She drew her lips together. She was wearing a blue dress that day, with a low scooped neckline and a pleated skirt. I had a pair of rolled-up jeans and a crinkled white shirt on.
He hasn’t done anything, has he? she said. I mean, he’s not bothering you.
I realised she was talking about Nick, and I felt faint.
Who? I said.
She gave me an unwelcome look then, a look that suggested she was disappointed in me.
It’s okay, she said. Forget about it.
I felt guilty, knowing that she was making an effort to care for me, an effort that was probably painful to her. Quietly I said: no, look, of course he hasn’t. I don’t know … I think it’s nothing. I’m sorry. I think it’s just Bobbi.
Well, it’s a crush or something, she said. I’m sure it’s probably harmless, I just want you to know you can tell me if anything happens to make you uncomfortable.
I appreciate that, it’s very kind of you. But really, it doesn’t … it doesn’t bother me.
She smiled at me then, like she was relieved that I was all right, and that her husband had not been doing something untoward. I smiled back gratefully and she wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress.
It’s not like him, she said. But I guess you’re his type.
I looked down at our feet, I felt dizzy.
Or am I flattering myself? she said.
I met her eye then, and I realised she was trying to make me laugh. I did laugh, out of gratitude for her kindness and her apparent trust.
I think I’m the one who should be flattered, I said.
Not by him, he’s completely useless. Great taste in women, though.
She pointed at the bathroom. I moved out of the way and she went inside. I wiped my face with my wrist and felt it was damp. I wondered what she had meant by calling Nick ‘useless’. I couldn’t tell whether she was being affectionate or vitriolic; she had a way of making them seem like the same thing.
We didn’t play for very much longer after that. I didn’t talk to Bobbi at all before she went to bed. I sat on the sofa until everyone else had gone too, and after a few minutes Nick came back. He closed the shutters and then leaned against the windowsill. I yawned and touched my hair. He said hey, that was weird, wasn’t it? With Bobbi. I agreed it was weird. Nick seemed cautious on the subject of Bobbi, as if he wasn’t sure how I felt about her.
Have you given up drinking? I said.
It just makes me tired. And I prefer being sober for all this anyway.
He sat on the arm of the sofa, as if he expected we would be getting up again shortly. I said: what do you mean all this? And he said, oh, all this stimulating late-night conversation we have.
You don’t like having sex when you’re drunk? I said.
I think it’s probably better for everyone if I’m not.
What, it’s like a performance issue? I don’t have any complaints.
No, you’re very easy to please, he said.
I didn’t like him saying that, though it was true and he probably did think so. He touched the inside of my wrist with his hand and I felt myself shudder.
Not really, I said. I just know you like it when I lie there telling you how great you are.
He grimaced and said: that’s harsh. I laughed and said, oh no, am I ruining the fantasy for you? I’ll go back to sighing over how strong and masculine you are if you prefer. He didn’t say anything then.
I should go to bed anyway, I said. I’m exhausted.
He touched his hand against my back, which felt like an uncharacteristically tender gesture. I didn’t move at all.
Why haven’t you had any affairs before? I said.
Oh. I guess because I didn’t really meet anyone.
What does that mean?
For a second I really thought he would say: I never met anyone I desired, the way I desire you. Instead he said: yeah, I don’t know. We were pretty happy together for a long time, so I never really thought about it then. You know, you’re in love, you don’t really think about these things.
When did you stop being in love?
He lifted his hand away then, so no parts of our bodies were touching any more.
I don’t think I did stop as such, he said.
So you’re saying you still love her.
Well, yeah.
I stared at the light fixture on the ceiling. It was switched off. We had put the table lamp on instead, before the game started, and it cast elongated shadows toward the window.
I’m sorry if that hurts you, he said.
No, of course not. But so, is this like a game you’re playing with her? Like you’re trying to get her to notice you by having an affair with a college student.
Wow. Okay. To get her to notice me?
Well? It’s not like she hasn’t seen you looking at me. She asked me earlier if you were making me uncomfortable.
Jesus, he said. Okay. Am I?
I didn’t feel in the mood to tell him no, so I rolled my eyes instead and got off the sofa, smoothing down my shirt.
You’re going to bed then, he said.
I said yes. I put my phone into my handbag to bring it downstairs and didn’t look up at him.
You know, that was hurtful, he said. What you said just now.
I picked up my cardigan from the floor and draped it over my bag. My sandals were lined up beside the fireplace.
You think I would do this just for attention, he said. What makes you feel that way about me?
Maybe the fact that you’re still in love with your wife even though she’s not interested in you any more.
He laughed but I didn’t look at him. I glanced in the mirror over the fireplace, and my face looked awful, so bad it shocked me. My cheeks were blotched like someone had slapped me, and my lips were dry and almost white.
You’re not jealous, Frances, are you? he said.
Do you think I have feelings for you? Don’t be embarrassing.
I went downstairs then. When I got into my own bed I felt terrible, not so much from sadness as from shock and a strange kind of exhaustion. I felt like someone had gripped my shoulders and shaken me firmly back and forth, even while I pleaded with them to stop. I knew it was my own fault: I had gone out of my way to provoke Nick into fighting with me. Now, lying on my own in the silent house, I felt I’d lost control of everything. All I could decide was whether or not to have sex with Nick; I couldn’t decide how to feel about it, or what it meant. And although I could decide to fight with him, and what we would fight about, I couldn’t decide what he would say, or how much it would hurt me. Curled up in bed with my arms folded I thought bitterly: he has all the power and I have none. This wasn’t exactly true, but that night it was clear to me for the first time how badly I’d underestimated my vulnerability. I’d lied to everyone, to Melissa, even to Bobbi, just so I could be with Nick. I had left myself no one to confide in, no one who would feel any sympathy for what I’d done. And after all that, he was in love with someone else. I screwed my eyes shut and pressed my head down hard into the pillow. I thought of the night before, when he told me that he wanted me, how it felt then. Just admit it, I thought. He doesn’t love you. That’s what hurts.
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