by Sue Watson
‘Simon is a waste of space when it comes to anything social. I think men are, don’t you? Oh God, I’m being sexist; my seventeen-year-old daughter will kill me.’ I hear myself laugh again.
Note the possessive pronoun, Caroline? MY seventeen-year old – not yours. Never yours.
She doesn’t respond. I have her like a fish with a hook in its cheek, and I ponder the image as she sits there, trapped on my phone.
‘So, I was thinking it would be just lovely to get together with one of the girls who works with Simon, conjure up a guest list and find out who’s who.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t really socialise with work colleagues so I don’t know who…’ she says, feigning vagueness.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Do you find it difficult to socialise with your colleagues?’ I ask, like it’s a problem.
After all, you aren’t finding it hard to socialise with my husband.
‘No, I don’t find it difficult. I choose not to.’ I hear the affront in her voice. She’d hate to be thought of as anything less than perfect.
‘Oh no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything – it’s nothing to do with me how people get on at work.’
‘What do you mean?’
She’s clearly worried. I can hear it in her voice. Caroline’s not as strong as she thought she was and now she thinks Simon’s said something about her not coming up to par. Good.
‘Well, even if you don’t have any friends at work, I’m sure you know…’
‘I have friends,’ she snaps.
‘Oh. Good,’ I say, like I don’t believe her. ‘It’s difficult though sometimes. God, the things I hear from Simon, and he’s a senior.’
I put my head to one side like my therapist Saskia does when I tell her something sad. I know Caroline can’t see me, but it helps my performance.
‘Oh Caroline, I’ve upset you… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not like Simon would discuss any… of your… difficulties with colleagues – he only talks to me. Look, you clearly don’t want to be involved and I can’t say I blame you. I only asked you because we bumped into you at Waitrose that time and I thought you might be able to help. There’s that nurse… Alison? Oh, I don’t know, Simon’s always talking about her. They’re quite good friends I think… I’ll try her. I’m sure she can give me an accurate perspective on who should be at Simon’s party, and don’t worry, I won’t add you to the guest list if it’s going to make you uncomfortable.’ I smile down the line at her.
She says very little during our exchange, thanks to my Jen impression, and I wonder if it’s going to work. Will she simply tell me to fuck off, put down her phone and go running to Simon?
I just hope I’ve dropped in enough doubts, enough tempting titbits about our marriage, to make her want to get involved without telling him. Then she and I will have a secret like they do. The rather delicious thing is that I’ll be in on everyone’s secret, without them knowing. Knowledge is power, and I’m finally taking back some power, not sitting around waiting for shit to happen to me.
‘I’m sure… I could give you an accurate perspective … I think there’s a theatre nurse called Alison, but I wasn’t aware she was friends with your husband.’
Oh, she’s so jealous I can hear it sizzling down the line. I’m rather chuffed because I only made a wild guess because Simon mentioned an Alison as being ‘too young and totally incompetent’.
‘Okay great… In that case I was wondering, are you free to meet up for lunch next Monday or Tuesday?’
Ideally before my husband tries to seal my fate with the solicitor on Wednesday.
‘Lunch?’
‘Oh, I know, we’re not even friends yet – and it all sounds a bit formal – but perhaps you could pop out in your lunch hour? My treat. There’s this lovely little Italian, Gianni’s, in the town. Do you know it?’
Of course you do. It’s where you enjoy foreplay and fagioli with my husband.
‘Yes… I…’
‘Fabulous, shall we meet there, say at twelve-thirty on Monday?’ I pounce before she has a chance to backtrack. I have her; now all I have to do is reel her in. ‘Oh please, say yes, I don’t get chance to go out with girlfriends. Simon isn’t one to babysit – always ends in tears and chaos.’ I laugh, hoping to cast doubt on his self-made image as the perfect father.
‘Okay. Yes,’ she says. ‘About twelve-thirty.’
I can’t wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Today is the day. I’m lunching with the lovely Caroline, who, according to last night’s Instagram, was having drinks with friends. In a low-cut top in a trendy wine bar. I doubt Simon would approve of either.
