The husband’s mistress possessed a beauty that seemed almost otherworldly. Had she been a man, no one could have resisted choosing her. You see, there are women who know their own worth. They walk upright, their attire respectable, they meet your gaze directly and listen to the very end. They are unhurried, their movements steady, never feeling the need to flash their shoulders or thrust their chests forward for attention; instead they keep a regal calm and never lose their composure.
She had chosen her, perhaps precisely because she was his opposite. For what was she like? Constantly in a hurry, raising her voice at the children and at her husband, dropping things from her hands, never able to settle on any task. At work she was always a step behind, her superiors perennially dissatisfied. She favoured trousers and Tshirts or sweaters, for who would waste time fussing over a dress or a blouse? She could no longer recall the last time she ironed a shirt or a pair of breeches; only the newest automatic dryer spared her the chore.
The mistress, on the other hand, was flawless. Her silhouette, her gait, her long legs, her lush hair, her clear eyes, her lovely face they all seemed plucked from a painting. From the moment he first laid eyes on her, peace never returned to his thoughts. It happened after a work trip to a suburban district of Manchester. Exhausted and famished, he slipped into a café by chance. It was crowded; only a solitary table in the corner was free. He seated himself, lifted his eyes over the menu, and what he saw was unmistakable: the man he had known for years sat at the next table, and beside him sat the striking stranger.
The man cradled his hands together, lingering over her fingertips as if they smelled of basil. It was as if a portrait had come alive; the scent, the lingering glance, all signalled something different. A strange feeling washed over him, like the warning before a burn you see the red marks forming and know pain is imminent, yet you linger in the anticipation, trying desperately to soothe the impending wound.
It should have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
His wife, Eleanor, returned home on time, as she always did, calm and composed. He, Arthur, was the one who flared at the slightest spark, impulsive and quicktempered. He was a moderate sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, the very antithesis of Eleanors steadiness.
That evening, Eleanor tried to confront him with a measured tone: Tell me, whats the story with this mistress? I saw you at The Green Café yesterday; I understand youre attracted, but I couldnt have stayed silent. She imagined his forehead beading with sweat, his cheeks reddening, as he struggled to keep his voice even.
She might have asked: Well, what now? Should the children meet her? Should I move out? Does she have her own flat or will she join us here? He said nothing. As was his habit, he embraced her and fell asleep beside her almost at once.
Perhaps they had not yet reached the bedroom; perhaps he drifted to the other side of the bed, chuckling silently at the thought of a woman who, eyes wide open, would still insist she saw nothing untoward. Perhaps they were only at the stage of stolen glances, hearts beating in sync, while he knew how to hide his betrayal, letting neither look nor movement betray him.
He tossed and turned, dreaming of colourful flowers and unknown women in scarlet gowns. By morning he rose with a heavy head, moved a little slower than usual, and calmly readied the children for school.
The whole day he wondered what a woman should do when she catches her husband with another. Search the internet? Google offered no answer. She had no plan, no notion of how to move forward.
She didnt need a plan; she simply continued her routine. The same punctual husband, no foreign scent on his shirt, the same boisterous children, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same pattern of twothree affairs a week, if she paid close attention to the details.
Perhaps the mistake lay in that café? No. She called him at lunch; he never answered. She took a cab back to The Green Café, gave the driver a brief excuse about an urgent parcel for work, and saw his car parked opposite. She watched them exit together, climb into the vehicle side by side.
She blanched, asked the driver for a bottle of water, feigned a phone call and shouted theatrically into the silent handset: Shame on you both! Im not waiting here; Im off to work! Even then, the drivers opinion mattered little.
When you discover a lover, the world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how does one live differently? Endure? For whose sake?
She recalled a friends couple, where the husband also kept a mistress. He concealed, lied, and eventually his wife uncovered the truth. It erupted into scandal; he clung to his denial until the messages on his phone proved otherwise, blaming rivals and conspiracies.
That husband, when cornered, declared, I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny. If you do something, you must own it. Choose: cut off the affair and stay with family, or leave, but look after your own. The resolve struck a chord.
She thought how admirable it was to have such a steadfast man beside her. Advice is easy from the sidelines, but when life places you at the centre, expecting you to decide and balance, courage and steadiness vanish in an instant.
She entered the same café, sat at their table. The mistress lifted her eyes, surprised. Arthurs hands stiffened, then fidgeted beneath the table. A heavy silence fell. The mistress understood immediately who she faced, perhaps already.
Arthur tried to speak, but she raised a hand and halted him: Its not as if Im unaware, is it? she said softly. Nothing abnormal here; these things happen. Yet please consider we have children, a flat together, elderly parents. Youre grown men; you can manage. She stood, her freshly ironed dress fitting her well again, a garment she had not worn for ages.
Sometimes bravery means speaking the truth and then moving forward with dignity, no matter how hard it may be. A womans dignity does not come from shoes or ironed skirts, but from the calm with which, in the end, she gathers her strength and continues her life.
