The Mistress's Revenge: A Novel

by Tamar Cohen

  I told her she was wrong. And of course she is. I’m not trying to “insinuate” myself into your life. I don’t need to. I AM in your life, whether you like it or not. I’m not sure Helen or you have quite grasped that.

  After the “insinuate” word, there was an awkwardness between us that hasn’t really been evident in past sessions. Do you find that with your supa-dupa-Harley-Street therapist, I wonder? That you sometimes sulk about the silent judgments he seems to be making? I decided to punish Helen by withholding choice bits of information that I knew would have rather thrilled her. So I didn’t tell her about the brick through the car window, or the man in the leather jacket, nor did I tell her about the phone calls that have been coming regularly now: “Mrs. Islip? It’s about your bill...” Helen didn’t deserve them, I felt. “Insinuate” had been unnecessary.

  Helen tried to get me to focus on Daniel. She seems to think I have stopped seeing him properly and need to be retrained to see him with fresh eyes.

  “You’re not experiencing him as a complete entity,” she told me.

  I have to admit that made me think—the idea of “experiencing” Daniel. I wonder what form that experience might take, whether I’d absorb him with each of my senses individually, or just let him wash over me like a parachute jump or a day out at EuroDisney.

  Helen seems to think that because I’ve got out of the habit of experiencing Daniel as a complete entity, I’ve blinded myself to all the qualities that made me choose him as a mate in the first place, and instead I’m investing you with all the credit I’m no longer giving him. That’s the word she uses, “investing.” I quite like it actually. I like the idea that I’m depositing my credit with you, as if I’m making an informed responsible consumer choice rather than letting things happen to me.

  Helen asked me when things with Daniel had become so “disassociated,” and I tried to remember when it had all started—whether we’d always been slightly out of synch like when bands used to mime on Top of the Pops, their lips opening a fraction later than the vocal track, or whether there had been a time when we understood each other.

  The truth is that just as every time my children enter a new developmental stage, I instantly and completely forget the last, so I’ve erased from memory Daniel’s and my shared past. If I force myself to remember, disjointed vignettes jump into my mind that do seem to show we were, if not passionately in love, at least solicitous of one another. I can see Daniel standing in front of the oven of our first flat in his favorite worn Levi’s, cooking up a lavish meal for no other reason than that eating it would make me happy. But did it make me happy? Do you know, I simply don’t remember. When I look back, there is only you. You take up the center stage of my memory, spreading out your mass territorially like Jabba the Hut.

  “I’m asking you for your own sake and for your children’s sake to consider carefully your decision to go to this party tomorrow.” If Helen’s sincerity had brimmed over any more, she’d have drowned herself in it.

  But you know, Helen doesn’t really understand. Sometimes I look at her sensible feet in her sensible shoes and her sensible glasses on her sensible nose and her sensible head cocked empathetically to one side and I just want to throw back my head and roar like a fucking animal just to see what she does. Try empathizing with that, I’d scream, shrieking like a banshee.

  Helen thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t know me. I thought I knew you, but I didn’t know you. I thought you wouldn’t hurt me, but you hurt me. None of us really knows the truth about each other. We’re all just fumbling about in the dark.

  The day of the party and I’m so excited. I didn’t sleep much last night—not even with two Zopiclones and a Clonazepam. My eyes are sunk in two vats of black tar.

  I finally drifted off to sleep when it was already light but was woken up not much later by the sound of the phone ringing. Daniel reached out from under the duvet and grabbed it and I listened as he grunted into the receiver, his tone growing sharper and more focused with every sound.

  “What?” “I don’t understand.” “What bill?” “Check your records.” “There’s been a mistake.” “No, you listen. There’s been a mistake.” “You do that, mate.” (Daniel is inclined to go into Blue Collar Dialect Mode when dealing with anyone he feels is lower down the social evolutionary scale.) “You send the bailiffs round, and see how quickly we’re onto our solicitor.”

  I closed my eyes. Well, what else could I do?

