Before Daan, I had never been tempted to be unfaithful. There were occasionally men that I’d meet at work or even other school dads who threw out suggestive looks, flirty comments and invitations that could have led places. I had no interest whatsoever.
Then Daan.
I tried to keep away from him at the beginning. I broke it off time and time again, every day.
In my head.
Over and over again, I planned the things I would say to let him down gently but when I was with him, it was lightning, a bolt through my body, my being. Penetrating, blazing, exhilarating. Like lightning, once in a lifetime, and like a scar left by lightning, irrevocable and permanent.
I just couldn’t let go.
I thought it was simply a case of a lawless body. He sparked inside me a level of lust that I could not control. Possibly, I didn’t want to. I was arrogant enough to think that wasn’t really a problem, that it would eventually fade away. An infatuation. Inconvenient, but not necessarily devastating. But I was not in control of anything. I started to care. I couldn’t put the brakes on that. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? I thought I’d get used to him. Maybe then become bored of him. But familiarity did not blunt him.
The confusion is unbearable. I suppose it always has been.
I married both men for clarity. I divided myself for clarity. That sounds paradoxical but it’s not, it’s simple, clear cut. They each got me half the time but at 100 per cent capacity, and how many marriages do much more? I have seen other women at the school gates who spend half their time at the gym, or with their friends gossiping, drinking chardonnay over a long lettuce lunch. Didn’t I give as much to my marriages as they did to theirs? Many of the school mums work and their situation is even harder. I’ve been a wife with a demanding office job, and I know how that pans out. When those women are at home, in their husband’s company, often their minds are still at work: did they reply to that email? Have they proofread that document? Are any marriages more than 50 per cent commitment? At least I was not guilty of letting my mind wander. No matter who I was with, they got my attention. I couldn’t afford to dwell on the other.
When I was with Daan, it was painful to think of Mark and the boys. Awful. I did not want to drag them into a world where I was on all fours, begging another man to take me. And when I was with Mark, and thought of Daan, he seemed incongruous. He was delicious and glamorous. Sometimes, in the early days, he did drift into my mind as I shoved dirty clothes into the washing machine, when I scrubbed ovens or loos, but imagining him seeing me do these grubby household chores was uncomfortable. I didn’t want even the ghost of him near the domesticity, in case he was at all supercilious about the drudgery. I couldn’t allow an imbalance. One thing could not be better than the other. They were equally brilliant. Just different.
I peel one of the bananas. I know I should eke out this food. Ration myself, but I can’t resist. I suppose that has always been my problem. I nibble on it, try to make it last.
I call both places home. Home is where I feel needed and essential to the boys, to Mark; where I am the linchpin. Home is where I am desired and enjoyed by Daan. But the two places are not mutually exclusive in what they supply to me. Mark also desires me. Daan also needs me.
To lessen the confusion, I tried to compartmentalise completely. To hermetically seal one life off from the other. But it wasn’t the answer, not really. I must have thought there was something missing between Mark and me, for Daan to be able to ease his way in, settle and find a place. The glamour perhaps? The freedom. No matter how hard I tried to keep Daan out of the life I shared with Mark, his existence took something from that original life. Something was lost. Innocence, simplicity. However many barriers I placed between them, I couldn’t hem that in. It drained away. It drained away when I bought a second phone, when I opened up a new email account. It disappeared altogether when I agreed to marry him.
I look around the small, rank, locked room. The very antithesis to glamour. To freedom.
I am jolted from my thoughts by the sound of paper being threaded into the typewriter. The sound is a taunt, a threat. Yet somehow, it is a chance too. I scramble towards the door and listen to the keys being struck. A short blast, like gunfire. A sheet of paper is shoved under the door. I perform the usual acrobats to drag it towards me with my feet.
Why a second marriage?
Why not an affair like everyone else?
I consider the question, how it is phrased. Who does it sound most like? Daan? Who would ask this? Mark? But I realise that the important thing right now is to answer the question, keep him talking. It is the way I’m most likely to bring about a resolution. I can think about who is behind the notes when I am alone. I open my mouth but my voice cracks. I don’t know where to start. Words stutter in my throat. I am tired, dehydrated, but that’s not the problem. The words I’ve swallowed for so long have to be spat out. My survival used to depend on my silence. Now I think it depends on what I say. The truth that is unpalatable to Mark might soften Daan – but dare I