I dig out some nice faded jeans, a soft grey sweater and a blush scarf. Non-threatening clothes in soft shades. I want you to think I’m harmless and want only to be your friend.
Arriving at the restaurant, I feel strangely calm, possibly because I’ve got this, or because I took a tablet at 9.15 after I’d dropped the kids off at school. I’m cutting down, but today I needed a safety net to prevent me from raging at my husband’s lover over the main course or pouring red wine over her lovely blonde hair. So I took only the minimum dose so that I’ll be calm (I hope!) for lunch and should be able to remember everything, or at least most of it. I won’t be me mixing it with alcohol either – I’ll stick to soda water. You never know.
I take my seat at a discreet table; I don’t want anyone to see us. I check out the menu; she’ll probably have a salad. I saw one on her Instagram. No humans in the photo, just an inanimate salad with walnuts and copious leaves, but the two plates and two glasses of red gave me all the information I needed. #Healthy #MeatFreeMondays #EatYourGreens. God, she makes me want to puke. How about #HusbandFreeWednesdays, Caroline, let’s make that a thing eh?
Eventually, she arrives and I surprise myself at how warm and welcoming I am. None of the vitriol I feel inside has come to the surface – let’s just hope it stays that way. She looks good. She obviously made an effort, but whether that was for lunch with me or work with my husband I don’t know. She’s wearing a light-blue chunky cardigan over black – a short skirt, high shiny boots.
Not exactly mother material.
I try to glimpse her stomach before she sits down, but she’s not showing yet. I look at her and see Simon next to her in bed, the baby between them, and immediately push the image from my mind.
‘Drink?’ I ask, sipping my own clean soda, picking up the menu as the teenage waitress wanders over.
‘Water please… still,’ she says to the girl without a smile.
‘Let’s order before we chat. I’m aware you’re on your lunch hour,’ I say, like I’m the most considerate woman in the world, when in fact it’s my greatest desire to stab her right in the hand with the fork that’s resting on the napkin.
I glance at her over my menu as she looks at hers and I wonder not for the first time at the injustice of all this. She could have anyone, with her gorgeous body and perfect face. She was free, she had no ties – she could have travelled the world, become head of something medical at MIT or UCLA and lived the life of a beautiful academic in Boston or California. She could… She could have done all these things, but instead she chose my husband, my kids, my life. She must have known what she was getting into, must have liked the look of my life and decided to take it for herself. Caroline must have lurked on my social media as much as I have hers. What self-respecting mistress worth her salt wouldn’t seek out the competition? And while checking out the wife, she saw the nest and thinks she’s going to bring her baby cuckoo into it. But it’s my nest, I’ve worked hard to make it perfect, to make our family happy. I’ve learned to deal with the darkness and to concentrate on the light.
Borrowed Light. Stolen husband.
As soon as I found out the baby news, I went to town on my virtual life of course. I put my stamp on it. There were already family pictures, holidays, school events, but I went full-on PR and curated our lives
online. I shaped it into something wonderful on Instagram and Facebook and with the help of Photoshop, some clever filters and some ingenious cropping, my online presence reads like something from a glossy celebrity magazine. Our summer holiday in Crete is like a photo shoot for a high-end travel company, our beautiful daughter lay in her hammock and our gorgeous sons playing in the sea with their perfect father. #FathersAndSons #Family. The reality of course was quite different. What the photos didn’t show was that Dad couldn’t wait to get out, get dry and get sexting his mistress. #SextingDad #CheatingHusband. Even I don’t recognise my life. Then there’s the picture of the kids in the park transformed into a Vogue layout, laughing, throwing leaves in the air, creating a beautiful bronze blur of happiness in the early autumn sunshine. #BrothersAndSister #SiblingLove. Of course, I had to edit out the litter, the dog poo and the condoms lying among the leaves, and didn’t photograph Charlie and Alfie’s meltdown, with Sophie calling them ‘fucking little bastards’ and storming off. #FilthyMouthedDaughter.
It’s mine, mine, mine.
