by Sue Watson
* * *
It’s the PG version of the fragrant Facebook Caroline I encounter in the flesh when we bump into her in Waitrose. It’s Saturday, two days after our pizza ‘en famille’ and the family togetherness over marinara pizza and ice cream sundaes has convinced me everything is going to be okay after all. We’d all chatted happily at Pizza Express, Simon was in a good mood, the boys were tired but not nasty tired, and Sophie chatted and even ate some of her pizza. It was a magical evening, one I’ll always remember, and anyone watching through the window of the restaurant that night would have seen a picture perfect, happy family. #Blessed.
On returning home, the warmth of the house and the two glasses of wine I’d consumed with my pizza gave everything a lovely glow and once the kids were in bed, Simon and I shared a bottle of wine by the fire. I was amazed when he started to undress me on the sofa, something we’ve barely done since the kids because there’s a chance at least one of them might walk in. But he seemed consumed with passion and I wasn’t arguing. I was happy to be swept into his big strong arms and to be loved. He was so gentle, not the usual wham-bam let’s do this quickly because I’ve got an early start, and none of that Fifty Shades stuff he quite likes either. No, this was special, like in the beginning, as his soft but urgent caresses brushed away my prickly paranoia, and when I woke the next morning, all traces of Caroline were gone.
She soon came back though, in the flesh.
Meanwhile, things are slipping again at my end and I’ve forgotten to buy the lemons for the sea bass and capers, now postponed to this evening’s dinner. My forgetfulness meant an unscheduled trip to Waitrose with the whole family. Because, to the boys’ irritation and Sophie’s abject horror, Simon insisted we all go shopping together to buy bloody lemons.
‘It’s the weekend,’ he says. ‘I don’t get many free weekends, and we need to spend quality family time with each other.’
I’m not convinced a supermarket is the best place for quality family time, but it’s the thought that counts and it’s nice he wants us all to be together.
‘But why can’t we stay at home and play Fifa?’ Charlie groans.
‘Because it’s destroying your brain cells. If you’re good, I’ll buy you a footie magazine and Alfie can have…’
‘A dinosaur magazine! Please, please, pleeeeeeese!’
The prospect of this is sending Alfie into a tyrannosaurus frenzy and he’s leaping about. Now both kids are ridiculously excited about having a magazine each and chanting loudly. Meanwhile, Sophie heads back upstairs and I put my coat on and wander into the front garden to wait for Simon. I’m leaving the boys unchaperoned in the kitchen with their iPads, which is probably a bit risky, but I just need a few moments of peace. Having deadheaded the last of the season’s late roses round the door, I wander back, always aware that two six-year-old boys can be wonderful, funny and loving – but potentially terrifying if left alone. I’m greeted by Alfie standing on the kitchen oasis, the island in the middle of the room used for food prep, which for the boys is now the stage of Britain’s Got Talent. This in itself contravenes all my health and safety rules, but as Charlie is throwing apples at his face, causing him to lose his balance, it’s clear we are one apple away from a major child injury incident. Had I not walked in at that moment, an apple would have hit him straight in the head and he’d have fallen from a fair height onto the solid stone floor.
‘Charlie, don’t be so stupid!’ I yell loudly.
‘I’m NOT STUPID!’ he roars, which brings Simon downstairs, unaware of what’s gone on before he jumps straight in.
‘Marianne, please don’t call Charlie stupid,’ he says with unconcealed horror, making me feel terrible.
‘Yeah, you hurt my feelings,’ Charlie mutters sulkily. I want to cry because he looks genuinely hurt, but I could kill Simon for undermining me like this, and it isn’t the first time. Yes I can sometimes be cross with them, but it’s only ever out of love and concern. When Simon reprimands me in front of them, the boys naturally feel like I’ve done them a great injustice, when all I’m doing is what any good mother would do. Keeping them from harm.
‘I’m sorry I said that, Charlie,’ I say, knowing I have to do this, but at the same time knowing it’s weakening me in the eyes of my little boys and any respect I have garnered will be lost. ‘It’s just that Alfie could have really been hurt…’ I start.
