Anna.
She was the first straw. She forced me to be this wife, the one waiting anxiously for her husbands return, to smell his clothes, his neck, his breathe, as he walks through the door. The nose of a bloodhound, poised to scent the smell of another, a predator, a huntress.
I never wanted to be this wife, suspicious, flighty, sneaking around, scared of the very shadows in her home. I always promised Roger I wouldn't be this woman; I'd basically said as much in my vows. But what Roger doesn't understand about this monster, this protective she-wolf, if that he turned me into her. The moment the children's cries forced me out into that hallway, as daddy once more sloped off to speak to his secretary, interrupting family film night for a third time, I had been forced to step into that role I didn't want to play. The moment I unsuspectingly held out my hand and asked to speak to Bet, Roger turned ours from a lovestory to a tragedy. The whites in his eyes betrayed the lie, as he explained it was not Bet on the other end of the phoneline, but rather Anna, that he had told me about her. About the twenty-four-year-old fucking supermodel with no previous experience he had hired to be his assistant.
She on her own wouldn't be so much of a threat. Perhaps, if her existence were an isolated incident, I would be inclined to believe Roger's tall tale, that he truly believed he had told me of her. Perhaps I would have been able to forgive his oversight; after all, when you only spoke once every two weeks to the mother of your children, and were only allotted a five minute slot for conversation, is it not natural that you should forget about something as insignificant as your new assistant in your hurry to discuss your children, their new hobbies, their old friends, their latest school reports? Is it not the hallmark of a caring father that he did so?
But then, of course, he messed up again. The second straw was Roger Jr.'s end-of-school-season football game, which Roger had promised on his first day home to attend. The morning of the match, Roger had kissed me goodbye, insisting that he had to go to London to take care of some last minute business, but he would be back for the match. I had stood alone in the stands, in the swirling winds and rains, as my little boy spent the entire match scanning the stands for the sight of his daddy, missing every ball that was sent his way. His father could offer him little consolation when he turned up, five hours later, to the news that his son had lost the match. He had no excuse to offer for his absence, not even to me.
Of course, that could be explained away as Queen business. Although a quick phone call to Chrissie confirmed that wasn't the case; neither Brian or Deaky had been called to London with quite the same haste Roger had, in fact, they hadn't been called at all. I could sense Brian's brooding presence on the other side of the phoneline as Chrissie spoke, no doubt close to telling me the actual truth.
About Queen, about Anna, about all of it. The more days that passed, the more I could feel myself beginning to doubt Roger. The more I sought the truth by legitimate means, the more Roger began to resent me for it. We avoided the screaming matches, for the children's sake, but those remnants of affection that had lingered between us in those first few days home, fragile as they were, had all but disappeared. It had been days since Roger had held me, since we shared breakfast on the embankment, a hot flask of tea between us. Days since he had last whispered I love you and kissed me goodnight as he climbed into bed. Days since we had climbed into bed together.
I know that if I want the details of an affair, I can find them easily enough. Call Freddie for the low-down; ask the local town busybodies for the media scoop; analyze every newspaper article on the subject for a shred of evidence. Doubtless, if I went into my eldest daughter's room, and snooped around that box she kept under her bed, dedicated to her hatred of her father, I would find some sultry article buried there, alongside the array of birthday cards that arrived just a day too late. Maybe if he cheated, and I got good evidence, I'd get a favourable divorce. Public sympathy even; women scorned always seem to attract that.