  “Who was that?” I murmured as if half-asleep.

  “Some idiot saying we owe the gas company six hundred quid. Six hundred quid! We don’t even use six hundred quid’s worth of gas in a year, and anyway we’re on direct debit, aren’t we? I think it’s a scam. Who works on Saturdays anyway?”

  Debt collection agencies, apparently.

  Suddenly Daniel went very quiet and I could sense him looking at me.

  “I haven’t seen any of our joint account statements for a while now, Sally. Do you know what’s been happening to them?”

  Don’t you think that’s a cop-out? Asking me as if it’s my fault!

  I pretended to be asleep but Daniel got up and started huffing about in that way he does when he’s trying to make his presence felt. Something had obviously just occurred to him, and it wasn’t something good.

  So that kind of spoiled the start to your vow renewal day, really. Which I think was a bit selfish as we had all been so looking forward to it. I do hope your day began better. I imagine you and Susan were up early, with all the chores you had to do. But I’m sure you will have managed a few moments after the alarm went where you lay together in bed looking at each other and giggling gently about the day ahead. Or maybe you will have gone down the traditional route and slept separately last night. Perhaps you woke up this morning in the spare room at Emily’s Notting Hill pad, blinking for a moment while you tried to remember where you were. I bet Susan called you first thing. “Hello, husband,” she might have said. “Hello, wife,” you’d have replied.

  You wouldn’t have had to say much more to each other. Those twenty-six years of marriage speak more eloquently than any words of endearment, don’t they? (Do you remember when you used to say you’d never been able to talk to anyone the way you could to me? Do you remember saying you could never get tired of hearing the sound of my voice, or ever run out of things to say to me?)

  I’m so glad the weather has held out for the two of you. Really I am. That marquee in the garden could have gotten terribly muddy, I expect, if it had rained. Of course, it would be nice if it was a teensy bit warmer, but you can’t have it all, can you? And Susan’s so clever about practical stuff, isn’t she? I’m sure she’ll have organized indoor patio heaters.

  I keep wondering what you’re doing at any given moment. It’s nearly midday now, so I imagine you’ll be setting off to the church—so sweet that you’re doing it in a church rather than a registry office, despite your well-worn joke about not wanting to be a member of any religion that would accept you as a member. Don’t worry, I’m not in the least offended that we weren’t invited to the church bit. I know that’s just for your nearest and dearest. (Funny to think that just a few months ago I would have been top of that list. How quickly things change, hey?)

  I have to say today is passing so slowly. We second-class guests aren’t expected at your house until five so there are still hours stretching ahead until we can leave.

  I had the most marvelous idea earlier. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.

  My head was doing its usual whooshing, well, worse than usual actually, after my sleepless night. I was actually starting to wonder if I could even face going out at all. Then I remembered the box of Citalopram sitting redundant on the bathroom shelf and I suddenly thought “Why don’t I take a couple?”

  I haven’t had one for weeks now, so I’m sure it won’t do any harm to reward myself with three or four of them, just to give my seratonin levels a quick boost. Then later I’ll take a Sinequa
n or two in case I start to feel anxious once I get to the party—just to be on the safe side. I’ve covered all bases, you see. Only the best for your big day.

  Daniel asked me again at breakfast about that phone call. I didn’t tell him that on the days when he’s on his course I might get five or six phone calls just like that. Daniel wouldn’t understand. He’d just get into a state about it. He tends to overreact. Money has always made him anxious. In the part of the West Midlands where he grew up, the acquisition of wealth was approached much in the same spirit that mothers used to take their kids to chicken pox parties—you courted it, you got it, and once you had it you bore it with fortitude and stoicism. You certainly never expected to enjoy it.

  I told him I didn’t know what the phone call was about and promised I’d try to find the missing bank statements. The thing is, even though he was asking about them, I know he really doesn’t want to see them. He’s just going through the motions out of a sense of duty. He wants to be seen to be taking action without actually doing it. That’s Daniel’s modus operandi.

