The Torn Up Marriage (2 page)

“Are you coming through?” he smiled at her.

She couldn’t hide her anguish as she turned to face him.

“
Kate?
What’s wrong?” His voice had a chill through it.

She stared at him for a second or two, then started, “Last night,” her tone was low, full of hurt, “When you rang…”

He stared back at her. A dart of fear flashed through his eyes.

“It rang back… Your mobile…”

He stood silent.

“I heard you talking,” Kate’s eyes already pricking with tears. “In the car. You were talking with a woman.” It was no good holding back now. “Michael, are you having an affair?”

He stood. The colour draining from his cheeks. His silence incriminating. No rebuke, no rebuff. No,
“Don’t be so bloody silly.”

“Oh, Kate,” he looked startled, rubbed his fingertips repeatedly across his brow. Then his face crumpled, “I’m sorry.”

Those two words hurt so much more than any angry rant.

“No… NO!!” She wasn’t sure if the words were out loud or in her head.

He leant against the doorframe, his head hung low, “I never meant to hurt you, Kate.”

She paced towards him, aggression pounding through her veins. “How
could
you? How could you do this to me, Michael? To the girls? Didn’t you stop to think of us?” Her voice was a low growl.

He looked up shame-faced, “I didn’t mean it to get to this.”

“Oh, you didn’t mean it, so that’s fine then, is it? You didn’t mean to get into bed with some other woman and shag her, then.” She spat the words like acid. “It just happened did it?” She glared at him. Fire and ice in her green eyes. “You had a
choice,
Michael. You made a fucking choice…” Her voice broke.

He flinched. He had never heard her swear like that. But he deserved it. He stood quiet. No more “I’m sorry”. No long speech full of regret that he’d done it. No pleading for forgiveness.

She marched across the kitchen and flailed her arms against his chest, trying to beat the pain out of her. He didn’t stop her. Just stood and took it, until she looked up at him, a wildness he’d never seen before there in her eyes, and slapped him hard across the face. The slap stung her hand, yet she hardly registered the hurt. They stared at each other. His cheek reddening where her palm hit. Their eyes fixed, full of hurt, pain and his guilt.

Kate staggered back. She had to get out. Go somewhere. But the girls were upstairs, she couldn’t just leave them. The kitchen led out to the rear garden. She opened the back door and marched out of the house.

“It’s cold. Why don’t you come in?” His voice was gentle.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there. Huddled on the step, hugging her knees to her chest, rocking slowly to and fro. She was wearing a blouse and jeans. It was April. Looked down at her arms wrapped about her, realising that her knuckles had turned a whitey blue, that her forearms were covered in goose pimples.

The taste of bile was bitter in her throat. She remembered having been sick in the flower bed. Red wine and cottage pie. She’d never want to eat the bloody stuff again.

“Kate, come in, please.”

How dare he be nice to her? Pretend to be concerned.

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. But he persisted, offering his hand to help her up.

“You’ll be freezing out here. You’ll make yourself ill.”

What did he care?
Really?
His hand was still there. And suddenly the fight went out of her. She was tired, and yes, cold. Cold, right through to her soul. She placed her palm in his and let him help her up to her feet. Then she walked blankly into the house. He closed the back door behind them. It had been left open a long while. The cold evening air stealing through their home, coveting its warmth.

“I’ll make a coffee.” His tone was soft, appeasing.

She sat down on a kitchen chair. How could they sit together and have coffee? It seemed absurd. She should ask him to leave, pack his stuff and go. She should do that right now. But she somehow didn’t have the energy, or the will.

Back at the kitchen table again. The girls now sleeping in their beds. The plates all tidied away. The table wiped bare. The kitchen a space of emptiness and fear.

“How long’s it been going on?” Her voice was calm, icy cool.

“Let’s not go into all this now.” Michael stirred coffee granules into boiling water.

“Why not, Michael? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

He looked up sheepishly.

“
No
,” her voice became steely. “You don’t get out of it that easily. You owe me this much. You owe me the right to ask questions.” She stared at him. “So,” she started again, “How long have you been seeing her?
Her
… Does she have a name? Someone at work? It’s got to be, really, hasn’t it?”

Michael shifted uncomfortably, picked up the two cups and placed them on coasters before them. He sat down with a sigh, then answered calmly, “She’s called Sophie.” His tone was soft, too soft, when he spoke her name.

