The Marriage War

She had a point. Sancha took the carrier bag and walked out of the shop. There was a shoe shop next door; she dived in there and bought some black high heels and a new black handbag that matched them. At least the girl in there was friendly, in her late teens, with pinky blonde hair and a lot of make-up on her face.

As Sancha paid for her purchases the girl said, ‘I love that dress. You got it next door, didn’t you? I saw it in the window.’

‘So did I, but the old misery who runs the shop almost put me off. She looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out from under a stone. Is she always like that?’

The teenager giggled. ‘Unless you have pots of money and she thinks you’re upper class. She’s a terrible snob. Take no notice of her. The dress looks wonderful on you.’

Sancha smiled at her gratefully. ‘Thanks.’ She needed a confidence-booster; her self-esteem had never been so low—practically on the floor.

She went on along the High Street, and was startled to get a wolf whistle from a window cleaner on a ladder who, when she looked up at him, gave her an enormous wink.

‘Hello, beautiful, where have you been all my life?’

Sancha gave a nervous giggle and walked quickly off, but kept taking sidelong glances at her reflection in the shop windows she passed. Each time she felt a little shock of surprise; she hadn’t yet got used to her new look—to the different hairstyle, the sleek green dress, the high heels which made her look taller, slimmer. It was surprising what a difference your appearance made to your whole state of mind. She had been going around feeling well-nigh invisible for years, as far as men were concerned. She didn’t expect attention; she avoided it. She was too busy with her children and the housework; she had no time to think of herself at all.

It was very late now; she ought to find somewhere to eat before they stopped serving lunch. Spotting a wine bar, she dived into it and chose a light lunch of poached salmon, salad and a glass of white wine. She sat in a corner, where nobody could see her, and ate slowly, brooding over Mark. She had to decide what to do, but each time she thought about it she felt a clutch of agony in her stomach; her mind stopped working and pain swamped everything else inside her.

She drove home around two o’clock and found Zoe slumped on the sitting-room floor in a litter of toys, a look of dazed exhaustion on her face.

‘Where’s Flora?’ asked Sancha, immediately anxious. Zoe groaned, running her hands through her hair.

‘Asleep upstairs. I ran out of ideas to keep her occupied so I asked her what she wanted to do and she said she wanted a bath. It seemed like a good idea, so I took her up there and ran a bath, and she had a great time—drowning her plastic toys, making tidal waves and splashing me head to toe—but I got so bored I could scream, so I decided it was time she came out. That was when the trouble started. I picked her up and she yelled and kicked while I tried to dry her. I finally dropped her naked in her cot while I looked for some clean clothes, but when I turned round she was fast asleep, so I covered her with her quilt and sneaked off and left her. My God, Sancha, how do you bear it, day after day? Why aren’t you dead?’

Sancha laughed. ‘I sometimes think I am.’

Zoe gave a start, her eyes widening. ‘Well, well,’ she said, looking her over from top to toe. ‘I only just noticed—you look terrific! I love the new hairstyle—you look years younger—and the dress is gorgeous. That should make Mark sit up.’

Sancha went a little pink, hoping she was right. ‘Glad you approve. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some tea. Did you eat?’

‘After a fashion. I made a cheese salad for lunch; Flora ate some of the cheese and some tomato and celery, then threw the rest about until I took it away. Watching her eating habits put me off my own food so I didn’t eat much, either, but I’d love a cup of tea and a biscuit. My blood sugar is very low now.’

They drank their tea in the kitchen; the warm afternoon silence was distinctly soporific and Sancha felt her eyelids drooping—Zoe seemed half-asleep too.

Zoe yawned, gave her sister a glance across the table, then asked, ‘What have you decided to do?’

‘Do?’ Sancha pretended not to understand, but Zoe wasn’t letting her off the hook.

‘About Mark and this woman,’ she said bluntly.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Show him the letter,’ advised Zoe. ‘Don’t be an ostrich. You have to talk to him, Sancha.’

‘I know. I will.’ Sancha did not tell her that she had seen Mark, or mention the blonde girl. She knew she wouldn’t be able to talk about it without breaking down, and if she did tell Zoe her sister would urge her to leave Mark or have a confrontation with him. Sancha needed more time to think.

Zoe finished her tea and looked at her watch. ‘Do you feel up to collecting the boys, after all? Because I really need to go home and have a soak in the bathtub.’ She gave her sister a comical look, rolling her eyes. ‘I need rest and silence.’

