watched the clips she’d posted and made a mental note of all the movies and television programs she liked. She hadn’t posted anything for a few weeks, I noticed, and briefly wondered why, but then I scrolled through her history and saw she’d have a spurt of posts, then nothing for a while. Luckily there weren’t many photos of Harry on there; while I wanted to see him, I didn’t want to look at him through her eyes.
At home I’d made a point to not look at either Harry or Emma online. I knew Tom would be all over it if he’d noticed. And to be honest, I wanted to pretend she didn’t exist. I didn’t want to think of Harry at home, chatting to her, watching those movies with her. I felt sick at the thought of catching him out in a lie, where he told me he’d had an early night, only to see her post that they’d been out for a meal with friends. It’s a head-in-the-sand approach, I think, which you need to have if you’re having an affair with someone who’s married. You can’t let yourself think about the reality, that they are living a life separately from you, and that is not only their real life, it’s their choice. You don’t tend to find photos of married men in handcuffs or chained to walls in cellars with their wives standing guard over them. Or not on the sites I go to, anyway.
When evening came and darkness fell, I knew he wouldn’t be coming. I felt so hemmed in, in that hotel room. I had to get out, to get some air. And of course, though I told myself I was just going for a drive around, I knew where I was going. I went out to my car, where I’d hidden it away the night before. It was still packed full of bags and boxes. As I said, sometimes it’s best to avoid reality, so I angled my rearview mirror so that I couldn’t see any of my things, and set off.
I’d never been to Harry’s house before, never driven past it, even in the early days. I’d been too scared, for one thing, worried I’d be seen and he’d think I was stalking him. And then after I knew I loved him, I didn’t want to go near, to see the life he lived with another woman. Now I was nervous but determined to take the risk. I glanced around. The road was lined with chestnut trees and his house was large, about thirty years old, and separated from the sidewalk by a large lawn.
When I saw there was a light in their hallway, I put my foot down and drove quickly to the end of the road. I stopped there for a while, my heart beating fast. He was inside; I could knock if I wanted to, and I’d see him. I’d be able to ask him what had happened, where he’d gone to. And then I thought of his wife, Emma, standing behind him. I could picture her now, giving me that sassy stare. My stomach clenched as I thought of her saying, Who is it, darling? What would he reply? Suddenly I realized I didn’t know what he’d say. What he’d do. Would he embrace me or deny he knew who I was?
It was a quiet neighborhood and no one was around. I started my car and slowly drove past their house again. And then I realized. Her car was there: a little red Mini that I’d seen her in one day when she picked him up from work. His wasn’t there. I knew it wouldn’t be in their garage; we’d talked one day about how everyone just filled their garages with junk.
I turned the car round and stopped just short of his house. It looked as though she was at home, perhaps in the kitchen at the back. Then it dawned on me. She was at home. He was out. Had he come to see me? Had he left her?
Quickly I drove to the end of his street and turned onto the main road. My heart was almost in my mouth as I raced back to the hotel. I parked in the first space I saw and ran into the lobby. The receptionist looked up at me and