Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect

by Knights, Sarah Catherine

  So, all things considered, I wasn’t surprised that we didn’t talk to each other that Saturday morning. We’d got up late; we sat together at the breakfast table, you looking at your iPad and me, reading the Times. Married couples do that though – you don’t have to talk to each other all the time, do you? Sometimes, it’s nice to sit companionably silent.

  Our routine at the weekend was usually: me going to the supermarket to do the weekly shop, while you took Gaz for a walk. We’d go to the pub for a drink at lunchtime and in the summer, we’d go down to the club and play tennis in the afternoon, either as a mixed doubles pair, or as singles. We had friends and acquaintances down there and we could usually find someone to play with. We made good doubles partners – you were good at the net and I was good at lobs, at the back. If it was winter, you might still go to tennis, but I was strictly a fair weather player, so I’d stay at home and catch up on housework or marking. If you didn’t play tennis, you’d watch rugby and shout at the television or, do the Telegraph crossword.

  That Saturday morning, you’d suggested we went for a walk together, which, although it wasn’t unprecedented, was unusual enough for me to take note.

  What’s that about, I remember thinking? Little did I know what was coming.

  We did our usual walk – Gaz was pottering happily and you suggested we sat down on the bench. I didn’t particularly want to, it wasn’t that warm and I wanted to get on, but you insisted – so we sat and I remember watching, as Gaz triumphantly found a ball in the undergrowth and ran over to us, with it gripped between his teeth.

  That image is burnt into my brain now – the happy dog running towards me, the yellow of the tennis ball – it’s as if he’s running in hyper slow-motion towards a truck that is going to come out from nowhere and run him over …splat. That’s how it felt – it was as if you’d run me down, and then reversed over my prone body again and again, to make sure I was dead.

  “Anna, I need to tell you something,” you said. I can remember hearing those words and not thinking anything much. I can remember not even turning to look at you; I was watching Gaz, wasn’t I?

  “Anna, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, well … get on with it, then,” I said, sort of jokily ironic, in the way we were prone to speak to each other.

  There was a long pause and this made me turn towards you. You looked pale, your eyes had black rings under them, and for the first time, I wondered what was wrong. Maybe he’s ill, I thought. Maybe he’s going to say he hates his new job and wants to quit?

  “Anna, there’s no easy way to say this … I’m sorry …”

  “What?” I said, finally realising it was something important.

  “Anna … I’ve fallen in love with someone else …”

  Those words still have the same effect on me now, when I think about them. I hear your voice, I see your face … and I feel the pain that literally hit me in the stomach that day. I can remember momentarily wondering if this was your idea of a sick joke … maybe it’s an ill-thought out jape and you’re suddenly going to burst out laughing? But it was fleeting – I only had to look at your face to see that it was true. The pain I felt, flashed through my entire body, leaving me breathless; at that moment, the life drained out of me. I felt I was going to faint.

  “Anna … Anna … did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  I remember leaning forward, putting my head in my hands, my elbows resting on my knees and almost blacking out. It was such a shock. I had no idea you were going to say that to me, no idea at all. No inkling.

  “I’m so sorry,” you said. “I had to tell you. It’s been killing me. I couldn’t live like this, any more.”

  You put your hand on my back but I couldn’t bear your touch. I stood up and almost fell over, as my legs gave way. Gaz, ever hopeful, thought I was going to throw the ball and spat it out at my feet, looking up expectantly.

  “Anna, say something … anything … shout at me, if you want,” you said. I turned towards you and for a split second, I can remember feeling sorry for you – your face looked haggard, ravaged even, but then I remembered what you’d said.

  “Who is it?”

  Your face took on a guilty look and I understood, instantly, that it was someone I knew.

  *

  “Who?” I shouted to the air, not caring that an old couple walking nearby were staring at us. They were quite blatant – they didn’t try to hide their interest at all.

  “Sit down,” you said. “Sit down and I’ll explain.”

  I didn’t want to hear your explanation; I thought it might, quite literally, kill me. But I sat down, like one of your pupils about to be told off. I couldn’t look at you, so I set my eyes on Gaz who was standing in front of me, still holding the ball, with a look of disappointment on his face.

  “I’m so sorry, Anna, I really am. I never meant this to happen. I never set out to hurt you. It crept up on us.”

  The ‘us’ pained me like no other word could. ‘Us’ now referred to you and someone else, not you and me. It was as if you’d stabbed me with a knife, right through the ribs. I drew my eyes away from Gaz and turned to face you.

  “It just happened,” you said.

  “That’s what they all say,” I said. “But it doesn’t just happen, does it? ”

  There was a long silence. The old couple had moved on now, so had Gaz. There was no one else on the rec. I noticed a small flock of black birds swooping overhead; the only sound I could hear was the distant rumble of traffic from the dual-carriageway.

  “So … who is she, then?”

  You looked directly at me, opened your mouth, closed it again and then whispered, “Suzie Barton.”

