count for anything. Youâre the president, Iâm the King. Iâm in charge, youâre on your bike. Off you go. Thank you and goodbye.â
âYou donât mean that.â
I say this even though I know that he almost certainly does. Heâs that sort of man. Maybe when it comes down to it, this is the only way in which men in our particular postal district are unreconstructed. They know about changing nappies and talking about feelings and women working and all the basics, but he would still rather close things off right now than admit any possibility of doubt or confusion or hurt, however much it costs him, however much he is eaten up by what I have done. And he told me once, and Iâm sure it will come up . . .
âWhy donât you think I mean it? Donât you remember? We talked about it?â
âI remember.â
âSo.â
We were in bed, and weâd just made love â we had Tom but not Molly, and I wasnât pregnant, so this must have been some time in 1992 â and I asked David if the prospect of having sex with me and no one else but me for the rest of his life depressed him. And he was uncharacteristically reflective about it: he said that it did get him down sometimes, but the alternatives were too horrible to contemplate, and anyway he knew that he would never be able to tolerate anything other than monogamy in me, so he could hardly expect indulgence for himself. So of course we ended up playing the game that all lovers play at some time or another, and I asked him whether there were any circumstances in which he would forgive me an infidelity â a drunken one-night stand, say, followed the morning after by immediate and piercing remorse. He pointed out that I never got drunk, and Iâd never had a one-night stand in my life, so it was hard to imagine this particular circumstance; he said that if I were unfaithful, it would be for other reasons, and those other reasons he felt would spell trouble â trouble he wouldnât want to think about. I very rarely credit David with any perspicacity, but I take my hat off to him now: I wasnât drunk. It wasnât a one-night stand. I have been sleeping with Stephen for all sorts of other reasons, every one of which spells trouble.
âHave you thought about where youâre going to stay?â he asks â still apparently untroubled by any of this.
âNo, of course not. Are you telling me Iâm the one that has to go?â
David just looks at me, and itâs a look that is so full of contempt I want to run away from everything â my husband, my home, my children â and never come back.
Â
Iâm a good person. In most ways. But Iâm beginning to think that being a good person in most ways doesnât count for anything very much, if youâre a bad person in one way. Because most people are good people, arenât they? Most people want to help others, and if their work doesnât allow them to help others then they do ithowever they can â by manning the phones at the Samaritans once a month, or going on sponsored walks, or filling in standing orders. Itâs no good me telling you that Iâm a doctor, because Iâm only a doctor during weekdays. Iâve been sleeping with someone other than my husband outside working hours â Iâm not so bad that Iâd do it inside working hours â and at the moment, being a doctor canât make up for that, however many rectal boils I look at.
4
David tells me heâs going away for a couple of nights. He doesnât say where, and he wonât leave a number â he takes my mobile with him in case of family emergencies â but I presume heâs gone to stay with his friend Mike (divorcee, local, good job, nice flat, spare bedroom). Before he leaves, he tells me that Iâve got forty-eight hours to talk to the kids; the unspoken assumption is that when I have told
âYou donât mean that.â
I say this even though I know that he almost certainly does. Heâs that sort of man. Maybe when it comes down to it, this is the only way in which men in our particular postal district are unreconstructed. They know about changing nappies and talking about feelings and women working and all the basics, but he would still rather close things off right now than admit any possibility of doubt or confusion or hurt, however much it costs him, however much he is eaten up by what I have done. And he told me once, and Iâm sure it will come up . . .
âWhy donât you think I mean it? Donât you remember? We talked about it?â
âI remember.â
âSo.â
We were in bed, and weâd just made love â we had Tom but not Molly, and I wasnât pregnant, so this must have been some time in 1992 â and I asked David if the prospect of having sex with me and no one else but me for the rest of his life depressed him. And he was uncharacteristically reflective about it: he said that it did get him down sometimes, but the alternatives were too horrible to contemplate, and anyway he knew that he would never be able to tolerate anything other than monogamy in me, so he could hardly expect indulgence for himself. So of course we ended up playing the game that all lovers play at some time or another, and I asked him whether there were any circumstances in which he would forgive me an infidelity â a drunken one-night stand, say, followed the morning after by immediate and piercing remorse. He pointed out that I never got drunk, and Iâd never had a one-night stand in my life, so it was hard to imagine this particular circumstance; he said that if I were unfaithful, it would be for other reasons, and those other reasons he felt would spell trouble â trouble he wouldnât want to think about. I very rarely credit David with any perspicacity, but I take my hat off to him now: I wasnât drunk. It wasnât a one-night stand. I have been sleeping with Stephen for all sorts of other reasons, every one of which spells trouble.
âHave you thought about where youâre going to stay?â he asks â still apparently untroubled by any of this.
âNo, of course not. Are you telling me Iâm the one that has to go?â
David just looks at me, and itâs a look that is so full of contempt I want to run away from everything â my husband, my home, my children â and never come back.
Â
Iâm a good person. In most ways. But Iâm beginning to think that being a good person in most ways doesnât count for anything very much, if youâre a bad person in one way. Because most people are good people, arenât they? Most people want to help others, and if their work doesnât allow them to help others then they do ithowever they can â by manning the phones at the Samaritans once a month, or going on sponsored walks, or filling in standing orders. Itâs no good me telling you that Iâm a doctor, because Iâm only a doctor during weekdays. Iâve been sleeping with someone other than my husband outside working hours â Iâm not so bad that Iâd do it inside working hours â and at the moment, being a doctor canât make up for that, however many rectal boils I look at.
4
David tells me heâs going away for a couple of nights. He doesnât say where, and he wonât leave a number â he takes my mobile with him in case of family emergencies â but I presume heâs gone to stay with his friend Mike (divorcee, local, good job, nice flat, spare bedroom). Before he leaves, he tells me that Iâve got forty-eight hours to talk to the kids; the unspoken assumption is that when I have told
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