All of Simon’s neurotic energy had gone. He was still snobbish and sarcastic, but more fun to be around. Women remained easy prey—most of them deathly pale model types with cheekbones instead of breasts, who were “serious girlfriends” until he announced otherwise.
After I married Jack, Simon became a regular visitor at our first house and then this one. He and Jack play regular games of tennis and golf at the Roehampton Club. Jack helped Simon get his job at the network, where he’s proved a hit with viewers, having just the right combination of gravitas and cheeky charm.
Apart from being Jack’s best man, Simon is Lucy’s godfather, which he finds hilarious, because he’s so utterly godless and he says he can’t wait until Lucy turns eighteen when he can get her stoned or pissed or both. I know that he’s joking, but not completely. My own relationship with him was fine until eight months ago, and he hasn’t been to the house since. Jack keeps inviting him, but Simon makes excuses.
“I can’t understand what’s happened,” Jack told me. “Did you guys have a fight?”
“No.”
“Well, he seems to be avoiding you.”
I changed the subject and tried not to mention Simon. In truth, I can’t think about him without wanting to curl up in a corner and sob. I can’t think of him without remembering a night in mid-March when Jack and I had a blazing row about money, which was merely the trigger. It began when I reversed the car into a lamppost, denting the rear hatch. It was my fault. I should have admitted my mistake, but I pushed back when Jack accused me of being careless. We fought. My mother once told me that someone had to be soft in a marriage or it wasn’t going to work. Not me, I thought. Not this time.
Jack has a similar stubborn streak, charging into every argument, wielding accusations like a bayonet. Wounded, I went low, almost begging him to overreact. He did. He raised his fist. I cringed. He didn’t strike, but I saw it in his eyes. “I don’t know why I married you!” he roared. “If it weren’t for the kids, I’d be long gone.”
Silently, I packed Lucy and Lachlan into the car and dropped them at my parents’ place. My mother wanted to know what had happened. I couldn’t talk to her. I drove to Simon’s flat, struggling to see the road through splintered tears. I wanted to ask him why Jack was so unhappy. Had he said anything? Was it over?
I was a mess. Simon poured me some wine. I talked. He listened. A lot of men fail to realize how attractive that is to a woman: listening. Not interrupting. Not judging. He let me sob on his shoulder. He wiped away my tears with his thumb. He whispered that things would all work out.
I was too drunk to drive home. Simon offered to call me a cab. I stood and stumbled. He caught me. Our lips were close. We kissed. I clung to him. We tumbled backwards onto the sofa, kissing again and again, taking off our clothes, kicking off boots and popping buttons. I lifted my hips. He spread my knees. He lowered his head and used his tongue. I shouted and it didn’t sound like me. Afterwards I drew him inside me, urging him to fuck me harder. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to feel something other than anger and disappointment. I wanted to have hot, raw, unadulterated sex and fuck the consequences.
Afterwards we lay on Simon’s Pashtun rug catching our breath. I saw the silhouette of branches thrown by the streetlights against the blinds and recognized a different world from the one that had existed only a few moments ago. The lust and anger had seeped away, leaving behind a terrible numbness and an emptiness that felt violent. Where did it come from? Was I really so unhappy?
I retrieved my knickers and pulled them on under my skirt, smoothing my blouse. I was in shock. What had I done? After six years of blissful (OK, reasonably happy) marriage, out of the clear blue sky, I had shagged my husband’s best friend.
What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t.
There are no excuses. I am a terrible person. I am the sort of crass, shameless slag who should be humiliated by Jeremy Kyle or Dr. Phil. Yes, Jack raised his hand, but he didn’t hit me. He said he didn’t love me, but he was angry. Lashing out.
Every relationship goes through rocky patches. We had been through worse and always bounced back. Normally, all it takes is a weekend away, or a great night out, or a moment of intimacy to remind us why we fell in love.
In the days that followed I was convinced that people could see my guilt. I felt it was tattooed on my forehead or sticking out like a forgotten label on a new pair of jeans. Jack apologized for scaring me and agreed to see a marriage counselor. He wasn’t particularly open about his feelings at our therapy sessions, but he made an effort, which is more than I did. My secret crippled me. It isn’t simply about the betrayal—it is the shameful memory of how good the sex was; how hot and urgent and desperate. Each time the details flood back to me my thighs want to open and close. I have to squeeze them together, hating myself even more.
Anyone who says that honesty is the best policy is living in la-la land. Either that or they have never been married or had children. Parents lie to their kids all the time—about sex, drugs, death, and a hundred other things. We lie to those we love to protect their feelings. We lie because that’s what love means, whereas unfettered honesty is cruel and the height of self-indulgence.
Then came our weekend away and the madly impulsive hotel sex. I missed my periods in April and May. I panicked. I couldn’t remember if Simon had used a condom. I rang him. In the background I could hear people laughing and drinking in a noisy bar. Simon told me yes.
“Why?” he asked, shouting.
“No reason.”
“I thought we were never going to speak about that night.”
“We’re not. Ever.”
“I’ll take it to my grave.”
“Good.”
AGATHA
* * *
We had a robbery at the supermarket today. A jittery-looking dodo in a hoodie and sunglasses was hanging around near the freezer section, muttering and shaking his head. He didn’t have a shopping basket and he kept glancing at the CCTV cameras above the aisles.
“What can’t you find?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
He ignored me completely and walked away, heading towards the doors. I was going to say something to Mr. Patel, who was at the registers, but I thought the guy was leaving. At the last moment he turned back and pulled a knife.
Mr. Patel’s eyes snapped open like they were spring-loaded. I think I might have screamed.
The guy told him, “Empty the register or I’ll cut your throat.” He spun around and waved the knife at me. “Get on the floor!”
I pointed to myself as if to say, Who, me? and dropped to my knees.
“All the way down,” he said. “On your stomach.”
“Really?”
He noticed I was pregnant and said I could stay on all fours.
Mr. Patel was trying to open the register. He kept pressing the No Sale button, but the key was on the wrong setting and the cash drawer wouldn’t open.
The robber told him to hurry up.
“You have to buy something,” said Mr. Patel.
“What?”
“I can’t open the drawer unless you buy something.”