  Why didn’t I see that coming? Suzie Barton. The woman all the men drool over when she bounces through the staffroom door in her tracksuit, whistle round her neck, blond ponytail swinging. She can’t be more than thirty-six, for God’s sake. I’ve never really got to know her – the PE staff are a group apart, with all their energy and outdoor activities.

  These thoughts were rushing through my head as I stared at you, your face now white, your eyes, haunted. If you’re so in love, why don’t you look happier?

  “Well, say something …” you said. “I’m so sorry … but … you needed to know.”

  “She’s married, isn’t she?”

  “She was … she left him. She and her daughter …”

  “How old?”

  “Her daughter? Gemma’s three – they moved out …”

  “So … was this before or after you ‘fell in love’?” I said, in the most damning, hurtful tone I could muster. I wanted you to see how ridiculous you were being, to make you see how clichéd it was to ‘fall in love’ at your age. I wanted to hurt you, as much as you’d hurt me.

  “Before … they’d split up months before – I wasn’t the cause of their breakup …”

  “How convenient,” I spat, “for her, I mean, to fall in love with someone on a good salary ..."

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “How long … how long have you been screwing her?”

  “Anna … please … it’s not like that … if it was just sex, it’d be easier.”

  “Easier?” I shouted.

  “Yes … because it …”

  “Because you could just screw her and not tell me – is that what you’re saying?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, I suppose it is.” You looked down and probably without realising it, you began twisting your wedding ring around your finger.

  “You didn’t answer my question … how long has it been going on, whatever ‘it’ is?”

  “About six months. It crept up on us both. We didn’t deliberately try to hurt you … you must believe me. I tried to fight it …”

  “Oh please – don’t make out you are the victim. It’s quite simple, David … you’ve been having an affair … and now you’re trying to justify it, by saying you’re ‘in lurve’.”

&nb
sp; You said, very quietly and without any sense of triumph, “As I said, I’ve fallen in love. I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hear any more. I want to get as far away from you as I can, right now. Come on, Gaz, we’re going home.” And with that, I walked away from you, my whole body shaking and feeling as if I was going to be sick. In some ways, I wanted to hear all the gory details … in others, I wanted to pretend you’d never said it. I wanted to shout and scream at you, to hit you, to cry … but I walked away.

  I hoped my back seared into your eyes with its sadness.

  When I was out of sight, I stopped and leant against a tree, my breath coming in gasps, my heart racing, as if I’d just run the whole way. Gaz looked up at me with a worried gaze.

  I stumbled home, my body using its own sat nav system. I could have been walking on Mars for all the awareness of my surroundings I felt. Gaz knew where he was going and kindly led me home, like a generous, old uncle.

  I opened the front door, hung up my coat and leant back against the closed door. It looked a very different hall from the one I’d left an hour before.

  I didn't recognise anything.

  Chapter Three

  So, that’s how he told me. I suppose, looking back, there was no easy way to say it, was there? It was something that had to be said and he said it. He really said it.

  At least he didn’t leave me a note one morning – Hey Anna, Sorry – but I’m moving in with Suzie Barton. Thanks for everything.

  That would have been awful. Or, more awful than this.

  At least I didn’t catch them ‘at it’ in our bed. Imagine the shock of that – wandering home early, unexpectedly and hearing muffled noises coming from upstairs … thinking it’s burglars … and finding them doing something unspeakable to each other … it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  At least I didn’t learn about it from a colleague coming up to me in the staffroom and taking me to one side and saying, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but I really feel you should know … your husband and Suzie Barton are having an affair. Everyone knows, except you.

  Imagine the humiliation, the embarrassment.

  No, when all’s said and done, he told me straight. But then again, saying ‘I’ve fallen in love with someone else’ … that’s really telling you how it is, isn’t it? He didn’t exactly sugarcoat it, did he? Would it have been better if he’d said, I’m having an affair … I fancy someone at school … I don’t love you any more … there are three people in our marriage … I’m having a fling … or as the Australians put it, I’m giving you the flick.

  All those expressions could have led to some kind of response from me – but what can you say to someone who says, I’ve fallen in love with someone else? It’s so honest, so straightforward … so truthful … so final. That’s why I walked away. What could I say?

  He came back, six hours later. God knows where he’d gone in the interval. He didn’t smell of alcohol, so he hadn’t gone to the pub to drown his sorrows. Maybe he went straight round to Suzie’s and said, ‘Well, I’ve done it. I’ve told her. Can I come round tonight? I don’t think I’ll be very welcome at home, any more.’

  Anyway, he came quietly back through the door. I was in the kitchen, staring unseeingly at the television. Some hilarious programme was on, where they show clips of people falling over on dance-floors or hurtling down hills on bikes and crashing into trees, or water-skiers, out of control – it can really make me laugh sometimes.

  When I heard the front door open, my heart began to race. I didn’t know what I was going to say to him, but I knew I had to say something.

  I couldn’t just let him walk away from our marriage, could I?

  I didn’t move. He wandered into the kitchen without saying anything and stood by the sink, looking out into the garden. The silence between us was like a presence in the room; it prowled around like a black cat, twisting itself around the table legs.

  I’m not going to be the one to break the silence, I thought to myself.

