Authors: Cath Staincliffe
At the crematorium I felt as though I was in a glass cylinder. The service there was swift and I watched, dry-eyed, as Neil’s coffin slid away. The funeral party were going back to the
church hall for refreshments. I was going back to prison.
In the car park outside the crematorium, I said goodbye to Adam. Jane gave me a hug and told me she would see me in the week. I drank in a last glimpse of Sophie climbing into the funeral car. I
ached, wanting to hold her, touch her. It drove off. As I made to go, someone touched my arm. It was Tony Boyd, Neil’s old friend, who’d been a witness at our wedding. He’d lived
in Portugal for years, had a wife and family there, twin girls. We still exchanged Christmas cards and once every couple of years, when he was visiting his parents, he would call Neil and
we’d meet up for a night of reminiscing and catching up. He was one of the people we had phoned in the days after Neil’s death but I’d had no idea he’d be coming to the
funeral.
‘Deborah,’ he looked me in the eyes, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He hesitated, glanced at my minder, gave a shake of his head and opened his arms. He pulled me close and his
generous embrace made me weep. I closed my eyes and savoured the warmth from his body and the breadth of his shoulders and the peppery smell of his cologne.
I pulled back and surveyed him. He was almost bald, his hair cropped close, his eyebrows grey. He had a paunch too, tight against his shirt. We are so old, I thought. We’ve all got so
old.
‘I’ve got to fly back tomorrow,’ he said, ‘or I’d have come to see you.’
‘That’s fine. Keep in touch.’
‘I will. He was a lovely man,’ he said, ‘and he was so happy with you.’
The compliments meant so much to me that day and for a few moments I was an honestly grieving wife, not a murderess.
I
don’t know why I had an affair. I couldn’t explain it back then, either to myself or to Neil. It hasn’t got clearer with
hindsight. Was I just bored? Flattered by the attention?
Adam was seven, Sophie five. My business was expanding. The other man was a client. When we first met, I felt a swell of pleasure at the sight of him. The same reaction that I’d had when
I’d first seen Neil. With this man I concealed it. I was happily married, a mother. I wasn’t in the market for an affair. It wasn’t an option. He was married, too. His wife was at
that first meeting. Jeremy and Chandi. They were doing a new-build and staying in a rented apartment while the project took shape. It was an exciting design they had planned, no Barratt home. A
two-storey dwelling on a brownfield site in a redevelopment zone. There was a canal nearby and Jeremy wanted a modern, waterside feel. There would be glass-and-steel patio doors along the back
overlooking the canal, an open-plan living area, and central stairs to the upper floor. The couple wanted my input into the kitchen design and also a scheme for the colours and soft furnishings in
the other areas.
Disconcerted by my attraction to Jeremy, the way my stomach contracted when I made eye contact with him, the pleasing timbre of his voice, I made a point of focusing on Chandi as we talked. She
was a hospital doctor; he worked as a translator of educational books; together they had enough of an income to build their dream home. I went away with a clear idea of their likes and dislikes,
their specifications and a copy of the architect’s drawings for the site, promising to return in a fortnight with initial designs.
At the second meeting there was no sign of Chandi. Had he engineered it like that? When I asked if she didn’t want a chance to comment, he told me she had to be at the hospital during
working hours and would give me any feedback via him. Jeremy smiled and offered me tea. His teeth were white, his lips the colour of raspberries. He was shorter than Neil, stockier. I busied myself
laying out my portfolio while he made the drinks. Their rental flat was part of a warehouse refurbishment, very eighties with bare brick walls and wooden floors, recessed lights. The ceilings were
surprisingly low, and the décor neutral colours, easier to rent out than something distinctive. The couple’s own furnishings were more eclectic, and included a monster of a couch with
a geometric Scandinavian print in turquoise, white and orange clambering all over it. But the piece was too large in the space.
Nervously I talked Jeremy through the plans. Once in my stride I was able to quell the sexual feelings but whenever he asked a question or bent closer to examine a sketch everything shifted and
I became clumsy and self-conscious. The encounter was like a badly executed dance: we’d speak at the same moment, or interrupt each other after awkward pauses. Slowly it dawned that it
wasn’t just me who was off-kilter.
