tell you how proud I am of you – of how far you’ve come.’
Which is probably why I haven’t yet had the heart to tell him that I’m back on the tablets. I don’t think I could bear the look of disappointment in his eyes. I’m only on a minute dosage – they may as well be placebos. But I need that little lift, a crutch to lean on. It’s coming up to ten years that Tom’s been gone and what with Japan and Sophia’s exams, everything feels like it’s getting on top of me again.
I sit in bed with a cup of tea, made too milky, in the hope that it will kickstart my snooze button. My laptop is perched on my lap, forever ready to hijack my thoughts and make me superficially alert. The contradiction is not lost on me. But still, I can’t stop myself. I stare at the blank screen. I don’t even know where to start, and wonder if there’s an online manual on how to find out if your husband is cheating. I laugh hollowly to myself – I bet there is. My fingers linger over the keys. How do I know if my husband is having an affair? I feel stupid even typing it in and I shield my eyes from the screen, as if doing so will mean that I’m not really interested in the answer.
This is what other wives do. Suspicious wives, who have every reason not to trust their husbands. I don’t want to be like them. I know Nathan and I know that our marriage is strong, immune from the problems that blight couples weaker than us.
I open one eye to see a quiz with the same heading as my search, run by a national newspaper. I shamefully read the first question, if only for a laugh, I tell myself.
Does your husband go to the gym:
a) Every day
b) Every other day
c) Once a week
d) Never
C, I say to myself. If I answer in my head, I’m not really doing it.
Does your husband want to have sex:
a) Every day
b) Four times a week
c) Once a week
d) Hardly ever
I feel like my teenage self, who truly believed that my love life could be accurately predicted by one of these preposterous quizzes, which was no doubt devised by an office assistant not much older than myself. I can’t quite believe that adults are still relying on them. Despite myself, I casually cast an eye over the Mostly Cs category and feel mildly satisfied to be told that my marriage is healthy, and my husband is definitely not having an affair.
I’m about to close my laptop when I see another page, a forum for women who believe they’re being wronged.
I can’t blame him. I was always too tired for sex, one says.
I’d let myself go and now he’s with a woman who looks like I did ten years ago. I should have made more of an effort, says another.
I’m incredulous that of the hundreds of posts from women who think their husbands are having affairs, barely any are blaming him. I read a message from a woman named Sylvia who, like me, has found an errant piece of jewellery that isn’t hers. I feel a sense of camaraderie with her as she attempts to justify how a silver chain with half a love heart hanging from it could have found its way into her husband’s suit pocket:
Sylvia: I thought it might be our daughter’s, but I can’t ever remember buying her anything like that. It may be the babysitter’s, as Paul often gives her a lift home . . .
Anne: Is it definitely not yours?
Sylvia: No, it’s definitely not mine. Though I do recall having something similar when I was a teenager. I wonder if it could be that?
I absently turn the ring on my right hand, its significance slowly burning into my brain. I stare at it, as if shocked by its presence. Am I not as culpable as the man I’m accusing? This ring, that I’ve not been without for almost ten years, immediately consumes me with guilt. How can I have the audacity to be so self-righteous? To denounce my husband for an imagined wrongdoing, when all this time I’ve been wearing another man’s ring. And I’ll not take it off, come hell or high water.
It was from Tom, wrapped and ready to give to me when he got back from his skiing trip. But he’d never made it home