When my husband left me I let myself go - in every sense. The bastard was a two-timing waste of space, but he did keep me in shape. Or rather, I felt I had to stay in shape in order to keep him, which I suppose amounts to the same thing. Not that it helped, of course, since he ran off with another woman anyway.
Of course, I knew something was going on. At least, that's what I told myself. It was probably more like the benefit of hindsight. Even if I did notice a change in him I didn't do anything about it. I was perfectly happy to accept his excuses: working late at the office; a business trip to Amsterdam, Berlin, New York, Timbuktu; company's doing so well it's just work, work, work. I never questioned it, not even when I noticed the odd trace of perfume on him. 'It's only some new soap they've put in the office washroom.' Right.
He seemed to go off sex too. Or at least insist on it less frequently. That should have set the alarm bells ringing. But I remember thinking at the time, well, that's a relief. Now perhaps I can get some sleep and stop drinking so much. I always needed a couple of glasses inside me before we fucked or I never came. That used to really piss him off. Not the drink, but my not coming. It was like an insult to his manhood or something. He needed to know he was a wonderful lover who could always get his wife to orgasm. Not that he was particularly hopeless in bed. I married him, after all, and the sex was OK. Volcanoes never erupted but something moved.
I'm not sure why I'm going on about sex. It was never a huge part of our relationship, on my side, at least. I don't know what he felt about it, because he never told me. When he was standing looking at the floor, having just told me he was leaving me, he said, 'It's not the sex.'
Which came as a surprise because that wasn't what I'd been thinking. But it immediately made me think it was the problem. 'So I'm not good enough in bed, is that it?' I said, trying to think of a nastier way of saying the same thing. 'I'm not a hot enough fuck.' The language even shocked me. But I was angry, so I had an excuse.
'I told you,' he said, 'that's not it.'
'So what is it? My cooking? My dress sense? My personality?' My voice was rising but I let it, even though I knew it never worked on him. 'What the fuck is it about me you no longer like?'
He sighed, as if confronting a child having a tantrum. It was a habit that always made me angrier than I already was. 'Don't just stand there sighing,' I almost screamed. 'Tell me what's wrong with me.'
'There's nothing wrong with you,' he muttered.
'If you say "it's not you, it's me", I'm going to start breaking things.'
I don't know why I wanted an argument with him. It's not as if I wanted to change his mind. As far as I was concerned as soon as he said he was leaving that was it. Once I knew he'd chosen a better model, I wouldn't have taken him back if he'd crawled on his belly. I only wished I'd said it first, then at least he'd have been the one feeling like shit instead of me.
'So who is this Barbie doll?' I asked, more because I thought that was what one was supposed to ask than because I wanted to know.
'She's not a Barbie doll,' he said, 'and you don't know her.'
I thought, I bet I do. Our circle of friends was not so huge. But I couldn't be bothered to argue the point. He was weak, but like all weak men, he was stubborn and I knew I'd never get her name out of him. What the hell, I suspected I'd know soon enough.
Actually, I never did find out. The truth was I couldn't be bothered, like I felt about nearly everything once he'd fucked off out of it. Looking back on our life together, I realised he'd been a bit of a dead weight, suffocating any ambition I'd once had, turning me into his wife, his other half, the woman who accompanied him to work dos, to the theatre, to dinner parties. I had my own friends, of course, but once we'd become a couple that's how we socialised: as a couple. It was like I no longer had a life of my own. I was just part of his.
For the first few weeks I tried to carry on as if nothing had happened, even though I felt like something someone had trodden in. I managed a garden centre with about 30 staff, so I had to go to work and pretend to be doing my job. A few of the girls I regarded as friends, but I didn't feel like confiding in them. It's difficult talking about anything with people who work for you when you might burst into tears any minute. The next thing they'd be talking about their own problems and asking for a pay rise.
In the evenings I drank, ate comfort food and watched TV, feeling more and more wretched. I couldn't get over the fact that even someone as hopeless as my husband had found someone better. What did that make me? Not one man of my acquaintance contacted me after he left. I realised they were all friends of his, especially the single ones. The few men at work were either too old, too married or teenagers. I half-heartedly thought of joining the local tennis club, until I reminded myself I hated ball games. Was no man ever going to want me again?
One evening after a couple of drinks I decided to find out. I squeezed into my best frock, slapped on some makeup and took a taxi to a hotel in town. It had been years since I'd been 'available' and I hadn't the faintest idea what I was going to do. I had the naïve idea that if I sat on my own for long enough some halfway decent single man would be sure to try and chat me up.
For an hour I sat nursing a cocktail and making a show of looking at my watch as if I was expecting someone instead of being on the pull, until finally I decided I'd had enough of being stared at suspiciously by the bar staff.
'Have you been stood up?'
He wasn't bad looking and roughly my age, so that was a good start.
'Looks like it,' I said, pretending to gather my things.
'He's a fool, then.' He gave a bit of a nervous smile and hid it behind his drink. I guessed he wasn't used to chatting up strangers in a bar either, which made him a bit more attractive.
'Have you got time for another drink before you go?' His expression told me that he didn't expect me to say yes.
I made a show of having a thoughtful discussion with myself about the suggestion, when actually I was desperate for another drink. 'Yes, why not?'
The conversation was heavy going, as might have been expected. I couldn't tell who was more nervous, him or me. But after a couple more cocktails I began to relax. I even started leaning forward occasionally so that he could get a good look down my cleavage. I didn't know what I wanted, exactly. I wasn't thinking about having sex. I was just trying to get used to being in the company of another man. But when we'd finished our third drink and he asked me if I was staying in the hotel, I lied and said, 'Yes.'
'Would you like me to escort you to your room?' he said in a jokey voice.
