Little of what I've been writing recently turns out suitable for this site. The majority of readers who comment seem intent on getting stories that repeat what they've already read and I can't see any reason to upset them with my stuff. But I wrote this some time ago, no doubt in response to something I'd read here, and it certainly takes place in the familiar terrain of LW unhappy marriages. It's a reflective piece and concentrates on thoughts and feelings and includes no sex. And be warned: I find life much more complicated than the black and white scenarios beloved by Anonymous of LW. As far as I'm concerned it's the ambiguity of the human condition that makes it worth writing about. So you have been warned.
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When I arrived home from work I turned on the heating and began to cook dinner. Sausages and beans. I was hungry and too tired to prepare anything complicated. Unsure whether my wife would be home in time to eat, I cooked for two but finally ate alone in front of the television news with half a bottle of wine. Later, I began to worry about Sophie. I'd fallen asleep to the news and woken to a game show and was still alone. It wasn't uncommon for her to be delayed at work, but she mostly warned me if she expected to be later than nine.
At ten I went round the house looking for clues. Had I forgotten a parents' evening or some other after-school event? Now I was jumpy, glancing out at the driveway every few seconds to see if she had arrived. What was the appropriate thing to do? Deciding I had waited long enough, I phoned her work, but there was no answer. I tried her mobile and was switched straight to voicemail. Ringing the police or the hospitals would be an over-reaction, I decided, and I talked myself out of driving to her work to see whether I could find her -- I'd be over the alcohol limit for driving. Calming myself with an effort, I decided she was delayed at school by an emergency, her mobile phone was discharged and she would be back at any moment. In bed I closed my eyes, expecting her to be home before I slept.
The next morning I spent breakfast working things out. Surely I would have heard if Sophie had been in an accident; her driving licence with address was in her wallet. Deciding I must do something, I rang her work and was put through to the Head Teacher's secretary. Yes she knew Mrs Lambton. No, she didn't know where she was. She'd not been to school the day before and they were, in fact, intending to call me to ask where she was. I put down the phone and started to worry in earnest. Sophie wasn't the sort to skip work, and where could she have gone? For lack of anything better, I went to work. Mid-morning I rang my home, knowing it was futile, and listened to the phone ring in the empty house.
It was time. I rang the police to tell them Sophie was missing. Just to say those words was a shock and I was trembling and finding it difficult to concentrate. Getting a grip, I understood the person I was speaking to was going down a stock list of missing person questions. When did I last see her? Any medical conditions? Had I checked other family? Did she have money or cards? Did she take anything with her? I didn't know and realised how incompetent I had been. Finding a missing married woman over the age of consent wasn't on the police list of important things and my ignorance added support for their view. But they would like me to give them a photo. I promised to do so.
So that was that. My wife now existed on a police missing persons file and I was on my own. I struggled to find what to do next. Eventually I decided to leave work and get the photograph for the police record. I went home after lunch and the house was still empty. Remembering the police checklist, I looked for anything missing and was startled to find a pile of empty clothes hangers in the corner of the bedroom and a missing overnight bag. Further search failed to discover her laptop and phone chargers. I called her phone and again it went to voicemail.
"Sophie, this is Neville. I don't know where you are and I'm worried. Can you ring back?"
I called Sophie's parents and asked if they knew where she was. It was unusually her father who answered and he failed to sound especially worried or surprised and claimed to have heard nothing from his daughter. He chatted on, sounding embarrassed and conciliatory and so I was left knowing nothing but ready to believe the worst.
I turned up at the local station and the police seemed to have no record of my previous call. Eventually they accepted the photograph after asking many of the questions I'd already answered.
"So what do I do now?" I asked at the end of the interview.
The policemen looked at me as if I had asked him how to boil and egg. "Go home and get on with whatever you do. Let us know if she turns up. Mostly they do."
He was an expert and understood what he was saying. Was there any alternative? I could think of none. But at home I had nothing better to do than puzzle over Sophie. I'm not an idiot and it didn't take long to make the obvious connections: absent wife, missing clothes, silence. She'd not had an accident or been abducted. She'd gone and there are few reasons why a wife sneaks out on her husband without a word. None of them had much appeal for me.
Now I knew the truth, should I have seen this coming? Of course I should. We'd been married five years and knew one another well enough. But we were both preoccupied with work, or so it seemed, and our life together was a routine of surviving the week and indulging ourselves at the weekend. We more or less kept one another company as we went through each day - ate meals, visited friends and relatives, shopped, improved the house, relaxed on holiday, slept. It was an animal companionability we all crave - unremarkable but necessary. There was nothing I could think of to suggest that Sophie was anxious for something more. She was content to do what we always did, enjoyed her work and was happy to let me take the initiative in most things. She liked shopping and good meals, where I indulged her. I was mostly good-tempered and didn't try to boss her about. We enjoyed our last holiday together in the winter in Venice. No moments of inattention came to mind, when she might have been privately missing a secret lover, or when my moody introversion seemed more than she could bear. We had our own interests as well. I liked sailing and mountain climbing and she disliked being wet and was afraid of heights. She liked country houses, gardens and museums, which I found dull. We fitted our lives around these idiosyncrasies without much trouble and neither of us was put out.
And we were both hopelessly busy. If Sophie was having an affair, when did she find time? An affair would have involved suspicious phone calls to the house, awkward excuses to account for sudden absences. But of course, these days love affairs would be organised by text message, although I didn't recall Sophie's phone having a password or that she was careful to make sure I never had a chance to inspect it. It was rather the opposite. I couldn't recall her ever sending a text message. She would put the phone to charge in the kitchen and forget to take it with her. As for a lover, it was hard to imagine such a person. Sophie was a good-looking woman, but never coquettish or flirtatious, even when young. It had taken ingenuity and courage to prize her out of her library seat and girl set at uni and make a date with her. I thought of myself as a solitary adventurer when it came to storming Sophie's defences.