We are not perfect, no one is, but as a family we’ve had more than our share of stress and it’s not been easy. Over the years I’ve put up with all the pain, all the blame, all this torment and managed it into something we can live in. And now she turns up with her just-washed hair and her ripe uterus and ruins everything.
Get your own life, bitch, because you can’t have mine. #Thief.
‘So,’ I start, clasping my hands together on the tabletop to anchor myself and appear to have control at lunch with my husband’s mistress. I need to establish the upper hand early on or I will fall apart. I must convey as much information to her as I can in this fake-news lunch. I want to introduce doubts and darkness as she has done with me – she may not have done this directly, but I don’t care. I want her to suffer. I want her to question everything he’s told her, everything she believes to be true – I want her to know how it feels to be paranoid. I want them both to feel the other has secrets, and I want her to know he’s lying – because, trust me, there is nothing more painful than believing the person you love is lying to you. Just because she’s special and he wants to make it official and move her in doesn’t mean he’ll be exclusive. He’s married to me, but still can’t seem to stop himself from straying.
Once a cheater always a cheater, Caroline.
The other day I found a few restaurant receipts in his wallet that I can’t account for; naturally, he wasn’t with me, and through my obsessive online stalking of Caroline, I can’t place her in these romantic venues at these times either. It makes me wonder if he’s already established Caroline as wife number three and is auditioning for a mistress to go with that marriage. I wonder if it’s a pattern: will he do to Caroline what he’s done to me? Will he fill her with doubts and fears until she’s broken and he then has to find a newer model? Not that I give a damn about Caroline, but perhaps it’s happened before with Nicole and her suicide was due to life with him? Nothing about Simon surprises me any more.
He once told me she was ‘very fragile’, but when they met she had a career in banking and, according to Joy, who never missed an opportunity to remind me of Nicole’s qualities, was ‘a strong woman’. Did he break her spirit like he tried to break mine?
I’m more determined than ever. I won’t be another Nicole. I will not go to sleep and leave my three children. More than anyone, I know how that can destroy a child. Long after the discovery of my mother’s body, I still see her – it’s like her ghost lives with me. My mother’s life is even more frightening to me than her death; it’s made me compliant and scared. Every forgotten name, each unwelcome thought, is a sign I’m living her life and will one day lie with my mother in a cold, red bath.
I sometimes wonder if it was my fear that Simon was drawn to. A flawed vulnerable woman who wouldn’t answer back or try to control him, as his mother always had. Joy was a wealthy woman and indulged him with new cars, homes, holidays – and continued this after his father died and even after he’d married me. But despite this, she never showed him any physical affection. As a result, Simon puts value on things rather than people. He sees women as disposable, just pretty trinkets to make him look good and tend to his needs. I’m beginning to wonder how disposable I am to him… especially as he now has a new, pretty play thing.
I’m sitting opposite the new play thing now, making inane small talk about guest lists and canapés. I try to be animated, exude fun and naughtiness, like Jen would. I don’t want Caroline to think I’m meek or boring. I’m sure he’s told her that, along with my ‘illness’ and my ‘obsessive jealousy’, I’m bland and uninteresting, so I’m going to turn her world upside down, make her question everything he’s told her, everything she thinks she knows. After all, it’s only what she’s doing to me.
‘I love it here,’ I sigh, smiling. ‘Simon often brings me here on date nights and, I don’t know… however many times we come here, there’s always something incredibly romantic about it. We just kick back and forget about the exhausting – but wonderful – hurly-burly at home and we… regroup.’ I toy with my breadstick, slowly raise it to my mouth and bite off the end. ‘It’s like we’re on our honeymoon again, you know?’
Haven’t had sex since the twins were conceived? Really?
‘Lovely,’ she splutters. Early signs are my campaign is having the desired effect. And what’s more, I’m enjoying myself. Her drink arrives and she almost grabs it from the waitress’s hand.
‘Yes, the Italian music reminds me of holidays,’ I smile. ‘Do you like Italy, Caroline?’
‘Yes… I love Tuscany.’ She tries to smile. She’s so uncomfortable she’s making me itch. And I love it.