Eager to leave, I ran through a brisk summary of which options he would discuss with his wife. The Belfast sink and central island with a butcher’s block (salvaged rather than new) were
key to the kitchen design and other elements would tie in. He and Chandi would consider whether to accommodate an Aga or go for a smaller oven and hob with a separate wood-burning stove. The latter
were quite rare back then and Jeremy appeared to find my enthusiasm for them amusing. He had samples of fabrics for curtains and upholstery to show Chandi and a style board I’d put
together.
Finishing my spiel, I gathered up my portfolio. Silence hung in the air, and I looked up to find his eyes locked on me, his face serious, his lips slightly parted as if on the brink of speech.
Clearing my throat, I looked away and got to my feet. He caught my wrist and stood up. My heart galloped. He came closer. I let him. He kissed me and lust flared through me, hungry, needy. I
dropped my papers. When he began to pull at my clothes, I made no protest. In fact, my hands were running over his shirt, and down, touching his erection through his clothes and feeling myself grow
moist in response.
He pulled me over to the couch and I lay down. He ran through to the other room and came back with a condom. He stripped off his pants, slid on the condom. With our clothing half off, he knelt
above me, nudged against me and I lifted my hips to meet him. Neither of us spoke and the sex can’t have lasted more than five minutes. Touching myself, I came as he climaxed, his face
contorted and dark with blood.
He withdrew and edged down beside me. I wriggled over to make room, keeping my eyes closed. I waited for my heart to slow, my breathing to return to normal. He was still and I thought perhaps he
was dozing but when I opened my eyes he was gazing up at the ceiling.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ he said.
‘You’re a virgin!’ My joke punctured the tension and we burst out laughing. Part of me was horrified. How could I laugh at a time like this? What on earth had I done?
‘Let’s not talk,’ I said. ‘I’ve a marriage, children. You have a wife. We just forget this . . .’ I halted and tried again. ‘There are other designers,
people I know . . .’
He shushed me. ‘This can mean whatever we want it to. I didn’t set out to . . .’
‘Fuck me?’
‘I don’t regret it. And I don’t want anyone else to do the design.’
He was calm and articulate while I felt confused, dizzy as if someone had punched me. ‘I don’t know.’ I gathered my clothes together, began to dress.
‘Debbie.’
I resisted the impulse to correct him; I hate being called Debbie. I’m not Debbie. Perhaps I thought that if he didn’t use the right name it would negate some of what had happened,
that I could splinter off this Debbie woman into some cubby-hole – distinct and unconnected from Deborah.
‘I don’t know,’ I repeated.
‘Are you sorry it happened?’
I didn’t answer.
‘It needn’t happen again, if that’s what you want. But don’t run away.’
I shivered. Finished pulling on my clothes. ‘I need time to think.’
‘Fine. Call me?’
At home, I showered and changed my clothes, my mind racing over what had happened. A voice in my head laid out all the reasons to quit the job and avoid seeing Jeremy
again.
When Neil got back from school, I was terrified he would sense a change in me, smell my treachery. He didn’t.
The next morning I sat in my workshop, the plans for Jeremy and Chandi’s house spread out around me. I would ring him up and decline the work. There were Neil and the children to think
about. I was happy, wasn’t I? Why risk it all for a fling that might be exciting but certainly wouldn’t lead to any greater happiness? I wasn’t the girl in the black vintage silk
dress any more, reckless and disinterested. I was a wife and a mother with a business to run.
I dialled his number. And listened to myself arrange a rendezvous for the end of the week.
The sex was always the same: passionate, fast and greedy. Always at his house, always with the pretext of a meeting about the project. We never made small-talk or ventured to suggest meeting
anywhere else, to do anything else. We used the couch, sometimes the bedroom. On one occasion I was so eager, aroused with the anticipation as I drove over there, that I grabbed him as he let me in
and we screwed standing up against the front door.
Neil never noticed. But Jane did. Jane was newly wed herself then and living across town. We habitually met for a drink and a talk. I didn’t like her husband Mack very much so we had never
developed the habit of going out as a foursome. Besides, our friendship pre-dated our marriages and without our partners there we could confide in each other better.
‘You look good,’ she said, as she slipped off her coat and settled opposite me. ‘Very good.’ She took another appraisal. ‘Oh, God, are you pregnant
again?’
