MISTRESS
Jamess mistress was stunning. If shed been a bloke, shed have chosen herself in a heartbeat.
You know the sortwomen who know their worth. They walk with poise, meet your gaze squarely, listen intently. No frantic gestures, no need to flash a neckline or a back to get noticed; theyre regal, calm and never lose their cool.
Shed pick her too, as the exact opposite of herself.
Because what was she like? Perpetually in a rush, snapping at the kids and James, dropping everything she touched, never getting a minute to herself, swamped at work with a disgruntled boss. She roamed the house in eternal joggers and hoodiesweaters. Ironing a blouse? Thats a fullday project. Shed forgotten the last time she ironed ruffles, thank goodness the latest tumbledryer smoothed out laundry so well you barely needed an iron.
The mistress, though, was pure glamour. Figure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, faceshe was a breathtaker.
And she hadnt stopped breathing since she first saw him. Actually, shed first glimpsed himby accident, on a work trip to a farflung suburb of Manchester, ducking into the first café she could find for a bite. The job was done, the hunger was real. In the jampacked eatery she snagged the only free corner, opened the menu and looked up. No, she didnt imagine itshe recognised James from behind and saw his girlfriend.
He was holding her hands in his palms, kissing her fingers. How tacky, she thought, your fingers smell like incense. Yet the woman was genuinely attractive. Objectively attractive.
She ordered soup and salad, ate it without tasting a thing, then lingered, waiting for them to leave. She feared being seen. It was pointlessJames wasnt interested in anyone else at that moment.
It felt like a burn: you see the mark on your skin and know a few seconds later pain will flood in, and those seconds you sit waiting for the inevitable. So you fan the reddening spot, hoping to ease the future ache It should have hurt, but inside it was hollow. Nothing.
James returned on time, cheerfully, his mood as even as a British summer. She was always sprinting, corralling everyone; he was a solid sanguine, steady, with a good sense of humour.
She could have used that humour now. It didnt fit the scene.
All evening she imagined asking him, deadpan: Hows the mistress? Shed have loved to watch the beads of sweat bead on his forehead, his cheeks redden, his attempts to stay composed. So what now? Introduce the kids, hope they like the new mum, and where do I fit in? Am I getting a flat or a room in your house? shed have added.
Instead, James simply pulled her into bed, tucked her close and drifted off.
Maybe they werent having sex yet, she thought, sliding onto her side of the mattress, and let out a silent giggle. She felt like a woman caught cheating on in broad daylight, still insisting shed just imagined it.
Perhaps they were in the prelude stage: flirtation, synchronized breathing, thoughts in tandem. He was a covert loverno words, no muscle tension.
She tossed in bed, slept in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and strangers in red dresses.
She awoke with a heavy head, moved slower than usual about the flat, calmly gathered the kids for school.
All the while she wondered what women usually do when their husbands are caught with mistresses. Google it? The internet offered no help, and she had no answers of her own. Should I try to move on? she mused.
Whats there to try? She already was moving on, just as before. Same routine: punctual husband coming home, no lipstick on his shirt, no foreign perfume, kids bouncing about, Sunday cinema trips. No behavioural changes. Same twiceaweek sex, occasionally a third if she paid attention to the little details.
Had she simply misidentified that café in the suburb? No. She called James at lunch; he let it ring. She grabbed a black cab, raced back to the same café, concocted a plausible story for the driverwere waiting for a parcel, workrelated. Jamess car sat in the opposite lane. He and the mistress walked out together, climbed into his vehicle and drove off.
She went white as a sheet, asked the driver for water, pretended to make a call, yelling into the empty phone, To hell with you and your parcel! Im off to work! She didnt care what the driver thought.
Knowing a mistress exists can flip a life upsidedown. Divorce? Probably. How else to live? Tolerate? For what? Whats the point?
She recalled a friends husband who had a mistress a couple of years back. He hid, covered his tracks, yet his wife eventually pieced it together. A scandal erupted; he denied everything until she produced undestroyed messenger chats. He claimed conspiracies, jealous rivals.
Back then James had said, Id never lie. It looks pathetic. If youve messed up, have the courage to admit it, break it off if you love your family. Or leave, but provide for them. She was proud of his honestyso responsible.
Easily solved from the sidelines, she thought, especially when you bear no responsibility.
But when youre in the thick of the drama, staring at both wife and mistress, courage evaporates in an instant.
She marched to their table in that café and took the empty seat. The mistress lifted surprised eyes. James froze. Then he perched on his chair, silent. She found it amusing to watch them. The mistress instantly knew who she wasor maybe shed guessed.
James tried to speak. She raised a hand and said, Thats not what I imagined, is it? Nothing about this is shocking. It happens. Now think about sorting itkids, shared flat, elderly parents. Youre clever; youll manage.
She left at a leisurely pace, her freshly pressed dress flattering her. Shed been too shy to wear it for ages.
