I is for...Infidelity

This is super long, I'm sorry. Don't feel you have to read all of it. It's something I've been working on a bit and I'm just too close to tell if it's worth pursuing. Any comments are welcome! Thanks, Auntie B x

2006. January.

I’m standing in the arrivals lounge at Gatwick airport, north terminal. I bought a new hat for the occasion. Apparently I am incapable of passing through an airport without buying something, anything, from Accessorize. It’s dark blue, corduroy, with a peak that’s pulled right down to my eyes, covering my fringe. It’s an awful hat. And I am hiding behind a pillar.

This is, I fear, a new low.

There have been a few lows lately, so it’s hard to tell if this is an absolute, all-time low. It could, in fact, be marginally less low than yesterday. I’ll know soon enough.  

I’m standing in the arrivals lounge at Gatwick airport. I am waiting for my husband who is arriving this afternoon. He told me he was in Italy on business. He told his mother he was skiing in Austria. I believe he has been skiing in Austria with his mistress. Both flights - the flight from Italy that he says he is on, and the flight from Austria his mother believes he is on - land at Gatwick, north terminal, one hour apart. He is not a very bright adulterer.

I intend to meet both flights and surprise him (them?) in the arrivals lounge.

Maybe I should say “estranged husband”. Isn’t that what you call it? Estranged. It sounds terribly grown up. “My estranged husband.” It certainly sounds better than “my fuckwit husband of five months who can’t decide if he wants me or his freedom and who has been possibly fucking someone else. In fucking Austria.”  He knows I hate skiing. Bastard.

I am wearing a bad hat and I am waiting to surprise my estranged husband and his girlfriend.

It is definitely an all-time low. Bugger.

Please, God, let him be on the Italy flight. Please, God, let him be alone.

It’s time. The Italy flight landed 15 minutes ago and people are starting to stream out passed the barriers. The lucky ones have happy reunions. Most just look pissed off to be here. I know how they feel.

Please, please, please.

Every last straggler gives false hope. But of course he’s not there. I’m not even surprised in the end. I know that I don’t move from the arrivals lounge, but otherwise I have no idea how I pass the next hour. I don’t think anything.  I’m hollow. I just keep staring at the Arrivals board.

The Austria flight lands and people trickle out soon enough. One or two at first, then hordes of them. Must have been a full flight. The abundance of tanned noses is almost funny.  I fucking hate skiing. My bravado slips and I’m panicking. I know I can’t bear to see them together. I’m too afraid of losing it in this most public of places. Dear God, not in front of the skiers.

I call his mobile and he answers on the second ring.

Me: “Where are you?”

“I’m on my way home from Gatwick.”

Lying cunt motherfucker.

“Oh really?”

Pause.

“Only, I met the Italy flight and you weren’t on it.”

“You’re here?”

“Yes.” Motherfucker.  

“What? No. I was on the Italy flight. I’m…I’ve been delayed. I’m at customs.”

“For an hour? Don’t give me that. Is Leanne with you?”

Leanne. That’s her name. Apparently it’s not just for country singers.  Her name is Leanne and she works at his company. She’s in Export. I know they’ve been going to lunch together every day. I know that they have been doing that since before our wedding. And I know that they ‘came out’ as a couple at the office Christmas party.

He sighs. “Where exactly are you?”

“Arrivals.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

I should be angry with myself for tipping him off, but all I can think about is this redundant fucking hat and how I can’t take it off because it’s squashed my hair into a helmet shape.

He walks out alone, calm. He looks disgusted with me.

“Do you like my new hat?”

“What are you doing here?” Subtext: you crazy bitch.

“How was Austria?”

He sighs again. When did I get so tedious? “Look, I’ve been in Austria okay. Big deal. I just wanted to get away from it all for a while. I swear I went on my own.” He waves his arms demonstrating the empty space next to him. “You can see I’m on my own.”

“What, is she hiding out in duty free or did you send her on ahead? If I knew what she looked like I could have said hello.”

“I’m not talking to you like this. I’m going home.”

He starts to move and it’s all unravelling. I was supposed to catch him red-handed. He was supposed to grudgingly, maybe even tearfully, admit everything. I would say something witty to Leanne about what a catch he was and then stalk off to a soundtrack of Aretha Franklin. Perhaps someone would high-five me. Now I’m on the edge of tears and people are looking.

“Wait, I could ride home with you. We could talk on the way?” Unless you’re driving home with someone else that is.

“No, I’m tired from travelling. I’ll call you later.”

Later. I’m home when he calls. He starts out indignant, adamant he’s been on his own all week. He needed to get away and he didn’t know why he’d lied to me about being in Italy. As far as he knows Leanne has been at work all week. I point out that I called the office a few days ago and was told she was on holiday. Skiing apparently, how lovely.

Eventually he admits he was with her but Nothing Happened. They were in separate rooms, they were just friends. He’d told her about his trip and she surprised him by booking an identical holiday. It definitely wasn’t planned. She might even be a stalker. Nothing. Happened.

My husband thinks I’m an idiot. It shocks me that that’s what hurts the most. Not the lies, and not that he’s been having après ski sex all week with another woman. It’s that he thinks I’m stupid.

I’m an intellectual snob.

He cries and says he can’t lose me. That he knows he’s made a mistake but now, now, he really knows what he wants. And it’s me.

Like he wants a fucking medal or something.   

I agree to meet him the next day. I won’t get any more out of him on the phone.

I wonder if there’s a way back from this. I try to picture us as old people laughing about it. If I stretched out our entire lives in front of us, would this event, this speck, even matter? Will I still think about it when I’m 80? I picture myself with a grown up daughter in a similar situation, telling her that marriage isn’t easy and “even your father had a wobble when we were first married and we turned out alright”.

No. I don’t think so.