about where your mouth has been.
When the meal is over I snuggle Luke and Mark in front of a film and start to clear the table. As I am loading the dishwasher you come up behind me, kissing me softly on the side of my neck.
‘I’m so sorry, Jenni,’ you whisper.
Somehow we steer through the evening. We put the children to bed. We sit next to each other on the sofa with a glass of wine each. You are too close to me again, your leg against mine, burning into me. Making me feel hot. Making me feel sick.
‘Please forgive me,’ you beg.
Is forgiveness to be the crux of our relationship now?
You take my right hand in yours. I allow it to rest limply in your sweaty palm and we sit listening to the sounds of the evening. Next door’s television reverberating through the party wall. An aeroplane. A police siren. People laughing on their way to the pub. I place my wine glass on the coffee table and stand up.
‘I’m going to bed. You’ll have to sleep in the spare room for a bit.’
By morning Rob’s receptionist has to allocate his late morning emergency appointment to me because I have told her I’m in meltdown; I can’t cope. I lay awake all night in our marital bed, the faint scent of your hair still on the pillow next to me, unable to sleep without you, missing the warmth of your body and the soothing resonance of your breath. I had no sleep all night, and the groundless feeling of panic that I have been trying to suppress since the loss of my mother has risen to a perpetual internal scream that I can’t pull away from.
So I am Rob’s priority patient, his cheery voice announcing my name over the internal speaker system as I walk towards his consulting room, trying not to trip over Lego from the children’s box in the corner of the waiting room. I knock on his door and receive the cursory, ‘Come in.’
His small room looks as if it has seen better days, complete with its chipped desk and obligatory couch with a paper towel spread across it. When invited I sit on a small leather chair opposite his desk and find myself distracted by a photograph of him with Carly, Pippa and John, presumably before Matt was born. They must have been walking in the Lake District or Wales; they’re standing in front of a rocky peak, dressed in waterproof jackets. Carly is wearing no make-up and looks very relaxed and happy. Far more relaxed than I have seen her for a while.
‘How are you?’ Rob asks.
My mouth opens and no words appear; tears stream down my face, their salt biting into my skin.
‘What’s happened, Jenni?’ he asks gently.
‘It’s Craig. He’s been having an affair.’
He exhales. ‘Stupid bastard.’
Rob’s words resonate inside me, and for the first time since I found out, I laugh. A nervous laugh, not a real laugh.
‘Exactly,’ I say, pretending to be confident.
‘Jenni, keep calm. There’s so much that can be done to help with relationship difficulties.’
‘That’s just it,’ I say, fighting for breath between sobs. ‘Until yesterday evening I didn’t think we had any relationship difficulties.’
I sit wrapped in his eyes. Something about his green-grey irises flecked with peppery dots suffocates my tears. But the scream inside my head continues. The scream inside my head that I think will never stop.
Saturday lunchtime. Jenni, you are sitting opposite me in the wine bar, your large cowpat eyes trying to drown me. We have ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a plate of tapas. But you’re not drinking. You’re not eating. You’re sitting still, hands clasped together on your lap as if you are praying.
Jenni Rossiter. Praying mantis.
‘You’ve got too much to lose if you break up this relationship,’ I tell you, finishing my third glass of wine and helping myself to some more tapas. ‘It can’t be much fun for children being shunted between different homes at weekends – particularly when they get older. And what about the finances? One home is far less expensive to maintain.’
You don’t reply; you sit in front of me, bereft and sanctimonious. Eventually, you speak.
‘You talk of practicalities. Don’t trust and faith mean anything these days?’ you ask.
‘Surely it shows trust in the strength of a relationship to let someone go and then welcome them back?’
‘I didn’t let him go. He just went.’ There is a pause. ‘The thing is, I can’t imagine what this woman must be like. She picked him up at the Travelodge apparently. Asked him if he would help her park her car and then invited him to bed. I can’t understand why he went.’
‘Is that really what happened?’ I ask, surprised at the contortion Craig has given you.
I try to top up your glass, but you put your hand firmly across the top of it.
‘What sort of woman would do this?’ you ask, eyes spitting towards me.
How can I explain that I was trying to chase away the shadow that is burying me? The shadow that, however hard I try, I cannot push away.
‘What sort of a woman would do this?’ I ask as we sit opposite each other in the dimly lit wine bar, surrounded by Saturday lunchtime chatter.
You pour yourself another glass of wine. Your fourth glass, Carly, and it is only 12:30 p.m. I don’t know how your liver and your skin cope. I’m worried about your drinking. I think I need to talk to Rob about it. You lean back in your chair, a half smile on your face, as if you are about to relish answering me. I don’t really want an answer, Carly. I just want you to listen like you used to. I want you to empathise. Remember, I haven’t got my husband. I haven’t got my mother. Carly, push back time a little. Give me your friendship.
‘To some people sex is as basic and necessary as going to the toilet,’ you say.
Louder and more bombastic than you have ever been.
‘I hope the woman who did this drowns in her own excrement,’ I reply too quickly, realising almost immediately how childish this sounds. How feral and unpleasant.
You respond, stiffening, as if I have electrocuted you.
Carly.
That is when I first smelt you on him, and him on you.
I am back home from my rendezvous with Jenni. I ring the front doorbell to warn my mother I am home, turning my key in the lock at the same time to increase my speed of entry. I meet her rushing towards the door across the hallway, looking tired.
‘How’s Jenni?’ she asks, as she slows down.
‘Unhinged,’ I reply.
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
I don’t reply.
I follow my mother through the hallway of our detached thirties house towards our kitchen/breakfast room, past a table on which Rob and I have been incarcerated in a silver frame, smiling benignly on our tenth wedding anniversary. We felt so proud of ourselves, so celebratory, downing a whole bottle of champagne and having sex in our bedroom before dinner. My mother opens the door and my children unfold before me. They are sat eating chicken nuggets and chips, basking in the late October sunshine