We’ve been here so many times. I’m heading towards the Spanish restaurant we used to visit frequently, before that night. The same restaurant I know he’s been to recently, without me. I found the receipt, I saw the evidence, and that bill was for two meals. So, he didn’t come here alone. Maybe he was just having lunch with another staff member; it’s a possibility, but I doubt that was the case. He wouldn’t come here. Not here. He wouldn’t use this place for anything work-related; it was always our special place. And the thought of him sharing that with someone else…
I reach the restaurant and push open the door, the smell of paella, garlic and freshly baked bread hitting me head on, causing my stomach to rumble. I didn’t even realise how hungry I was until I came in here.
I look around until I catch the eye of a young waiter, someone I don’t recognise. I haven’t been here for so long that most of the staff seem different. New. This is a city with a big student population, and a lot of them find work in the many restaurants and bars, so it stands to reason there’ll be high turnovers of staff in places like this. Is that why Michael felt it safe to come here without me? Because no one would recognise him, no one would care; no one knows us well enough to tell me he’s bringing someone else to our restaurant?
The waiter throws me a friendly smile as he comes over, and I ask if I can have a table away from the window, a quiet table, at the side of the restaurant. I’m looking for somewhere with a good view of the room, a place where I can easily see the entrance but also remain slightly secluded, and the table he seats me at is perfect. I thank him and take the menu he offers me, ordering a glass of Rioja Blanca and some bread and olives before I’m left alone to check out the rest of the menu, although I already know what I’m going to order. My favourite Tapas dishes – Gambas Pil Pil, Albondigas and Escalivada. I feel like something familiar, and I haven’t been here for so long, just the thought of those spicy prawns, the beautifully cooked pork meatballs in that wonderful tomato sauce and those Catalan style roasted, chargrilled vegetables … it’s making my mouth water. I’m almost forgetting why I’ve come here. It isn’t for the food at all; I’m here on the off chance that I might see something, anything, that can help me work out what’s going on in Michael’s world, because for too long now it’s felt like we’ve been living in two completely different ones. And I know that that receipt I found means something – I know it was only one, just one receipt. There’s no evidence he came here any other time. I have no reason to think he’s going to turn up here today; no reason to think he’s made this a regular haunt with someone new. But I have no reason to think he hasn’t. So I’m here, and maybe I’ll continue to come here for lunch more often. Maybe I need to put more time in at the Durham salon. Spend more time at the spa, so I can be closer to here.
I take a sip of wine and glance around the restaurant at the random mix of people all enjoying their lunch. I’m the only one dining alone, but that doesn’t bother me.
A fresh group of people are entering the restaurant now, and I can hear the waiter asking them to follow him to their table. I turn my head to see if any of those people are my husband and for a brief second that small, rational part of my brain makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Do I really expect Michael to walk in, with another woman, on the day I decide to come here?
Sitting back in my chair, I continue to watch everyone around me, and I wonder if any of their lives are as messed up as mine. I’m not sure anyone’s could be. But I know that what people choose to show to the outside world isn’t necessarily the reality. And I allow my mind to wander back to memories of my parents’ marriage; the way they’d acted happy, put on a united front whenever they were out in public, at family parties, gatherings, trips to the supermarket; anything that involved them being seen together. As I grew older, I could hear the arguments that quickly blew up once they were back behind closed doors; I was old enough to hear those rows, but not the accusations. I had no idea what they were arguing about, not at first. But once I realised what was really going on, that’s when I knew how quickly things –lives – could start to fall apart.
Because of them, I avoided relationships; anything that had even the vaguest hope of turning serious, I shut it down. Walked away. I never let myself get involved, fall too deep. I always took a step back from anything that I thought could hurt me. Until I met Michael. Michael was different. The second we saw each other – the first time he smiled at me, the way his hand touched mine as we reached for the same bottle of wine – I knew then that he was different. He was the man who made me realise all men weren’t like my father. Not all men cheated. Not all men lied. Not all men made you feel worthless and alone. Michael was different … or so I thought.
I look up as my food is placed in front of me, and the incredible smells that fill my nostrils help drag me back. I need to stay focused.
I thank the waiter, ask for a bottle of still water and look down at my food, picking up my fork and gently stabbing a large prawn, the garlic-laden juice dripping from it as I lift it up and pop it into my mouth. It tastes wonderful, and as I chew slowly a hundred and one memories of mine and Michael’s trips to Spain flood my brain; memories of a life I loved, and I’m not willing to let that life drift away from me. Not without a fight.
I’ll find out what’s going on.
I’ll find out if he’s lying; if he’s cheating.
I’ll find out if he really is just like my father. I’ll find out the truth.
And I’ll deal with it.
‘Am I driving tonight?’ Michael throws his bag down onto the kitchen table. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries any more. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to communicate sometimes, and the fact that he seems okay with that – I struggle to get my head around it.
‘No. I’ll drive.’
We’re going to a dinner party to celebrate the anniversary of a couple we’ve known for almost ten years now. We are both aware that we will need to pretend tonight. Pretend we are still that couple. The ones who managed to pull through together, despite it all; still perfect. The pressure of this pretence makes me want to scream.
‘I’m going upstairs to take a shower. Is my grey shirt clean?’
I nod and take a sip of the tea I’ve just poured as I watch him leave the kitchen, hear him head upstairs. He’s left his bag on the table, his jacket slung over the back of a chair, his phone hanging precariously from the top pocket.
I wait until I hear the shower switch on, I put down my tea and I quickly rescue his phone before it drops to the floor; but instead of putting it somewhere safe, I keep hold of it. I turn it over in my hand and look at the screen, but I stop myself from doing what I really want to do – check his messages. Read his texts. Look at his call history. Am I really that person? That kind of wife?
The landline suddenly rings out, its sharp, shrill tone jarring against the silence, causing me to almost drop Michael’s phone. The slightest sound still has the ability to make me jump, and I reach behind me for the TV remote, switching it on for that background noise that helps drown out the perpetual, threatening silence. The ringing stops, abruptly, so Michael must have answered it. Sure enough, he calls down from the top of the stairs.
‘That was Laurel on the phone.’ I hear him run downstairs, and I quickly slide his phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘She needs me to pop back to the university, sign a couple of things concerning grants for a new research project. I should have done it before I left … I forgot. You know
