We soon settled into married life, did all the usual couple things: country weekends with friends. He met and got on well with Ally and Jo and their husbands. We went to farmers’ markets on Saturdays, walks by the river on Sundays, cooked for each other, talked a lot about books, politics, life, made each other laugh. I was sure he’d always be there for me, as I was for him. We liked each other, looked out for each other. We had history, had seen each other through the death of my father fifteen years ago, and then his a year later. We had done exactly what the marriage vow says – for richer and poorer, better and worse – and, of course, we had Elliott, who’d sealed and strengthened our bond from the moment he was conceived. OK, the sex had faded a little (a lot) towards the end, but didn’t it with all couples? We even bought a book with exercises to do at home to resurrect the passion, but then agreed it didn’t matter, we had plenty of other things going for us. The bottom line was that he was my best friend, and I his.
Ruth and I were talking about a mutual friend, whose husband had had an affair. One morning he’d come down and told her that he no longer loved her and was leaving her for a work colleague, a woman who looked just like her, only fifteen years younger. She was devastated, and I was saying that we should be there for her, take her out, be supportive friends, when I noticed Ruth had gone quiet.
‘Look … no easy way to say this. I’ve been having one with Charles,’ she blurted. I laughed. She didn’t. ‘No seriously, Sara, for five years. We’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, but of course there never is one.’
I studied her face, puzzled as to where this bizarre claim was coming from. We’d been on holiday with her and Brian many times. We were close. I knew all her secrets, didn’t I? She went on to fill me in on more details. I listened, not taking it in. Five years? That meant it had started when Brian was still alive, before he got ill. It couldn’t possibly be true but it was. I got home that evening to find Charles had already packed his bags. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I never wanted to hurt you.’
For once in my life, I was speechless.
After he’d gone, I knelt on the floor in front of his empty wardrobe and howled like a wounded animal. Nothing had ever hurt so much. As deep as grief but a different kind of loss. He was still alive but gone from my life. I’d always thought Charles was mine. My husband, my go-to person, pick me up at the station ride, accompany me to a hospital scan and be there in the waiting room, holiday companion, my mow the lawn, take out the bins man, presence in the bed next to me, person to look over at and smile at a funny moment on TV, man to tell a piece of news or gossip to, put his feet on my knee for a foot massage. Part of my life. All my life. Always been there and would be until death do us part. My husband.
Not any more. The shock was overwhelming. I hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t suspected, not for a moment. I’d left them alone so many times. Why wouldn’t I? We were all such good friends. I’d trusted him, and her. But then it made sense – Ruth’s over-concern when Charles was unwell. I’d been touched by it. Her defence of him on the odd day I was having a groan. She always took his side. I’d thought it was her just trying to show me what a good marriage I had. And it was good. I knew he loved and liked me. Was it the sex? I pushed away the mental picture of him making love to Ruth. The thought made me ill but of course it was there – what did she offer that I didn’t? Adoration? Notable appreciation of him? Probably. Perhaps I’d taken what we had for granted, not expressed my true feelings enough and had expected him to know how I felt? Company? She didn’t work the hours I did but Charles, who was also in the TV industry, albeit behind the camera, had always seemed to understand, even support me in the demands my job made. ‘I’ll be here with a cooked meal when you get back,’ he’d often say when I was away from home a lot. He could have been the one that pushed and climbed the career ladder, even been a director, but he never had the ambition, he was a team player rather than a leader, a man who said he preferred a simpler, quieter life. He was my rock. My place to return to. Although … as a cameraman, there had been occasions when he’d had to be away shooting a programme. As Ruth made her confession, I began to wonder if he actually had been working all those times.
So, Ruth as a person, a friend to call at this moment of crisis in my life.
