like this. Never.
She found nothing. Only evidence of their family’s validity. Life insurance policies, passports, bank statements, Axel’s vaccination card, the key to the safe deposit box. She went on to the bookshelf. Where? Where would he hide something that she could never be allowed to find? Was there any single place in this house where she never looked? Where he knew that his secret would be safe?
Suddenly she heard the front door open.
Trapped like a thief she hurried out of the room and back to the bedroom. She had to think, had to find out. Who was she? Who was the other woman who was taking her husband from her? Destroying her life. The threat pulsed through her body.
Just as she heard his steps coming up the stairs, she opened the bedroom door and stepped out.
They stood eye to eye, two metres from each other.
An eternity between them.
He looked surprised when he saw her.
‘Aren’t you at work?’
He kept going, heading for his place at the kitchen table, the everyday sound of the chair legs scraping on the wooden floor. Then he grabbed the newspaper and she lost all self-control. Without hesitation she went over to him, tore the paper out of his hands, and flung it across the room. He stared at her.
‘Are you crazy?’
He still had the coldness in his eyes. An indifference that was just as effective as a police barrier. She was no longer welcome. Armed with his secret he sat safely ensconced, shielded from her attacks, while she stood naked and unprotected, with no effective weapon to use.
Rage flooded through her. She wanted to strike, wound, crush. Do harm in return. Regain the balance. She hated the weakness he was creating inside her.
‘I only want you to answer one question. How long has this been going on?’
She saw him swallow.
‘What’s that?’
He must have sensed the danger, because he no longer dared meet her gaze. That reassured her, almost made her smile. Slowly but surely she was regaining the upper hand. She was the one who had right on her side. He had lied and cheated and would have to answer for his betrayal, would be put to shame.
She sat down on the chair across from him.
‘All right, maybe you have several going at once, but I was thinking of the woman you were talking to on the phone last night.’
He stood up, went over to the sink, and drank straight out of the tap. She restrained herself from showering him with all the words that were clamouring to come out. The best torture would be to sit quietly; the worst thing she could do to him would be to force him to speak.
He straightened up again and turned to her.
‘It was just a friend.’
‘I see. Anybody I know?’
‘No.’
Short and to the point. He looked straight at her and it made her waver. For the first time in a long while he was looking her in the eye with a steady gaze. Where was he getting the strength, if not from the fact that he was unjustly accused?
‘What’s the friend’s name then? And where did you meet her? Because I assume it’s a she.’
‘Does that make any difference?’
‘Yes. If my husband has such a good friend that he can call her in the middle of the night and wants to talk when I’m in bed in the next room, then I’d like to know about it.’
She could see that he hesitated, taking an unwashed coffee cup from the counter and putting it in the dishwasher. Then he came back and sat down at the table.
Husband and wife, face to face across their familiar kitchen table.
A sudden calm.
It was now that they should talk. A businesslike pause in the hurricane that permitted them to approach each other, as if they were going to talk about some other couple. All the questions would finally be answered, all the lies admitted. Reality would be unveiled and the truth would stand there raw and naked. What would happen afterwards was like an unspoken agreement and unimportant right now.
As long as the truth was finally told.
‘Her name is Maria.’
Maria.
‘And where did you meet her?’
‘She’s a graphic designer at Widman’s.’
‘How long have you known her?’
He shrugged.
‘Maybe six months.’
‘Why haven’t you told me about her?’
No reply.
‘Why did you call her last night?’
‘How do you know I did?’
‘Does that really matter? You did call, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. I rang her up last night. She’s . . .’
He broke off and shifted position on the chair, looking as if he would like nothing better than to get up and leave.
‘I don’t know. She’s nice to talk to.’
‘About what?’
‘Everything.’
‘About us?’
‘Yes, that has probably come up.’
She felt sick again.
‘So what did you say?’
‘Well, I suppose I’ve told her the truth.’
‘Which is?’
He took a deep breath, revealing his reluctance.
‘I’ve said that we, well, that I, what the hell, she’s nice to talk to, that’s all. She’s a fun girl.’
A fun girl.
We don’t have fun any more.
Maria.
Her husband had called Maria from Widman’s last night at one thirty in the morning. He had called and talked with Maria while she lay alone in the bedroom with her hopeless questions and her lacy underwear.
Bloody hell.
What had he said? Had he told her about the champagne she had bought and about the trip? The mere thought made her want to throw up. Somewhere there was a woman who knew more about their relationship than she did herself,