  I’m going to have to be careful when I get ready for the party, though. I don’t think I’ll get away this time with telling him I’ve had the dress for ages, not when it’s so distinctive, so I’ll just have to say I got it on sale. It was so cheap, it would have been rude not to, I’ll say. To be quite honest, I don’t really care anymore whether or not he believes me. Once the trust goes in a relationship, what have you got?

  Of course I shouldn’t really have bought the dress at all. It was ridiculously expensive. But you know I want to feel I’m looking my best for the party. I wouldn’t want to let you down. Doesn’t that sound silly? It’s a fabulous dress though, very fitted and plain and strapless (I know what they say about women over forty showing their necks and shoulders, but really I think that’s just another misogynistic myth, don’t you?). And guess what color it is? Fuchsia pink! Yes, I know that’s the same color as Susan’s, silly! I’m not that stupid. I thought she might appreciate a bit of support, that’s all. I mean, I’m sure there will be those who might say (and I’m not one of them, believe me) that Susan can’t really carry off such a strong color with her pale skin, so I think that having such a close friend there wearing the same shade will be a kind of validation, don’t you think?

  Plus, to be quite honest, it looks pretty good on me, I think. I’d never have thought of that color before hearing about Susan’s dress (which is really a compliment to her) but once I tried it on, I realized it actually does suit me. I plan to wear a flower in my hair the exact same bright pink color. I think that will look rather Spanish, don’t you?

  I couldn’t get away with buying another pair of shoes, so I’m wearing the same ones I wore when we met up last time. I don’t suppose you’ll even remember them. It’s not as if they stayed on long once we got to the hotel!

  I’m so excited, I really am. I can’t remember the last proper party I went to. Of course, your life with Susan is full of parties, I know, but Daniel and I don’t tend to get invited to many these days. I think we give off depressing, party-killing vibes. Our mutual misery infects the atmosphere like salmonella. So it’ll be a real treat to be out in society again. I hope we can remember how to behave!

  The 120 mg of Citalopram (I went for three in the end, just to be sure) is already pounding around my system together with the hundreds of coffees and the Wellbutrin I’ve taken to keep myself going. I’ve had a couple of brain rushes, where my heart starts hammering away, and a couple of moments when I had to run to the loo, thinking I was about to be sick. But I also feel bursting with energy. I keep jumping up to check the time on the clock in the kitchen in case my laptop is lying to me, or check the fridge to make sure there’s something for Darren to feed the kids with when he comes to keep them company (no cash in our fridge, sadly!). I even vacuumed the living room earlier on. Jamie was so shocked, he asked me who was coming round. I think he was expecting the Queen! I feel jittery but at the same time buzzing with anticipation.

  Tonight I’m going to see you.

  Tonight I’m going to be a part of your world.

  Tonight you will not be able to pretend I don’t exist.

  Tonight you will see me.

  Tonight you will see me.

  Tonight you will see me.

  All ready. My brain is literally crashing around my skull like a Formula 1 racing car and I haven’t been able to sit still for hours. My stomach keeps clenching like a fist. Maybe I shouldn’t have had all those Citalopram, but it’s too late for that now. I’ve just taken a Sinequan so hopefully that should take away the worst of the edgy feeling.

  Now that I’ve got the dress on, I’m having major qualms. It looked so sophisticated in the shop but now I wonder whether it makes me look like a giant gaudy Christmas tree decoration, all bright and shiny but hollow inside. And whoever said that thing about older women not showing their necks and shoulders clearly had a point. I feel like the skin on my chest is creasing like crushed silk. I’ve got the flower in my hair, but I can’t decide whether to leave it in. Tilly came into my room a little while ago and stared at me in open disbelief.

  “Please tell me you’re not wearing that thing on your head.”

  Children can be so hurtful, don’t you agree? They seem to feel they have the right to say anything at all, no matter how offensive, just because they’re young. I bet you found that with yours as well. I wish they’d be a little more, well, empathetic.

  “I like it. It’s fun.”

