messages? Are you kidding? I’ve looked at the photos on my phone about a thousand times today. I’ve read Dan’s texts, over and over. They’re so familiar-sounding. So Dan-like. Just like the kind of texts he’d send to me … but not to me.
The one that really makes my stomach clench is Remember PS factor. The ‘Princess Sylvie’ factor. I’m not his beloved wife, I’m a factor. Not to mention the fact that Princess Sylvie is a very private little nickname that makes me flinch for all sorts of reasons, and now he’s using it with her.
I just don’t get it. The Dan I know is caring and solicitous. Protective of us: of what we’ve made together. Our home. Our family. Our world. Can you really not know someone you’ve been so close to? Can you really be so blind?
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. What I do know is, I’m not going to greet him by waving the evidence in his face. Because what do I gain by doing that? Nothing, except a momentary flash of vindictive glee. (Which, actually, is fairly appealing right now.)
But then what happens? I’ve caught him out. I win. Except it doesn’t feel like winning.
Winning would be: he decides to confess everything, totally spontaneously, and is really sorry and has some explanation which makes everything right. (What explanation? Don’t know. Not my job.)
Or even better, we go back in time, and none of this ever happened.
The sound of his key in the lock makes me jump. Fuck. I’m not ready. I hastily smooth down my hair and take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it must be audible – but as Dan comes in, he doesn’t seem to hear it. Or notice anything. He looks knackered and his brow is screwed up as though he can’t escape his thoughts. As he drops his briefcase he exhales with a weary sigh. Any other night, I’d say, ‘Are you OK?’ and get him a cup of tea or a drink.
But not tonight. If he’s knackered, maybe he shouldn’t make so many complicated arrangements in his private life. I spit the words out in the privacy of my own brain, and almost wish he could hear them.
‘All right?’ I say shortly.
‘I’ve had better days.’ Dan rubs his brow and I feel a flare of fury which I quell.
‘I think we need to talk,’ I say.
‘Sylvie …’ Dan looks up as though this is the last straw. ‘I’m shattered, it’s been a fuck of a day, I have calls I need to make …’
‘Oh, calls,’ I retort sarcastically before I can stop myself.
He stares at me. ‘Yes, calls.’
‘What kind of calls?’
‘Just calls.’
I’m breathing hard. My thoughts are skittering around. I need to gather myself.
‘I just think … we should be … honest with each other,’ I say, feeling my way. ‘Really, really honest. Let’s have a new project where we confess everything. Project Clean Slate.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dan mutters. ‘I need a drink.’ He looks as if Project Clean Slate is the last thing he wants in his life, but I press on determinedly as he gets a beer from the fridge.
‘We need to connect. And to connect you need to be totally straightforward and not hide anything. Like …’ I scrabble hastily around. ‘Like, I found a Post-it that I’d written for myself the other day. Your mum had called and I totally forgot to tell you. Sorry.’
There’s silence, and I look at Dan expectantly.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Your turn! Project Clean Slate! There must be something you … something you haven’t told me … it could be anything …’
I trail off, my heart beating even faster. Already I know this isn’t going to work. It was a stupid idea. I confess a missed phone message and he confesses an entire affair?
‘Sylvie, I really don’t have time for this,’ Dan says, and something about his terse, dismissive tone makes me see red.
‘You don’t have time for your marriage?’ I explode. ‘You don’t have time to talk about the hiccups in our relationship?’
‘What hiccups?’ Dan sounds irritable. ‘Why are you always inventing problems?’
Inventing? I want to scream. Did I invent your texts?
There’s silence in the kitchen, apart from the ticking of our wall clock. We bought it together in Ikea, before we were married. We didn’t even need to discuss it. We were both instantly drawn to the same one, with a big black rim and no numerals. I remember