I move to the full length mirror in the hall, dressed in old baggy jeans and a faded polo shirt, with a frumpy fleece over the top, I can’t really blame him, this is my standard wardrobe and the sight of it even disgusts me.
My light brown hair has always been thick and difficult to manage, but over the last few years I’ve really let it go; it looks lank, dull, hanging down over my shoulders and the ends are split, all tangled and askew, I can’t remember the last time I actually styled it.
Pulling off my fleece I observe my body, at 5’ 6” I’m not over weight for my height, but I have a little paunch over the top of my waist band and the old bra I’m sporting (it used to be white, but after too many coloured washes its now grey and loosing its elastic) does nothing to support my chest. My breasts used to be my prized possession, but without the right bra they are sadly lacking. I try standing up straighter, pushing my shoulders back and pulling my stomach in, but even a supermodel couldn’t pull off these drab clothes.
Taking a closer look at my face, it looks pale and blotchy, but that’s probably down to this evenings’ events, but I can’t deny the oily sheen to my forehead and dark circles under my eyes, they once sparkled with ambition and an excitement for life; they now look about as exciting as mud and with the crows feet framing them, I look old beyond my 32years.
This is too depressing, so I return to curl up on the sofa hugging the last of my wine. The TV’s on mute wordless images flashing in front of my eyes but not registering, my mind a million miles away. What do I do now? I could ring him, but from past experience I know he won’t answer, I guess now I know why.
Where is he? With her no doubt, but where do they go? Her house, I don’t even know where she lives, I guess somewhere locally, as they work together. Doesn’t she have a kid? I wonder if he’s met the kid, do they play happy families together, forgetting that he already has a wife, maybe that’s why he is always so adamant we don’t have a baby of our own? We’ve been married 5years now, but he’s always put it off…automatically iv opened another bottle of wine, the small glass I had left did nothing to warm the numbness now completely enveloping me.
He’s due back tomorrow, Sunday, should I be here when he gets back, or should I pack a bag and hide out at Cassies? No, this is my house, anger starts to rise deep within me, I can feel my heart rate quickening. Why should I hide? I’ll pack him a bag now and he can go running back to her, that’s if she’ll take him! What am I saying, judging from her note she would be more than happy to. Right I’m doing it, I’m chucking him out; stumbling towards the bedroom, my head spinning, now I’m moving I can feel the effects of the wine, but my anger drives me on. Grabbing his hold-all from the wardrobe I throw in a random mismatch of clothes and underwear, I don’t care what, then charging into the bathroom his toothbrush follows, that’ll do. No wait, I’ll put the note in, that will show the sleazy bastard. Walking back down the stairs, bag in hand, the phone catches my eye. It’s 1am now, but I’m seething, the wine has positively sparked my anger. Snatching the phone out of its cradle I dial his mobile with shaking hands. Unsurprisingly within 3rings it goes to voicemail, I wait patiently for his smug voice to stop then start my onslaught “You are despicable scum” I half slur and half hiss “I know what you’ve been doing, you make me sick. It’s over, I’m getting a divorce and in the mean time I want you out of my house you slimy git!” Slamming down the phone I feel better, my heart is still racing, but I’ve told him where to go, that’ll ruin his perfect weekend away.
On the way past I dump his bag outside the front door then put the chain across so he won’t be able to get in, if he even bothers to show his face again. Triumphantly I return to the dregs of bottle number