‘Ooh, Tuscany, me too! Has Simon mentioned we’re thinking of buying a place out there?’ We’re not, but one more lie to add to all the others we’re telling each other won’t make any difference. In fact the more deceit the better, eh Caroline?
She shakes her head and almost chokes on the huge gulp of water she’s taking. I want to laugh. I want to roar with laughter in her face at how easy this is, how delicious it is to inflict pain on someone who’s caused me so much. God, why didn’t I do this before instead of torturing myself stalking her on social media and trying to win Simon over with fancy dinners and his kind of sex. No, this is much more fun.
‘Oh yes, we’re thinking a small farmhouse. As Simon says, we have three kids and if they have kids, then we need somewhere we can all go and just…’ I continue to press at the wound that I’ve made, opening it further and further. Even Simon the surgeon won’t be able to stitch this back together.
THREE kids – count ’em. You and your blurry baby will not be welcome.
I lean forward with what I hope is a sincere look on my face. ‘Simon has to destress, and he says he’s only ever really able to do that when he’s happy, with his family,’ I lie. ‘I’ve always said it’s about family. We want to just be, you know?’ Of course, he has his little hobbies on the side, but they mean nothing to him – the only thing that matters, that really counts for him, is us.
I’m nodding and she’s nodding back, no doubt searching my eyes for signs of psychosis.
‘When we’re in Italy we’re going to treat it like a second home, the usual stuff – we’ll have friends over, cook on the barbecue, open a few bottles, just chill around the kitchen and garden with all the kids. I’m very, very lucky,’ I add so smugly I almost hate myself. I look at her, relishing the uncertainty on her face.
‘Sorry,’ I say suddenly, pretending I’ve just realised I’m talking too much. ‘Oh, will you listen to me going on about second homes and the family and… and you’re being so lovely listening, but you must be starving – we haven’t even ordered yet.’
I call the waitress over and I order a seafood linguine; she orders a salad.
I know you better than you know yourself, Caroline.
‘Anyway,’ I say, taking a sip of soda. ‘Needless to say, you’d be welcome to
come and stay with us in Tuscany any time. You could bring your husband… or…?’ I wave my half-eaten breadstick in her face – because I can.
‘I’m not married,’ she says, moving her fingers agitatedly up and down the stem of her glass. #Anxious.
‘Do you… live alone?’ I fold my napkin, feigning slight indifference to her answer. I don’t want her to think I’m interviewing her.
And where do you see yourself in five years, you conniving bitch? Making pancakes in my kitchen with my kids? Think again, slut.
‘Yes… I have a little cottage, just outside town.’
‘Lovely. Anyway, enough of my interrogation,’ I joke. ‘Caroline, I can’t thank you enough for coming to meet me today, I know your help with the guest list will be invaluable,’ I start, referring back to the party, I don’t want her to cotton on to the fact I’m just playing with her like a cat with a mouse.
‘I… can give you a few names, but as I said on the phone, I haven’t been around for long.’
She’s not keen on shooting the breeze with her lover’s wife and maintains a business-like demeanour. I’m expecting her to grab her coat and leave at any moment – either she finds me terribly dull or perhaps she has a conscience?
‘If you can text a list to me that would be wonderful,’ I’m saying. ‘Caroline, I’m so grateful. And I know Simon will be…’ My phone rings. I’m expecting this because when a cold-caller bothered me with his fucking double glazing yesterday, I realised it could work for me. So I told him I’d love double glazing and asked if he could call me back at 1 p.m. today to discuss this. So in the absence of a trustworthy friend, I had to rely on some annoying salesperson to make my phone ring when lunching with Caroline.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Wilson?’ the cocky young man asks. ‘This is Jordan from Wonderful Windows.’
‘Oh, darling, thanks for calling me, but I’m having lunch…’ I look at Caroline and roll my eyes with an affectionate smile directed at whoever’s on the other end. Chippy salesman Jordan’s probably very surprised to be addressed as ‘darling’ so soon in our double-glazing relationship. But he seems quite unperturbed.