‘Please stop talking, I’m getting a headache,’ is Simon’s sharp response. I feel humiliated, like the fourth child in the family, but I don’t argue. I don’t want to start a row that could go on all weekend. Once in the car it’s a free for all. The boys, having got off lightly, are given licence to yell and thump each other throughout the journey and I don’t feel like I can step in again. My head hurts and I’m feeling on edge with all the noise, not to mention the potential for injury. I flinch at each smack they land on each other, every squeal of pain a trigger, but Simon drives along, apparently oblivious. I dig my fingers into my palms and look out at the passing shops and cars, trying to blot the noise from my head.
Arriving at the supermarket, all three kids stagger across the car park like zombies, unsure why they’re here and what’s expected of them. Buying bloody lemons is something I could so easily have done alone; in fact I’d have quite enjoyed a little drive into town and a wander down the aisles by myself. I’d also have done this more efficiently and far more quickly without any arguments, but once Simon gets an idea in his head there’s no stopping him. I sometimes wonder if he just does things to upset me. But I shouldn’t complain. It’s lovely that he wants us all to be together – I should be grateful. I remind myself of this only a few minutes later as I physically and forcibly separate the boys who are in full ninja mode around the citrus fruit.
‘Kill me now,’ yawns Sophie as we walk through the greengrocery. She’s on her phone whilst the boys have commandeered the oranges, turning everything citrus into a war zone. I’m attempting to extricate the ‘hand grenades’ (grapefruits) from their sticky fingers, when I hear Simon say ‘Hey.’ He says this softly, and for a moment I think he’s talking to one of the children or even me, and I soften and turn towards him, warmed by the gentleness in his voice.
But he isn’t talking to the children, or me, he’s talking to a blonde stranger. Except she isn’t a stranger. I’ve seen her before, in different countries with different friends. Caroline.
He seems genuinely surprised (and pleased?) to see her. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, suppressing a smile. It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s buying bloody groceries… either that or she’s stalking us – or rather stalking Simon. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has taken it upon herself to be with him every waking hour. Margaret from the café where we used to live was always bumping into us ‘by coincidence’, pawing him while completely ignoring me. I soon put a stop to her little game. That’s the price you pay when you’re married to a man like Simon: women are ready to drop their knickers and climb into bed with him at the first hello. It puts me on edge, and that’s how I feel now as I watch intently from behind a wall of satsumas as they chat. I ask Sophie to take the boys to the magazine aisle to choose their reading matter and grab a sack of unwaxed lemons, almost knocking a child over in my haste to join Simon so I can come between them, be present and stop anything being said that can’t be unsaid.
I stand next to him wordlessly, an expectant smile on my face. It’s my open, welcoming smile that says I’m secure in my marriage. A smile that lies.
On the surface they are conducting polite small talk; there are work references, then vague introductions. Simon eventually notices me and steps back, his arm vaguely gesturing towards me, but not touching.
‘I don’t think you’ve met Marianne… my wife.’
I stand there holding tightly on to my sack of lemons and my composure.
She smiles back somewhat grudgingly, or perhaps she’s just shy? Then she reaches out her hand to shake mine. Her hand’s cold, but not
as cold as her eyes.
‘This is Caroline… my colleague. Caroline Harker,’ Simon says.
I’m stung all over again at the way her name sounds on his lips.
Tonight she’s having dinner with a friend, she says.
‘I’m providing the wine.’ Caroline smiles, all perfect white teeth, holding up her basket for his inspection, like a child seeking approval. I can’t see the contents of the basket but glimpse a bottle of good white and an expensive fizz. Here’s a young woman who’s never known the meaning of poverty, tragedy… death, real life. Ponies and private schools, I think as she negotiates her way through the conversation, sure of who she is, laughing openly when Charlie runs into Simon’s legs, causing them to buckle. I flash a look at my husband – he doesn’t like being laughed at, but here he is now laughing along with her as they both look down at Alfie like he’s their own. I have a sudden urge to grab my son and smash her bottle of bloody Sauvignon over her head. Then I think better of it. There’s a good old Chateauneuf du Pape on the top shelf; it’s red and so would be far more dramatic, and would stain more.
