when they went for dinner that things veered off in an unexpected direction.
In their pre-Mabel life, they’d had dozens, probably hundreds of such evenings together, choosing restaurants that had unusual menus and great online reviews. Fine dining wasn’t necessarily a precursor to great sex, but it had often worked out that way: playing footsie under the table; exchanging glances full of erotic meaning; using sexual language to describe the food. Later, emboldened by alcohol and impatient to devour each other, they would sneak down an alley and snog like teenagers. They never went as far as having sex in the street, but a couple of times they got dangerously close.
She smiles to herself as she shakes the pillows and pulls the duvet over their bed. Oh my, those were the days …
Saturday night was different in every way. The air was laced with tension, but it wasn’t in the least bit sexual. They found the menu bewildering and had to ask for help. The food was served as a series of tiny sharing plates, like tapas but without the charm. The chef dictated the order in which their chosen plates should be eaten, and they had to finish each one before the next was brought. It wasn’t a meal – it was a military operation.
Amber felt increasingly anxious. She found herself over-complimenting every mouthful, prattling about the decor and the service. George kept quiet. She sensed his gaze penetrating her mask of false jollity, his ears filtering out her evasive burble. It was embarrassing. She was behaving as if they were on a first date and he’d already decided she was not for him.
But as the plates of pretentious deliciousness came and went, something inside her started to shift. Thinking about it now on a grey Monday morning, there was no mystery to it: cocktails in the bar, a bottle of champagne with dinner, a glass of heady dessert wine and a fierce grappa digestif. Amber hadn’t drunk any alcohol since she first found out she was pregnant, and it went straight to her head, loosening her muscles and opening places she’d kept padlocked for so long she’d forgotten where she’d put the key.
And suddenly there he was, Gorgeous George, sitting opposite her in his fancy floral shirt, brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Her teenage sweetheart, adoring husband. The man, believe it or not, whom she loves more than anyone else in the world. For a few moments she forgot that she’d betrayed him. They locked gazes and held hands across the table. She kicked off her shoes and stroked his shin with her stockinged foot. Before she knew it, they were back in the room, tearing at each other’s clothes.
She continues tidying, blushing as she replays the details in her head. Even in his wildest fantasies, George wouldn’t have expected that. They’d behaved like different people – strangers to each other and themselves. Where had this other Amber come from? What had fuelled her desire? Was it simply the alcohol, or was it something darker and more complex? Her secret-self taking over. She’s half impressed, half disgusted by this new person. Since Saturday night, she hasn’t been able to look at herself in the mirror.
Overcome, she sinks onto the bed. What is going on? For a few hours that night, she laid aside the burden of guilt she normally carries around with her and felt incredibly free. But on Sunday morning, when it was time to leave, she had to pick up the burden again, along with her toilet bag and wheelie suitcase. Back in the real world of cooking, cleaning, washing and caring for Mabel, the guilt seems to weigh even heavier than before.
Her mobile phone is sitting on the bedside table. She wants to call Seth but knows she mustn’t interrupt him at work. All she needs is a few words of reassurance.
You can do this. It’s okay. I’m rooting for you every step of the way.
She can’t be honest with Ruby, it’s impossible. Her friends from university are now also George’s, so she can’t confide in any of them. She has some good female friends from work, but she’s hardly communicated with them since her baby shower, the week before she went on maternity leave. They wouldn’t understand her predicament anyway. They are all career-obsessed, clocking up insane hours to gain promotion, delaying motherhood until the last possible minute before their eggs run out. When they do come out to play, they play hard –