‘I know just how you feel. Flora is quite an experience—I shouldn’t have left you with her,’ Sancha said, smiling. ‘Of course I’ll get the boys—no problem.’

Zoe got up, stretching. ‘I am completely whacked! You know, anyone who can cope with that little monster day after day has to be a superwoman. You’re my hero.’

She kissed her on the top of her head and left, and Sancha sat in the kitchen with another cup of tea, listening to the silence in the house and grateful for it, hoping Flora would not wake up just yet. They had an hour before they had to collect the boys.

She had a bad feeling that the next few months were going to be the worst in her life. Zoe had been joking when she’d called her a superwoman—she only wished she was! But she wasn’t. She was just a very ordinary woman in a very painful situation, and she did not really know what she was going to do. She only knew she loved her husband deeply, and couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

But she couldn’t bear, either, the idea of him with another woman. That was eating at her, driving her crazy.

What was she going to do?

That evening she put the boys and Flora to bed at their usual time, after feeding them one of their favourite suppers—a horrifying mix of scrambled egg and baked beans on toast which Charlie had invented one evening and which they had kept demanding ever since. She gave them some fruit, after that, and plain vanilla ice-cream.

Sancha had not eaten with them. She could never really enjoy a meal eaten with her children. Her digestion couldn’t cope with the constant getting up and down, the nervous tension of watching Flora carefully drop beans on the floor, or the two boys kicking each other under the table.

She often did eat with them, of course, but it was never a pleasure. Tonight she had decided to wait until they were in bed and then heat herself some soup. She wasn’t hungry.

By the time she had finished her soup and a slice of toast there was silence upstairs. The children were all fast asleep. Sancha curled up in front of the electric log fire and ate an apple, staring into the flickering flame effect of the fire and brooding on Mark and his woman.

She wished she knew if he was with the blonde tonight, or if he was genuinely having dinner with his boss. Her eye fell on the telephone and she jumped up, picked up the telephone book which lay beside it, and began flicking through the pages. She found Jacqui Farrar’s name quite quickly, stared at the number, hesitated, then on an impulse dialled it.

The phone rang and rang; she was about to hang up when the ringing stopped and a low, husky voice slurred, ‘Yes?’

Sancha couldn’t think what to say.

‘Hello? This is Jacqui Farrar,’ the voice at the other end said.

Sancha was still silent, wanting to hang up but transfixed, listening to the voice of this woman who might be her husband’s mistress.

‘Hello? Hello?’ the other woman said, and then, in the background a man’s voice spoke.

‘Is there anyone on the line? Can you hear breathing? Here, give me the phone. Those pests make me sick. I’ll get rid of him for you.’

It was Mark’s voice. Sancha’s heart hurt as if a giant hand were squeezing all the life-blood out of it.

A second later he was snarling in her ear. ‘Look, you creep, get off this line and don’t—’

Sancha put the phone down and stood there, eyes closed, trembling. It was all true. He was there, now, with Jacqui Farrar. Had they already made love, or were they going to?

No, she couldn’t bear to think about it.

She turned off the electric fire and the lights, closed all the doors, going through her nightly routine with the dull plodding of a robot, moving heavily, not seeing anything around her because her mind was so possessed with unbearable images. She wished she could shut them all off, like the television; she wished she could stop the pictures coming, but she was helpless in the grip of jealousy and pain.

She would never sleep tonight, but tomorrow she would have to go through the usual round of duties-taking care of the children, doing the housework, the shopping, the cooking. Well, that would be easier than sitting around with nothing to do but brood. She would try to keep busy, try not to have time to think.

She was still awake when Mark got home. She heard the car purr slowly up the drive into the garage, then a few minutes later the front door opened and closed quietly. Sancha sat up on one elbow and looked at the green glow of the alarm clock—it was nearly one in the morning. He had been with that woman all this time.

She lay down again, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Mark moving about downstairs. The fridge door opened and shut; he was probably getting himself a glass of iced water to drink if he woke up in the night.

He began coming upstairs. She would know his footsteps if she were dead, and knew which stair he stood on by the muted creaking. He was trying not to wake her. He didn’t want her to know he was coming home at that hour. He didn’t want to answer any questions about where he had been, what he had been doing until this time of night.