As they continue to chat, I smile and nod at their stupid small talk, while enjoying the thought of the bottle hitting her skull, cracking bone and glass, wine splashing scarlet on that baby-pink Armani coat she’s wearing.
Watch out, Caroline, with your perfect teeth.
Sophie suddenly appears with Alfie and the promised dinosaur magazine, which he’s holding like it’s the most precious thing he ever owned. I smile at them, and quietly ask about the tyrannosaurus on the cover, relieved to have a distraction and back-up; I was beginning to feel like a gooseberry. I’m pointing at dinosaurs and feigning fascination while listening and watching the two of them from the corner of my eye. It’s primal: my senses are heightened, my heart in overdrive at this latest threat to my survival, our survival as a family. I waited all my life for a family and I’m damned if I’m giving it all up to some simpering thirty-something who clicks her manicured fingers. I’m the only one who can keep this fractured family together. Even if I am mistaken and she’s just a colleague, I can’t afford to be complacent – I have to always be on my guard. I’ve been wrong before, but I can’t relax, ever. Would you be comfortable with intelligent, beautiful blonde Caroline working closely with your husband? Unfortunately, this kind of woman is a prime target for what Simon and my therapist refer to as ‘Marianne’s paranoia’. She’s ten years younger, with a tinkling laugh and a vivaciousness that belies her status as an esteemed Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. And I hate her.
All the signs are there: his perma-smile, the look in his eyes as he talks to her, the way she caresses her neck when she responds. To anyone witnessing this typical Saturday afternoon supermarket scene – the small talk, the polite laughter, the kids playing hide-and-seek behind the tins of beans – there’s nothing here to see. But I can see it.
He teases her about some bloody comment she made in a surgical meeting and she nudges him playfully. Not only does this exclude me, but I can’t remember the last time he teased me, not in a kind, flirtatious way like this. I turn away, can almost taste the sex in the air, not something I’ve experienced in Waitrose before. They continue a supposed conversation about the new surgical department, but I suspect it’s some kind of secret sexual code. I move closer and take the opportunity to study the contents of her basket, because a shopping basket can tell you a lot about a person. And I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. A single bag of organic leaves, a punnet of late strawberries and the expensive wine and champagne. No carbs, no sugar and no dairy. Judging by the contents of her basket, this one isn’t getting her kicks from food. So where are you getting your kicks, Caroline?
During our marriage, I’ve developed an instinct when it comes to Simon’s female friends. She may, on the surface, be a colleague or acquaintance, somebody else’s wife – but sometimes I see a potential lover, a mistress even. Friend or foe? I’m not completely sure yet what Caroline is, but she concerns me deeply. This one will be trouble.
Eventually, she politely makes a move. It’s an uncomfortable dynamic of three when two people know each other well and the third is merely a bystander. But who is the bystander, her or me?
‘I didn’t know she lived around here,’ I blurt, during the slightly uncomfortable aftermath as we head for the checkout, followed by our reluctant entourage. I touch Simon’s arm as we walk, in what seems a futile attempt to claim ownership and sweeten the accusatory tone I can hear in my own voice.
‘Sorry you didn’t know she lives around here, but I didn’t realise you had to be informed of all my colleagues’ home addresses,’ he answers petulantly without looking at me.
My heart jolts. The lightness of the past couple of days has gone. All the happiness that had continued after the pizza night just snapped like taut elastic. Why am I never satisfied? Why do I have to ruin things with my stupid, jealous questioning? I’m so bloody stupid, and small-minded – why can’t I free myself from all this? But then again, how can I ever be free after what happened?
