Chapter Two
I’d left the theatre with swollen sinuses and eyes that resembled jam doughnuts. How could I not have known that Robin had been having an affair? And how long had it been going on?
A range of emotions had ripped through me. Disbelief and sorrow. Disbelief and incredulity. Disbelief and heartbreak. Disbelief and rage. By the time I’d reached the carpark, the rage had been in full throttle. Snarling like a rabid dog, I’d located Octavia, my bright orange Fiat 500.
Lip curled, I’d practically thrown myself into the vehicle. Ramming Octavia’s gear into reverse, I’d failed to check the rearview mirror. The car had shot backwards and nearly flattened a man. There had been a horrible thud – like that of a body bouncing off the boot end – followed by the screech of swiftly applied brakes.
Flinging open the driver’s door, I’d made to leap out, and nearly garrotted myself on the seatbelt. Frantically unbuckling, I’d fought my way out of Octavia to find a very good-looking man apoplectic with anger.
‘Oh thank God, you’re alive,’ I breathed.
‘No thanks to you,’ he roared.
In the carpark’s dim light I could make out dark hair and matching eyes. He reminded me of Antonio Banderas in his heyday. In fact, I could imagine this man, right now, in one of those domino masks. An instant metamorphosis. From mere mortal to superhero. Any man could wear one and be changed for the better. Even my postman – who was a dead ringer for Nigel Farage. Suddenly my postie would become Superrr Postie . Perhaps I should buy a few of those masks. Send them off to Parliament. Never mind Reform. There could be a whole new party. Transform spearheaded by Super Nige .
I shook my head. Evidently this latest shock was interfering with my ability to be clearheaded.
‘Did I hit you?’ I quavered.
‘No,’ the stranger growled. ‘But if I hadn’t slapped my hand against your rear window to warn you of my presence, it might have been a different story.’
‘So… are you okay?’
‘Funnily enough’ – he glared at me furiously – ‘I am not okay. That was a close call, and I feel somewhat shaken up. Women like you…’
Uh-oh. A rant was imminent.
‘Let me stop you right there.’ I stuck one hand in the air like a traffic cop. ‘Never mind women like me. It’s men like you who need to take a good long look at your own actions. Walking through a dark carpark in black clothes and getting in the way of a reversing vehicle is nobody’s fault but your own.’
‘Are you having a laugh?’ the man spluttered.
I gaped at him.
‘Do I look like I’m splitting my sides?’
‘You are insane,’ he declared.
It was too much. First, the discovery that my husband was an adulterous git. Now a judgemental one-liner from this sanctimonious prat. I had a feeling my emotions were about to get the better of me.
‘Apologise right now,’ I barked.
‘Excuse me?’ he said incredulously.
I shook my head in a parody of sadness.
‘Ah, of course you’re not going to apologise.’ I put my hands on my hips. Planted my feet wide. ‘And do you know HOW I know?’
‘Because you’re a psychic madwoman?’ he ventured.
I stuck my chin in the air. Gave him a thin smile.
‘Nope. It’s because you’re not man enough. Not man enough to say sorry.’
‘You really are something else,’ he mused.
‘Thank you.’ I inclined my head. ‘I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ I headed back to the still open driver’s door, hopped behind the wheel, then buzzed down Octavia’s window. ‘Meanwhile, try not to get run over by any other innocent drivers.’
The man gawped at me, then found his voice.
‘Tell me, is being stupid a profession, or are you just gifted?’
Me? Stupid? I hit the brakes. Leant out the window.
‘If I could transplant your brain into a bird’ – I snapped – ‘it would probably fly backwards.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘I heard that scientists are trying to figure out how long a person can live without a brain. Do be sure to tell them your age.’
‘Ha! Well, you’re the reason scientists decided we descended from apes.’
‘Oh grow up,’ he snarled.
‘No, you grow up.’
Damn. Not the greatest riposte. One nil to Antonio Banderas. Suddenly, all my pent up hurt and angst about Robin and Samantha rushed to the surface.
‘How DARE you play verbal gymnastics with me and cause emotional mayhem when I was happily minding my own business and replaying the moment I discovered my husband shagging his secretary in full technical glory. Oh yes, that’s got your attention, hasn’t it?’ His expression was now startled. ‘Have you any idea how I feel right now, hm? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m in unspeakable agony. My heart feels like smashed avocado. So take your self-righteous insufferable arrogance and MOVE OUT OF MY SODDING WAY.’
And with that, Octavia once again sprang backwards, this time nearly taking out a loved-up couple strolling towards their parking bay.
Shaking like an aspen tree in a storm, I then smartly drove off before anyone else came dangerously close to ending their days under the wheels of a bright orange car.
As I’d roared off, my inner voice had cautioned me to slow down. Equally, another voice – a truly nasty one – had encouraged me to go faster. To imagine that instead of Antonio Banderas being squashed flat by Octavia’s tyres, rather it was Robin. Or, more precisely, Robin’s penis. And then for me to screech to a halt, exit Octavia, and bend over my gasping husband and say, “Don’t panic. I know a cure for a flat penis. You simply tickle it. It’s called a test tickle .”
As I’d finally driven into Meopham, I’d presumed to find Robin at home. Maybe holed up in the spare room. Or perhaps in the marital bedroom, keeping my side of the bed warm while he worked out a plausible explanation for his shattered wife. That he might come up with a half-decent excuse. It’s not your fault, it’s mine .
Or would he instead blame me?
You neglected me, Tilly …
Never paid me any compliments…
Didn’t cook yummy dinners to keep me by your side …
Almost immediately my inner voice rose to the surface, urgently reminding me not to fall for any sexist tripe.
Woman up, Tilly! Tear him off a strip. When was the last time Robin bothered about romance? Took YOU out for the evening? Wasn’t that the whole point of you purchasing those theatre tickets? To inject some va-va-voom into your marriage? To have a flirty drink in a nearby bar… then hold his hand as you sat side by side in the stalls? To later tell him that he was not just your world but also your moon and stars. And this is how he repays you?
‘Too bloody right,’ I snarled, accidentally jumping a red traffic light.
My inner voice had urged me to calm down. To calm down and slow down. It was one thing to have your marriage unexpectedly come to an abrupt full stop. It was quite another to end the evening in a police cell for reckless driving.
Trembling, I’d eased my foot off the accelerator, attempted to stem a fresh outbreak of tears, and mentally tried to press the pause button on the image that would not stop playing in my head. Robin and Samantha shagging. That and Samantha’s hairless vagina.
Had Samantha lasered off her pubic hair? Or gone mad with the wax strips? Or even bought a razor and shaved the whole lot off? I’d once done the latter and ended up looking like a plucked chicken with folliculitis.
No, she must have had it all lasered off. How else could a woman achieve a fanny smoother than an Elgin marble? And why was I even thinking about Samantha’s privates when my world had imploded? It was a question I would repeatedly ask myself over the days and weeks to come.
By the time I’d parked Octavia on our driveway, I’d been in a state of high anxiety and anticipation. What would Robin say to me?
But when I’d let myself into the house, there’d been no sign of him.