  “It looks stupid. And why do you keep pacing around?”

  See what I mean? They always have to find something to pick at you about, something you’re doing wrong.

  The problem is I am finding it very difficult to stay in one place. Even sitting here writing this is taking forever because I keep jumping up in between sentences and walking around the room. I think it must be the excitement. I’ll bet I’m even more excited than you!

  Right now, you and Susan will have finished taking your vows. I wonder how you felt when you saw her coming toward you in that church. Did everyone go “ahhhh”? Did your face light up? Did you wish just for a moment that she was someone else, someone who looked a bit like me? Were your children’s faces wet with tears? Did their friends tell them how lucky they are to have parents who are still so in love? Did you hold each other’s hands in front of your closest friends and share a quiet, gentle kiss? Did you tell her she looked beautiful? Did you think of me? Did you think of me? Did you think of me?

  * * *

  There’s a noise in my head that sounds like a handheld blender. Do you know the thing I mean? You use it for squishing soup? I don’t think that noise should be there. But maybe it’s always been there and I just haven’t noticed it before.

  Daniel just came in to see if I was ready, and he had a very strange look on his face. I wonder if he’s still fretting about the bank statements. For some reason he kept asking me if I really wanted to go, but because of the noise in my head it took me a while to understand what he was saying. Why was he asking that? I think he must be having cold feet. “I can go on my own,” I told him, but my voice sounded like a record played on too slow a speed.

  Then he asked me if I was up to it. Don’t you think that’s an odd thing to ask? “It’s a party, it’s not climbing Mount Kilimanjaro,” I said, but I don’t think he heard. In fact, now I’m thinking about it, I don’t know if I even said it out loud.

  So now we’re about to go, and all of a sudden I’m feeling so nervous, I think I might be sick. It could almost be my party, for how nervous I am. I could almost be the bride. Isn’t that silly? Daniel told me to eat something before we went, but I couldn’t even contemplate food. I tried a tiny bite of the digestive biscuit he brought me earlier and it tasted like a lump of hard sand in my mouth. I know there’ll be plenty of food at your house though. Susan is so terribly good at all that stuff. You must be so proud of your wife. Do you repeat that word to yourself as you watch her movi
ng easily between guests at the marquee, making sure no one feels left out, handing out drinks and homemade canapés and warm words? Wife, wife, wife. That is my wife. My wonderful wife. My wonderful life.

  Daniel is calling for me now. I can faintly hear him through the blender noise. It’s just as well it’s time to stop journaling. My hands are trembling so much my writing looks more like a lie detector graph. (All the lies I’ve told, Clive. All the lies we’ve both told. I imagine them all lined up like ranks of soldiers in a parade.) I have to go now. I need a drink. I think everything will be fine once I’ve had a drink.

  I will see you soon. Save a dance for me.

  There’s a discolored patch on the ceiling above our bed where there obviously was once a leak. It’s funny but sometimes I think it looks like a map of Africa. Other times, if I really squint, I can see the head of an animal glaring down at me. Strange isn’t it, how one little thing can have so many different interpretations?

  I’ll be quite honest with you though, the bed itself is a bit of a mess.

  I’m lying propped up on my elbow writing in this notebook, and all around me is a sea of detritus. Empty pill packets, half-filled water bottles, tissues, unread newspapers, my laptop, my phone. I can even see a banana peel, although I can’t imagine who would have eaten that. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I think it might even have been at your house. How long ago would that be? Two days? Three? Time has become irrelevant. I think that’s a gift. Don’t you?

  Daniel keeps telling me we have to talk about what happened, but I don’t really see the point. To be quite honest, I don’t even remember all of what happened. There are whole great swathes of time that seem to have been swallowed up along with the pills.

  “We cannot just ignore this.” This is unexpected, coming from Daniel, who normally wouldn’t acknowledge the house was on fire if there existed an option to ignore it.

  “What is there to talk about?” I ask. And of course I’m right. When you come down to it, there really is nothing to say.