The memory of Margarets husbands lover has lingered in my mind for many years, as if it were a faded portrait hanging in the hallway of an old English house. If the lover had been a man, Thomas would have chosen her without hesitation. You know how some women understand their own worth: they walk upright in modest attire, meet the gaze directly, listen to the end of a story. They are unhurried, their movements calm, never feeling the need to flash their shoulders or push their chest forward to be noticed; instead they preserve a regal composure that never lets them lose their footing.
Sheperhaps because she was the very opposite of Margaretwas drawn to Thomas. Margaret herself was a whirlwind. She was always rushing, raising her voice at the children and at her husband, dropping things from her hands, never managing to gather herself. At work she was perpetually behind schedule, her superiors constantly displeased. She wore trousers and shirts or sweaters because who had the patience to fuss with a dress or a blouse? She could no longer recall the last time she pressed a frill or a lace trim; the modern tumbledryer had saved her from the chore of ironing.
The lover, however, was immaculate. Her silhouette, her gait, her long legs, her glossy hair, clear eyes, beautiful faceone could hardly keep ones hands steady in her presence. From the moment Thomas first laid eyes on her, his breath never returned to its former calm. It all began after a work trip to a farther district of London. Exhausted and famished, he wandered into a café by chance. The place was packed; only a corner table was free. He sat, lifted his eyes from the menu, and there she wasfamiliar yet foreign. He recognised the man behind her, and he saw her too.
He clasped his hands together, lingering on her fingertips as though the scent of basil rose from them. It seemed a scene painted on a canvas: his fingers hovering, his eyes scanning the room. Yet he knew the woman was something else entirely.
A strange feeling washed over him, like the warning before a burnseeing red marks on skin and knowing pain will follow, yet living in the pause before the sting, trying desperately to soothe the wound before the hurt arrives.
It ought to have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
Thomas returned home on time, as was his habit. He was usually eventempered and balanced. Margaret, by contrast, flared at the slightest provocation, swift and impulsive. He was a moderate sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, fundamentally the opposite of his wife.
How fitting it would have been for his humour to soften the tension! Yet Margarets own humor was illsuited to the moment.
All evening she wanted to confront him directly, with a neutral tone: Well, whats the story with the lover? I saw you yesterday at The Green Tea; she was quite lovely. I understand, I might have acted the same. She imagined him sweating, his forehead beading, his cheeks flushing, struggling to keep his composure.
She might have asked, So, what now? Should the children meet her? Should she move into a flat of her own, or shall we take her into our home? He offered no answer. As usual, he embraced her and fell asleep beside her quickly.
Perhaps they had not yet reached the bedroom; he drifted to his side of the bed, laughing in his thoughts. He thought of a woman who, even when she sees betrayal with her own eyes, insists she saw nothing amiss.
Maybe they were only at the beginning, the stage of lingering glances and hearts beating in unison. He knew how to hide, to betray neither glance nor movement.
He tossed restlessly, waking in fragments, dreaming of colourful flowers and strangers in scarlet dresses.
In the morning he rose with a heavy head, moved slower than usual, and calmly prepared the children for school.
All day he wondered what a woman should do when she catches her husband with another. Search Google? The internet gave no answer. She had no plan, no notion of how to carry on.
She didnt need to try. Life went on as before: the same routine, the same husband arriving home on the hour, no foreign scent on his shirt, laughing, noisy children, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same twohour affairs each week, sometimes a third if she paid attention to the details.
Had she erred in that café? No. She called him at noon; he didnt answer. She took a cab back to the same café, gave the driver a brief excuse about awaiting an important parcel for work. Thomass car was parked opposite. She saw them both alight and climb into the vehicle together.
Her face turned pale; she asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended to make a phone call, and shouted theatrically into the silent handset: Shame on you both! Im done, Im off to work! Even then she cared little about the drivers opinion.
When you discover a lover, the world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how to live differently? To endure? For what, for whom?
She recalled a pair of friends whose husband also kept a lover. He hid, lied, but his wife eventually uncovered the truthmessages on his phone, accusations of being hacked, jealous rivals. Her husband had declared firmly: I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny it. If you do something, you must own it. Choose either to cut off the lover and stay with the family, or leave and care for your own.
She found that admirable. What a serious man you have by your side! she thought. It is easy to give counsel from the sidelines, not being directly involved. Yet when life thrusts you into the centre, when others look to you for decisions and balance, courage and steadiness can vanish in an instant.
She entered that very same café and sat at their table. The lover lifted her surprised eyes. Thomas stiffened, then began to fidget his hands beneath the table. Silence hung heavy. It was curious to watch him. The lover understood instantly who she wasperhaps she already knew.
Thomas tried to speak, but she raised a hand and stopped him: Its not as if I didnt notice, is it? she said softly. Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please, think of the children, the flat you share, the elderly parents. Youre mature people; you can manage. She rose, her freshly pressed dress fitting her wella dress she hadnt worn in ages.
Sometimes bravery means speaking the truth, and still moving forward with dignity, however hard it may be. A womans dignity does not come from shoes or pressed gowns, but from the quiet strength that lets her, in the end, gather her resolve and continue her life.
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