The Beautiful Affair

My husband is having an affair. It’s a story as old as time; I, the unsuspecting wife, a victim to the salacious impulses of a man, whom I have loved dearly for nearly half a century. This man still embraces me on entry into our home. He still kisses my neck when he saunters by. He speaks of me fondly to his colleagues. I am an educated, proper woman who has aged gracefully. I am quiet. I am acceptable among his circles.

The details of his affair arrived to me by post. In a brown paper wrapping, twined with brown string, I marvelled at the gift addressed only to me: Andrea Garfield. I don’t receive many things as an individual. I am Benjamin Garfield’s wife. Like so many others, I was sucked into my husband’s orbit and left floating there, surrounded by his other dying planets.

Inside the delicate wrapping was a beautiful leather notebook. I fingered it lovingly, unknowingly prodding at a trigger. I imagined the many uses for it: shopping lists, to-do-lists, reminders, a phonebook. A tiny but powerful whisper of creativity, once a full-fledged roar, for poetry. I was touched by this offer. Grateful. For two blissful minutes, I was transported into my younger skin, glowing with ambition, unprepared but willing to face down any opposition.

And then I opened it.

There, on the first page, was a list of names. Amber, Kelly, Nina. I pictured them as long, leggy and youthful, vixens of sex, eager to impress my powerful wealthy husband. Next to their names was a date and a small incriminating description.

Amber, 2/1/19, Bayview Hotel, room 14.

Kelly, 15/4/19, Hilton Royale, room 42.

Nina, 18/12/19, Sydney road, house.

The rest of the pages were blank. I was in shock but not surprised, which in itself was shocking. Our marital issues I had believed were common, a symptom of prolonged exposure to the same human. Some nights I stared at his back in the dark and felt only relief. He was still there, beside me, not touching but present. I had settled for just that.

I tucked the notebook under my arm, tossed the wrapping paper in the bin, and went about my morning as if I hadn’t just suffered an injection of pure betrayal. I made a coffee, burnt the eggs, caught my reflection in the oven door and, daresay, smiled. I was delirious with pain. My husband was stirring in our bed, none the wiser. I placed the beautiful notebook on the table beside his breakfast and I waited, as swollen as a raindrop, ready to fall.

He came downstairs in his suit with his baby blue tie loose around his neck. Years of routine had me reaching for him and fixing it, and for a second I imagined yanking it hard like a noose.

He kissed my mouth and tasted like home.

I released him and he sat and tucked in. He said, “what’s this, love?” and chewed with his mouth open. This was a side of him no one else saw. Relaxed, improper, cheeky. He got sauce on his shirt sleeve, crumbs in his lap.

“Open it.”

He did. Under my hawk eyes, he went still and careful. He said, “where did this come from?” and I collapsed in on myself, became a black hole.

I licked my lips, collected my venom. I had so much to say, too much. The years I had dedicated, the ones I was now owed, the sacrifices, the memories. We had no children. Not even a cat. He was the star, I was the stage hand. A roaring pressure mounted inside of me and, like a climax, I relented to it.

And I took the notebook with me.

The offer is on the table. A total sum of $20,000 for my discretion. I feel like a lioness with my tail swinging seductively and my husband’s fragile reputation between my claws. He doesn’t beg (he is far above that) but he tries to reason with me because I am a reasonable woman.

I take the money. I don’t even hesitate.

The men think I am spoiled. Behind their stoic masks they snarl: I am hungry for his blood, his wealth, his seed. They stare at my legs in the flesh-coloured tights. They take note of the luxurious watch. They notice the lack of a wedding ring and that satisfies them, briefly, before they remember the divorce proceedings and the devastating loss.

They are right, in a way. I am hungry. Not for revenge, not anymore. But for life. I book tickets to Bali. I invest. I move into a small loft apartment. I burn only my eggs. At the airport before I board my flight, I skim the newsagent and purchase a black notebook. I write poetry. I give myself permission to be terrible at it.

As a scorned woman, I am guilty of enjoying it. My status as a dutiful and devoted wife shifts to a single childless woman in her mid-fifties and that is simply sacrilegious. I don’t intend to be offensive but I am. Some days I accept the criticism with practiced ease; other days I blow up like an old rusted car, pushed well beyond its limit. But most of all, I am happy. Even when I cry. Even when I write bad poetry in my little black notebook.