sense of gratification in watching him squirm.
‘Did you?’ His voice was uncomfortably high. ‘It must have been on charge’.
Lies, lies and more lies. David’s phone display was alive with activity and the case vibrated against the marble-topped surface of the coffee table. He scrolled through the notifications. Rachel nodded for him to take the call but her eyes asked if it was more important than their special evening. He turned over the device.
‘It can wait – it’s our anniversary!’
She raised an eyebrow as if to enquire what or who could wait but he didn’t furnish her with any further information. Rachel’s anger threatened to boil over.
Come on, just do it already! End the marriage. Walk out. Leave!
It was The David Show and she was demoted to a bit part in his life. Soon she’d be written out entirely with another woman cast as his love interest. She took a deep breath, fighting down both anger and pain. Their marriage was a sham. How could he even look her in the eye?
David had mentioned going to their favourite restaurant – El Salvador – but apparently by the time he called to reserve a table it was fully booked. They reverted to their weekly Friday night takeaway. Rachel ordered the hottest curry on the menu to distract her heartache by punishing her taste buds.
She wondered if her husband still fancied her. She watched him intently as he discussed the dull particulars of the company buy-out. His eyes didn’t drop from her face. No looks, hidden or otherwise, at her cleavage. She purposefully dropped her napkin and bent over. David didn’t give her bottom a single glance. She held her posterior in the air and let the pose linger. No, nothing.
‘New earrings?’
No! They are not new. You bought them. For me. When you still loved me. Eejit!
‘Maybe.’ Rachel fingered the jewellery to give the impression she couldn’t remember which pair she was wearing. Had she thought that they could magically rekindle his affection for her? That he would notice the pearls and remember their first year of marriage and realise the error of his ways and beg for forgiveness? There was only one idiot in this relationship, and that was herself, Rachel thought.
There’s a reason Indian food is never cited as an aphrodisiac. The delicious dishes – butter chicken (extra hot), vegetable biryani, saag bhaji, aloo muttar, poppadoms and naan bread with lashings of garlic oil – left Rachel feeling full to bursting.
Since David hadn’t announced his departure from the marriage, and gave little sign of doing so, she had to wonder if he was the sort of man who could live with conducting an affair. What if this wasn’t his first? What if he was exactly the sort of man who had AFFAIRS?
She wondered if her husband’s libido had been sucked dry by the flame-haired seductress. God, the thought of that harlot fellating David was too much. Grief washed over her again and there was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t dissolve. She wanted to prove to her husband she was still a worthy contender for the role of wife. What if it wasn’t too late to win him back? What if she found a cushion and used it to protect her knees as she dropped to the plush carpet? She could unbutton his fly and … She tried to think when she had last given him a blowjob. Was it as long ago as Christmas? Or before that even? There was of course his birthday blowjob, but had she last year …? Or was it the birthday before that?
Her reverie was interrupted when David kissed her on the nose and told her he’d had a long day and suggested they cuddle in front of the television. Rachel wanted to query what part of his day off work was so exhausting but instead she nodded and pushed down on the corners of her eyes to hold back the tears threatening to make an appearance. She escaped to the kitchen for a liquid breather. David raised an eyebrow when she returned with more wine. He could be a judgemental bastard at times. Didn’t he realise that this was his fault? It was his behaviour that had driven her to drink.
Neville appeared in the doorway, trailed by Oscar his black-and-white friend. Oscar jumped up onto her lap while Neville draped himself across her feet. Did she imagine it or were they trying to lift her mood with their mewing and purring? Did the cats know about the other woman? Had David brought her here? Had she met Neville and Oscar?
Rachel wasn’t sure what constituted an affair but even snogging other people was a definite no-no so far as she was concerned. She mentally reviewed the incriminating facts so far while David soon fell asleep in front of the finale of Masterchef. This too was added to the growing list of evidence against him:
– the kiss on the high street (Concrete proof);
– cuddle in front of the television in place of anniversary marathon bonk (Anecdotal);
– exhaustion from all the extramarital sex (Hypothesis).
David started to snore. She moved away from him until not even their elbows were touching. It was petty but at that moment it felt like a small victory. Rachel stayed in front of the television without watching the programme. She couldn’t give a flying fig which pompous amateur whisked up the best meringue. I’ve not tried this recipe before; I hope it turns out well. As if anyone would go on national television – a cooking show no less – having never tried that dish before. It was such bullshit.
Rachel had read enough magazine articles informing her that her good years were behind her. Scorned women shouted in films: ‘HE TOOK MY BEST YEARS!’ The thought of dating again terrified her; she physically shuddered at the prospect. She wondered how difficult it would be to find another husband. If David was bonking someone twenty years his junior, Rachel calculated she would have to start man-shopping in the over-fifties aisle. It wasn’t going to be easy; she’d have to trudge through heaps of divorcees. And there could be the trials and tribulations that came with being a stepmother, as well as perhaps being the second or third or fourth wife.
Plus there had been a worldwide sexual awakening in the last decade; she blamed Internet pornography.
She heard nightmare stories from friends, and friends of friends, about online dating. They were adult fairy tales told to warn others. Stories involving a catalogue of unbridled men expecting fellatio or, worse, desiring anal sex on a first date. And then not phoning afterwards! And then there was ghosting, orbiting, breadcrumbing … she wasn’t sure which was which; they all sounded awful.
Rachel convulsed at the horrific thought of having to get to know a new penis. She knew David’s appendage; they were old friends – or ‘besties’, millennials might say. Rachel couldn’t a
ctually picture another penis. She refused to check the Internet for penile images; she didn’t want that request seared on her search history for all eternity. Even when you delete something it’s never quite erased allegedly. Anyway, as she recalled, they were an ugly bunch with protruding veins. It was more the personality of David’s cock she had warmed to over the years. She had got used to his angry-looking cycloptic phallus.
David opened his eyes to find Rachel staring at his crotch.
She downed her glass of bubbles with gusto.
‘Rachel …’ David said. His voice was quiet and gentle. ‘Please don’t freak out. Sit still.’
This was it. Confession time.
‘And don’t move.’
Rachel took a deep breath.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
‘I don’t want you to worry but …’
Rachel didn’t want to cry. She wasn’t going to cry, she ordered herself. As David lunged at her, she moved her head back.
‘What the fuck, David …?’
‘Stay still – you’ve got a spider on your cheek.’
Rachel screamed and slapped both sides of her face. ‘Get it off, get it off!’
David gently picked the squashed black mess from her cheek and Rachel realised that in his hand was a crushed line of false eyelashes.
David didn’t notice. He didn’t notice it wasn’t a spider. And he didn’t notice Rachel’s lopsided eye make-up. When had he stopped looking at her?
‘Don’t hate me but I forgot to pick up the cake.’
‘Not to worry, I can collect it in the morning,’ Rachel said in a sarcastic sing-song tone. She jumped up, scaring away both cats in the process, and released a silent scream into the depths of the fridge. Come on, Rachel, you can do this. You just need to keep it together for another forty-eight hours.
How to Marry Your Husband Page 2