It had taken me seconds to find the messages from someone called Sarah asking for more money. He clearly had some sort of mistress or was using an escort service. I never confronted him because I was relieved, partly because I thought perhaps he wouldn’t notice if I spent more time at the office – with Robert – and, partly because Zoe had been going through a tough time at school preparing for her GCSEs. The last thing she needed was me and her father arguing.
As my mind wandered, I thought about what I had seen a few nights ago. I had spotted Robert talking to someone, a girl, in the college quad. I had seen her silhouetted as she stood behind a column and I’d thought I caught the briefest glimpse of blonde hair. It was dark, the night heavy with fog, and I had heard her laughter tinkling through the air like smashed glass falling on a tiled floor; its sound had cut through my heart. They had walked in the direction of the library. I followed behind, slipping in and out of the shadows of the maze of ancient stone corridors leading onto other bare stone rooms, trying desperately to keep up with their brisk pace. I lost them momentarily but then I opened a rickety door out onto the college green, my eyes scanning the arcade running around its perimeter. I headed in the direction of the main entrance and, as I approached, I had caught a flash of movement off to my left.
I remembered how I walked softly over the lawn and moved towards the corner of the Elizabethan building.
Then I heard them.
I’d flushed hot at being witness to their voices, their hushed tones and urgent whispers. I had not dared enter the room; I hadn’t wanted to see Robert with a younger woman, despite having known deep down that it was bound to happen, that it would be better for him. I peered through the slit in the door and had been able to make out the briefest glimpse of the woman’s ankle. I remembered now how I’d thought I had seen a tattoo, my eyes momentarily captivated by her young skin; then, with a sudden rush of overwhelming jealousy, I ran to my car and drove home quickly. I hadn’t been able to remove the tattoo from my mind, and I still couldn’t. It jarred me every time I thought about it; I felt the same whenever I thought about Robert’s tattoo. His gift, he had called it, to me. Only it felt symbolic of everything I wasn’t: a tattoo represented smooth, unwrinkled skin, spontaneity, and unfulfilled adventures. My life, in comparison, had often felt stale and uninspired. That was until Robert came into it last September.
I had vowed to forget about it. I hadn’t actually seen anything after all, but having lain awake all night, I’d confronted Robert the next afternoon.
‘What, Anne? She’s just a friend.’ He had smiled that heart-melting grin and I’d nodded, and momentarily convinced myself he was telling the truth. But the niggling doubt wouldn’t subside and I knew it was fuelled by my guilt. Who was I to tell him he couldn’t see another woman?
I slapped the shower tile with my hand in frustration, my skin covered in goosebumps from the air hitting my skin. The frustration was that Zoe would never understand that her father, Stephen, was still punishing me for the early days with Zoe. No matter how many medical reports had confirmed the post-natal depression, he’d never forgiven me, and he never would.
I stepped out of the shower, my skin red-raw from first the heat and then the cold air, and cleared the steam from the mirror with the palm of my hand. My reflection caught me unawares: how did Robert find me attractive? I looked old, tired and long past my prime.
I knew I should phone Zoe, check she was okay, check she’d had a fun night at Keira’s house, but I worried she would somehow know I hadn’t been at home. She would know that I was sleeping with a man almost half my age. She would know that I was trapped in the most deliciously exciting and terrifying situation I had ever known.
I wrapped a white fluffy towel around my body and padded over to my dressing table. I started to apply blusher to my cheeks but quickly stopped. What was I doing? Stephen would expect to see me without make-up. I had to keep up a level of normality for Stephen, and for Zoe. I put down the blusher brush and raided the walk-in wardrobe for a pair of jeans and a shirt. Running a brush through my hair, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror, and let out a sharp laugh. Robert would sooner die than see me like this. He had seen me in my work suits, in silky underwear that I had to keep in my locked drawer at work, but he had never seen me dressed down like this. No, I realised, staring at my image, this was what came of nearly eighteen years with a controlling husband. I glanced at a photo of our wedding day on the dresser. The gilt-edged frame had been a gift from Stephen – a gaudy token that only reminded me of the furious argument and weeks of silence for which it had been an apology. The frame, to me, reflected everything in our Oxfordshire house and stale marriage: Stephen surrounded himself with the finest, showiest things, whatever would hide the cracks in the critically unstable foundations. To outsiders, perhaps, we looked like a family who were doing well. We had been in the house for our entire married life; it was all we knew. Years ago I had tried to hang some artwork from my student days on the wall but he had immediately banished the pieces to the attic.
I had adored being pregnant, watching my body change shape; a miracle, our own child, growing inside me. I had naively thought it would bring us together, that Stephen and I would be okay. But then something had happened. Something unexpected.
Zoe was born and I cried. Stephen had looked at me then as if I were the most unnatural woman he had ever come across. I wanted to love Zoe, but I couldn’t reconcile this screaming, red-faced alien with the wonder and excitement I’d felt being pregnant. Whenever I thought about my reaction to Zoe entering the world, I was filled with a gnawing sense of guilt and betrayal. I tried to explain to Stephen that I didn’t feel like my normal self, that it felt like another woman had entered my body and was mechanically going about the day-to-day duties of childcare. I could only describe it as an out of body experience. Stephen plucked Zoe from my arms the moment she was wrapped in the blanket by the midwife, and held her tight, as I turned my head and soaked the pillow with tears.
My mobile rang, cutting through my thoughts. I picked it up, my hand shaking and clamped it to my ear in an attempt to control my nerves. It was Stephen.
‘Hi,’ I said, injecting a false cheeriness into my voice. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Are you at home?’ His voice sounded panicked, and I felt a prickle of guilt and anticipation crawl over my body.
‘Yes, why?’
He exhaled loudly. ‘I texted Zoe last night from the conference to see how she was getting on but she hasn’t replied. Is she okay? Was she okay with you last night?’ He coughed. ‘I mean, I know how hard she’s finding college at the moment, so I worry, you know.’
My heart started to drum in my ears. I didn’t know what to say: I couldn’t admit to not being here last night, to leaving only a voicemail for Zoe, not actually speaking to her, saying I was fine with her staying at Keira’s house as she’d asked.
‘She was fine, as far as I could make out,’ I lied.
‘Oh, okay, well maybe she’ll give me a ring later?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll let her know you’re worried.’
I willed him to ask me how I was, but he didn’t and hung up.
The clock by the bed read nine a.m. On any ordinary Saturday, I would be getting dressed, listening to the giddy chat of Stephen and Zoe in the kitchen as they discussed their plans for the day. Today the house was cloaked in an unbearable silence. I almost wished I hadn’t left the warmth of Robert’s body, his legs wrapped around me as he slept, while I had watched his face, so youthful – so smooth – twitching ever so slightly as he slumbered. I texted Zoe asking if she was okay and headed downstairs with my laundry, careful to remove the lacy bra from my bag and pop it in the wash, too. I needed to erase all the evidence.