Sophie. A nice gentle name. Not Godzilla or Cruella. Just Sophie.

“And how long?” Kate’s tone showed she wasn’t going to be messed with.

Michael took a deep breath, “A couple of months, something like that.”

Months
. Kate’s mind reeled. What had they been doing as a couple, as a family, all that time? Was it over Christmas and New Year? Playing happy bloody families, when all the while… When had they last made love, she and Michael? When was it? A few weeks ago, it wasn’t that long… That night. That night after the drama production they’d seen at the playhouse. Mum and Dad had had the girls. It had felt a bit like old times, Jesus, all the while…
When had he been with the bitch?
The night before that? When?
When
? Days before, the day after? The same day? He had been making love, been inside someone else, and then with her. Kate felt used. Sickened.

“It’s not like you think. Not some corny office one-night stand.”

“You don’t know what I think.” Her voice was low, angry, “How can you profess to know how I think…? And like
what,
Michael? What’s an affair like? Because I sure as hell don’t know. As I would never
, never
have done this to you.”

His tone was calm but quiet, as though he knew that what he was about to say would hurt her too much, would end it all, “I’ve fallen in love with her.”

The silence was like a blade between them.

Kate stared at the table top, fingered a groove in the wood, hoping for a splinter, something sharp to wake her from this nightmare. But there was none, just the smooth grooves of the well-used table, worn down evenly by family life.

“Oh,” was all she could manage after what seemed an age. Tears stung her eyes. A pulsing pain seared above her brow.

Eventually Michael spoke again, “Do you want me to leave?”

Let him just up and go to
her
? Leaving her and the children here. Just like that. But what would him staying really mean? Could she live with him now? With this betrayal? What did she really want? Kate couldn’t be sure, but it seemed too soon, too sudden to throw their marriage into the trash can of life, to label it with divorce and put a stone around its neck.

She sat quietly for a few moments. “It’s your choice, Michael. There’s the girls to think of, too.” She paused, her voice calm, damning, “If you go, there’s no coming back. If you stay, you don’t see her ever again.”

He paled. She saw pain, a second of panic, there on his face, faced with the reality of his actions, the truth of what he had done. He sat, shoulders slumped with the weight of his decision. He didn’t look like the man she knew at all, the man she loved.

She sipped the last of her coffee. Coffee and bile leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She’d go up and brush her teeth. She rose, rinsed the cup out under the tap and placed it on the drainer. She took a long, slow look at him, sitting there with his head bowed. She could almost feel sorry for him.
Almost
. If he hadn’t just fucked up her whole life. Then she strode out of the room. Up to bed.

Sleep was evasive.

A long while later she heard footsteps on the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t have the audacity to come into their bed. She couldn’t bear him near her, not now.

She heard a tap running in the bathroom, the brushing of teeth, spitting out. A door clicked and swooshed. Not hers, no light invading their bedroom. The door closing just across the hallway. The spare room.

He was still here then, hadn’t left the house. He hadn’t gone to her, the other woman.

There was a frayed strand of hope.

What the hell had he done?

He lay in the single bed of the spare room, his mind running over the events of the night. Jesus, what a night! The image of Kate’s face tight with shock; he may as well have punched her. He hated himself for hurting her.

Why did he do it? What the fuck was the matter with him?
Did he think he could keep it all secret? Did he think it’d just fizzle out? No, it wasn’t that. He hadn’t wanted to
think
at all… Just be… Be with her. Sophie. Some crazy, driving force between them. Well, the shit had well and truly hit the fan now. An affair. He’d never have put himself down as the sort. It was the selfish, shit heads and tossers who did that to people (well, he’d certainly entered that league now.)

Sophie – he pictured her pretty face. The yearning for her ate at him every single day. It had been building over months. He’d tried to tell himself it was just a crush. He should have known to leave well alone.

And then, weeks ago in the office, they were the last there, she’d dropped some papers. He’d helped pick them up. Some of her hair had come loose from the top-knot thing she’d done with it. He’d moved in closer, didn’t know why he did it, but he’d gently pushed away the strand of auburn hair that had fallen across her face. Their eyes held for a second too long, and they both knew… what had been left unsaid, what they’d both held back for so long.

They should have turned off the computers, switched off the lights, shut up for the night… Or, they could just let everything they’d been holding back come to life.