  “What do you want me to do?” he said, slowly turning to face me.

  Well, I thought, that’s a strange question … what could I say?

  “Do you still love me?” I said, not knowing why I said it; it came from nowhere.

  “Of course I do – you’re the mother of my children – I’ll always love you. But … this is different … this is …” He ran his fingers through his still abundant hair. “This is … completely different.”

  “How? Tell me …”

  “It’s like ... we’re soul mates. She understands me. She ‘gets’ me.”

  With wonderful comic timing, there was a burst of canned laughter from the television set.

  “What … I don’t ‘get’ you? After all these years?”

  “I don’t know, it’s like I’ve met the other half of me. When I’m with her, I feel completely happy.” He was now facing me and came towards me and stood to the side of the TV, trying to make me see him.

  This was getting worse. He was explaining, but with every sentence he was making me feel more … worthless.

  “Well, it sounds wonderful,” I said, “for YOU. It sounds like love’s young dream, like Brief Fucking Encounter, like Brad and Fucking Angelina. But for ME, it’s truly, fucking shit … TRULY, FUCKING SHIT,” I found myself shouting. I was also, without realising it, now standing and poking him in the chest, with every foul word that was coming out of my mouth.

  His face had a sort of shocked expression, as if he’d just been told he’d got terminal cancer. He was trying to step backward and I was following him now, pushing him hard in the stomach, with the heel of my hand.

  “How do you think it feels? How do you think it feels … to have YOU telling ME how FUCKING wonderful you feel with HER?” I yelled, now leaning in on him, my face right in his, spitting in his face, my veins standing out, unattractively, in my neck. Not the most endearing picture of me to take away with him. Not the best way to hold onto him, for sure.

  But what did it matter? He’d made up his mind, anyway, and I’d lost all control. I’d been pretty restrained at the rec and now in the privacy of my own home, I had the right to shout at him, didn’t I? I wasn’t going to give in gracefully and say, Well, go and have a wonderful life with Suzie fucking Barton, was I? He was going to find out just how much he’d hurt me.

  It left me wrung out, like an old J cloth. I was totally raving mad for thirty minutes but … I’ve never been like that before and hopefully will never be like it, again. I think I had every right, every f***ing right, though. (I don’t normally approve of swearing – I tell my pupils it just shows that they don’t have a very good vocabulary, but sometimes, just sometimes, that word really hits the spot.)

  When I’d stopped shouting, prodding and pushing, I collapsed onto the sofa. Gaz, by this stage, was showing signs of acute paranoia and had retreated to his bed, in shock. He wasn’t used to us shouting – we hadn’t been a couple who went in for loud arguments and yelling. We were quietly happy, until that day.

  Simon Cowell was now smirking at me from the television screen in his smarmy, superior way. Do I have the X Factor for shouting abuse at my spouse, I wondered? A thousand percent yes, says Simon. See you in boot camp, Anna.

  David, meanwhile, had accepted defeat and left the kitchen. I could hear him walking around our bedroom, above me; I assumed he was packing a case, putting a few clothes in one of our large cases. He wasn’t a vain man, David; to him, clothes were of no interest and he tended to wear a collection of shirts and trousers, which all looked pretty much the same. As my final sentence had been, “Well, if you think you’re spending one more night here, you’ve got another think coming” – he didn’t really have much choice; or maybe he’d planned this all along – to leave that Saturday.

  Whatever the case, he appeared at the kitchen door, about twenty minutes later. I’d heard him coming down the stairs, bumping the case down, so I was mentally prepared. W
hat I wasn’t prepared for though, was the feeling of love I still had for him. It’s true what they say, love and hate are so intertwined.

  “Well, I’ll be off then,” he muttered.

  I stared at him. I couldn’t bear the thought of me wailing, or repeating the performance from earlier, so I didn’t say anything at all, except, “ … have a nice life.”

  We stared at each other for a few more seconds and I’m pretty sure I could detect a sheen of tears across his eyes. He honestly looked as if he’d just received the worst news you could imagine – not like someone who was going off to live with his ‘soulmate’. He said, “Bye, then, see you at school,” and closed the kitchen door quietly.

  The front door closed and I stared at Cheryl Cole’s face, wondering whether her life was as good as it looked. She’s got the face, the body, the hair, the voice and now the French husband too – surely, it’s a darn sight better than mine, anyway?

  His parting ‘see you at school’ echoed round my head. The thought of going back there was horrendous. How many people knew already and how was I going to go about my day, seeing Suzie – seeing him? I had visions of them walking hand in hand down corridors; of my colleagues whispering in corners – outright laughter by the kids in classrooms.

  Have you heard? Mrs McCarthy’s husband’s been shagging Mrs Barton? She had no idea …

  My mind froze at the thought of all the looks and the ridicule – perhaps I could pull a sickie – surely he wouldn’t question it?

  On the TV, the panel of judges whittled down the hopefuls to the lucky few going on to bootcamp. You knew which ones were going to be in the final twelve – we got all their sob stories. I’m doing it for me Gran. I’ve wanted this ever since I was in my mother’s womb. I want to make me dead grandfather proud.