The queue isn’t moving, the boys are whiney – they’re hungry now – and Sophie’s brow is furrowed in the light of her phone. I can’t even begin to guess what’s troubling her. Once upon a time I could plaster her knee, kiss it better, take her out for cake and everything would be okay, but as she’s grown older I’ve felt a chasm open up between us, and there are times now when she feels almost out of reach. I have enough on my hands with the other two (now brawling by the checkout) but at times she seems lost and I have to help find her again.
I call the boys, wanting to regroup the family into our little hub, to gather us together.
Safety in numbers.
I may be the cuckolded wife, but I’m a mum first and my awareness is heightened to everyone’s moods. I look at my kids as we stand in the queue; they are everything to me and I will fight tooth and nail for their happiness and safety. Like most mums, I absorb all their hates and hurts, disappointments and loves (Charlie hates losing, loves football and chicken crisps; Alfie hates sport, loves Maltesers and dinosaurs; and Sophie… What does Sophie love? I think she hates eating but loves Lana Del Rey, and… I’m guessing Josh in her French class, from the way his name keeps popping up). Every joy, every reward, every stinging slight I probably feel even more keenly than they do. I soak up my family like a sponge. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I look at Simon, oblivious to the kids, and wonder if he’s thinking about her and want to intrude on those thoughts.
‘What a coincidence, seeing Caroline.’ I can’t leave it. I have to do a biopsy, poke around in it and work out how dangerous she is.
‘Why?’ He’s looking at me; he wants an answer. The intensity in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I immediately regret saying anything and grapple with my response.
‘Because you only mentioned her for the first time the other day and… we live here too.’
‘Coincidence? A coincidence that two people who work together also live in the same area? If you say so, Marianne.’
His sharpness catches me and I’m annoyed with myself for causing this change in his mood. The only reason we’re here is because I forgot the fucking lemons for the sodding sea bass. If I’d remembered them in the first place, we’d never have had to come to Waitrose. And if we’d never come here we’d never have bumped into her, and I wouldn’t have potentially ruined the weekend by quizzing Simon on where she lives. I glance up at him for a clue; he’s looking back at me, his eyes boring into mine like he can read my thoughts.
‘You okay?’ I mutter, knowing he’s not.
‘I’m fine. But you clearly aren’t. You need to calm down and stop being paranoid just because a woman I work with happens to shop in the same supermarket,’ he hisses under his breath.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean… anything.’ But we both know I did, and now I’ve really upset him, which is the last thing I wanted to do.
U
ntil recently we thought we’d come through our problems and with support it seemed I’d finally been able to control my obsessive, irrational behaviour. But no, I’m still imagining all kinds of ridiculous shit and I hate myself for spoiling every lovely moment with my unfounded suspicions. God, when will I learn?
‘Sorry, I’m an idiot,’ I say again, hoping I can pass for normal. I’m not mad. Please don’t think I am. I promise I won’t mention her again.
Gazing down into my metal basket, I concentrate on the meagre contents – four lemons, a dinosaur magazine and a copy of Match! What would my therapist make of this basket? She’d probably up my dosage and lock me away. All he did was bump into a friend from work and Marianne assumes they’re having sex.
I’m shaken from my rather self-indulgent reverie by a kerfuffle in front of us in the queue. I spot two kids on their tummies snaking their way through shoppers’ legs and for a brief moment feel smug that I’m not the parent – then I realise I am.
Simon leans forward, taps Charlie on the back and gently tells them both to ‘stand up and stop being silly!’ He does this with a twinkle in his eye that isn’t lost on the cashier, who giggles as he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. ‘Apparently they are in the jungle,’ he explains. Soft, well-spoken voice, handsome face, charm oozing over the till. He is irresistible. I positively sparkle as he turns to me, still smiling, and in front of the queue says, ‘Darling, we really must get a rope bridge for the garden.’ My face beams, as I see other women in the queue look enviously on at this gorgeous husband and father I’m married to. Simon could be with anyone but chose to be with me.
‘They watch too much inappropriate TV,’ he mutters to me once we are outside, the charm dissipating at the exit. The boys are now ‘firing’ at each other from behind parked cars.