He closed his eyes, remembering; it was still so vivid. He’d leaned in towards her, his eyes fixed on hers, asking if this was alright. The tension of temptation zipping through him. She’d smiled back nervously. He moved his lips to brush hers, firmer, teasing, tasting her mouth. Jeez, how he’d forgotten what this was like. He and Kate hardly kissed these days, and when they did it was no more than a peck “goodnight” or “goodbye”.

He could have stopped it.
Should
have stopped it then. But the honest truth… he had
wanted
it. Wanted to taste her giving mouth, feel her skin bare against his, pulled in by the passion of this gorgeous, responsive woman. That first kiss taking them to a place of longing, a place of inevitability. Snatching moments of bliss. And now here, two months later, the truth laid bare, along with his guilt. There was no way out of this now without hurting one of them, probably both.

He shivered. The spare room was cold.

This was how it would be from now on in this house. A cold distance between them. No more loving, no more touching. Those hugs, kisses, the passion of their early years, gone. But no more pretence, either. No more acting as though everything was alright.

It hadn’t been alright for a long time.

Orange street light seeped through the thin curtains. A drip plodded repeatedly in the bathroom next door, where his toothbrush stood next to Kate’s. That bloody tap. Kate had been nagging him for weeks about it. He’d never been very handy around the house – another of his failings. Perhaps he’d get up, find a spanner and tighten the damned thing. But he didn’t move. His mind a mass of jumbled thoughts. His limbs weary.

When had their marriage changed so much that it had to end, that he’d had to destroy it?

A muffled cough disturbed his thoughts. A childish splutter in the hollow of night. Emily; she was often troubled with a chesty cough. He listened. If it carried on he’d go to settle her, lift her pillows a bit. Another splutter, then it eased to silence. Except for the damn drip, of course.

His beautiful girls: Emily, Charlotte. He pictured their sunny faces, the blonde curls.
What the hell had he done?
Christ, he wished they didn’t have to find out… that Daddy was a cheating bastard. How could he possibly stay now? And his absence tomorrow or the next day would say too much. They weren’t stupid. They deserved the truth.

What if he didn’t leave? Ended it all with Sophie right now? Oh God, the thought of not being with her, of never holding her again tore at him. But he could do it. He could stay, for the girls. Yet, how could he and Kate carry on after this? Wouldn’t it just be even worse? He’d been living a lie for a long time now; too long. It was a relief,
almost
, that the truth was out. Yet the hurt he’d caused tonight, the look on Kate’s face, he wished he could have avoided that.

He could really be with her now, Sophie. For a split second, he wished she were here, her arms about him. Yearned for that comfort. Here, in the spare room with Kate next door, how fucking absurd! She’d have been worried since his short text earlier letting her know that Kate had found out. Someone else lying in a cold bed. A few miles away. Lying there with her thoughts. Waiting for his decision. But he had to try and sort things out here first.

Two women on the go – some might say he was lucky; the cat who got the cream. But the reality. Secrets, lies. It was shit. Tearing himself in two, wondering how the hell he could avoid hurting either of them. Missing Sophie when he was with Kate. Missing those intense early years of marriage he had once had with Kate. He loved her still, his wife. Ironic that. Love didn’t turn off like a switch. It had just changed, eroded. What a fucking mess.

And his girls; he didn’t want to mess it all up for them. Didn’t want to break up their home… But these past few weeks he had struggled to keep his life afloat, his actions merely damage limitation in lies.

So this was it. The truth was out. The jury in his mind still deliberating. No doubt others would join in soon enough; friends, family, colleagues. He was the bastard who ran off with his secretary, leaving his wife and two kids.
Was he really going to leave them?

He’d do everything in his power not to hurt those two little girls asleep down the hallway. He wasn’t so naïve as to think they wouldn’t be hurt at all, not be confused if he went away. But he’d see them as much as he could. He’d make damned sure he would always be there for them.

Footsteps shuffled across the landing. The click of a switch and a thin strip of light, white-gold, under his door. The slow creak of the bathroom door, then a shove as it closed, the last inch sticking, the wood having swollen over time. He’d meant to take it off and sand it down. Had never got around to it. God, he was bloody useless.

Then he heard her hushed sobs. Oh shit, Kate. His heart sank. Should he go to her? But how could he ever make it better? She wouldn’t want him now. A rush of water gurgling as it drained from the sink. The light gone out. The closing of a door.

He lay, thinking of Kate, Sophie, Emily, Charlotte. His warm tears wetting the cold pillow.