21
Scarlett
10 June
‘Are you cheating on me?’ asks Ed, as I kick off a bright pink trainer. I’ve done 6k powered by the giddiness of thinking that my marriage might make it after all. Our perspective has shifted, I thought, powering up a hill. The video seemed like the biggest thing and now it doesn’t. Now it seems like the smallest thing, compared to our child and our family.
But now this.
I plummet. ‘What?’
I think of how paranoid I have been lately that he is cheating with all the gym visits and nights out and how I’ve wanted to ask the same question but never have.
‘Are you cheating on me?’ he asks, one leg crossed over the other knee, slipper dangling off his foot. The picture of comfort in our home, as he accuses me.
I sit down in my leggings and marvel at the speed at which you can alter your feelings towards people who mean the most.
Two minutes ago I wanted a long life with Ed. I wanted to hug him, curl up on the sofa with him, run marathons with him. I thought we’d found our route back.
Now, I’m back at the dead end.
I feel violent, like I could walk over to the drinks trolley in the corner of the room, take a bottle of vodka and smash him over the head with it.
At this moment I don’t believe that I loved him ten minutes ago. I only believe the emotions charging through me now.
‘So what we said last night meant nothing then?’ I say.
We had slept in the same bed when often lately, he’s been in the spare room. Kissed before we went to sleep.
He sighs.
‘Look at this from my perspective,’ he says. ‘If you’re cheating on me, it’s not something we can ignore. Whether Poppy bumped her head or not.’
‘Why would you think that though?’ I rage, sadness that looks like anger. All of these emotions trying on each other’s clothes and dressing up as each other.
I tell myself to calm down and remember that Poppy is sleeping. But I can’t make myself feel any of the logic.
Ed reaches for the phone next to him and hands it to me.
It’s a text message, from an anonymous number, telling him that they have been sleeping with me.
I stare at him.
‘If someone sends that, I have to ask,’ says Ed. ‘It’s a simple yes or no, which funnily enough you haven’t given yet.’
‘You think it’s fair,’ I say, trying to steady my breathing, again, to ward off another panic attack, another moment where all control is lost. ‘To take the word of an anonymous stranger over your wife. Would you have asked if the video hadn’t happened?’
Ed wobbles. I see it.
Who is doing this to me? Who hates me this much? Videos, comments, lies to my husband.
‘I’m not taking their word over yours,’ he says, more gently. ‘I’m just trying to get your word in the first place.’
I stand up.
‘I’m going for a shower, Ed. But if you really need me to answer, then no. I’m not sleeping with any man. I’m currently battling this living hell with the video and I haven’t got the motivation to shave my legs let alone sleep with somebody else.’
I think of Cora and her affair. It’s true. Every action needs the impetus to be bothered, first and foremost. I walk out of the room and peel my damp clothes off. I lock the door and step into the shower and look down: I was telling the truth about the leg shaving.
I grab my razor, hack at my calves angrily without changing the blade so that there is blood eventually, quite a lot of it.
I think about the man in the coffee shop, and how he looked at me, and how close I came. I haven’t. But I could have, Ed, and you’re pushing me closer.
Would I even feel guilty? Ask those changing feelings. It would depend on the day.
I hack more.
I step out of the shower and pull a towel around me, then head straight into the living room, leaving damp footprints in my wake and two trails of blood, trickling down the backs of my calves. I wipe, cursory, every now and again but blood on the carpet no longer seems the disaster it would have a few months ago.
Ed is still sitting, watching golf, phone in his hand.
He glances at the damp marks I am leaving, winces.
‘Any other messages?’ I ask.
‘Yes actually,’ he snaps, holding up his phone. If I was expecting reticent, I’m not getting it. ‘Same guy.’
He leans his head backwards. Puts his hands behind it.
‘Scarlett, I’m not trying to be a dick here, but what do you expect me to do? Ignore it?’
I laugh one of those mean, horrible laughs that shouldn’t be called laughs at all. We should get a different word for those.
I don’t have an answer, to any of it. I want to erase and wipe and travel back in time. I think again about deleting the blog after what Mitch said, how maybe that would make me less of a target. But it’s too late. Any damage it’s caused has been done. And I feel petulant too. Whoever this is has taken everything else, my job, my confidence, my happy marriage. Cheshire Mama was one thing for me. Why should I let them have that too?
‘Sleep in the spare room tonight, Ed,’ I say, weary, as I walk out of the room to bed.
I think about the feelings I had last night as we sat alongside each other, the only people in the world who understand that Poppy is the centre of the world’s axis.
United, like we had been when she arrived, gloopy and noisy and spindly.
I lie in bed for hours before sleep comes, going over my conversations with Ollie, with Mitch. Is there anyone else