‘No.’ Then I told her, ‘I’m having an affair.’
She blinked with shock, then a trace of anger edged into her face. ‘Why?’ she asked me. Not ‘who’ but ‘why’?
‘I don’t know.’ And the downside of it all, the nervous guilt, the scorching shame opened up in me. A pit of my own making. I tried to explain to Jane but my account sounded
shallow. It was the first, the only time, I’d met with her disapproval and I resented her for it.
‘I don’t love him, it’s just a fling.’
She was quiet and I spoke to fill the space, asking about her holiday, their house-hunting. The dislocation in our friendship was horrible. Jane genuinely couldn’t understand my behaviour.
Later, when it was all over and we were able to talk about it, she said it would have made sense to her if I had loved Jeremy but to risk so much just for sex seemed self-destructive.
Three years after that Mack left Jane for another woman. Someone he had already been seeing before he married Jane – and he’d just kept on seeing her. I wonder if Jane hadn’t
had some premonition, some sixth sense that behaviour like mine and Jeremy’s would hurt her.
Was I being self-destructive? Having an affair because I knew I didn’t deserve the security I had found with Neil? Because I knew that one day he would leave me, like my father had left,
so I beat him to the punch? Maybe there was an element of that, kicking down my own sandcastle, but I also believe it was a fluke of circumstance. If any other man had opened the door of that
apartment, I wouldn’t have lusted after him so foolishly.
After three months my design brief for Jeremy and Chandi was almost completed. Contractors would be carrying out the work to my specifications, but that was delayed as the construction of the
building was behind schedule. I hadn’t thought about what would happen after my part in the project was done. It was like being a child again, living only in the here and now, with no thought
for the consequences.
It was the middle of winter, the last time I saw Jeremy. Temperatures had dipped and the side-roads glimmered with black ice. The air was cold and foggy, washing everything monochrome. We had
fixed a meeting first thing in the morning; I had other clients to see later in the day. Jeremy had the heating on full whack when I arrived. Their lounge felt airless and dry. I peeled off coat,
gloves and scarf.
‘Don’t stop.’ His voice thickened. He was sitting on the couch in his jogging pants and a sweatshirt, his hair still damp from the shower.
I glanced at my portfolio.
‘We can do that after.’
He reached out a foot, ran it up the inside of my leg, above my knee. Heat pulsed through my veins like hot syrup, making my skin rosy and my breathing quicken.
I took off my cardigan, unzipped my boots and pulled them off. He watched as I slid down my trousers and stepped out of them. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it. I unbuttoned
my blouse, then the cuffs, let it fall open. Enjoying his excitement, the irresistible burn of sexual appetite.
That was when Chandi walked in. Fresh from work, where the boiler had packed up and her appointments had been cancelled.
She took in the sight of us, me in my shirt and sheer underwear, her husband half naked on their couch, and she gave a little dry laugh. Like she’d known all along – like here was
another fuck-up to add to her bloody lousy day. ‘You fucking bastard,’ she said to Jeremy.
He had the grace to redden and began to apologize to her. I said nothing, pulled on my trousers, stuffed my feet into my boots, shrugged my coat on and scooped everything else up. Chandi began
to shout at him. Without a word I walked out, my heart thundering and my legs trembling.
A week later I got a cheque for my work. I never knew whether they had gone ahead and used the designs, if they had stayed together and completed their home. But wouldn’t it rankle if they
had? Each time anyone commented on the grey-green of the curtains or the wood-burning stove, wouldn’t it be like heat on a burn?
Three weeks after that I told Neil what I had done. There was no need to, no one else would have spilled the beans, but I found that carrying the betrayal was souring my love for him. I needed
his forgiveness. I got an inkling of why Catholics go to confession.
He was very hurt, very angry. Then he cried. He wouldn’t touch me. That was the worst thing. When he still hadn’t come near me after three days, I surveyed the wreck I had made of
our marriage, faced the prospect of losing him for good and asked him to come and see a counsellor with me. I was desolate and couldn’t see how we could rebuild our relationship without
outside help. How could he forgive me? If the tables had been turned I would have rent him limb from limb, kicked him out and built a prison on the moral high ground for myself and the
children.