Yes, I started to feel humiliated.
What took you so long? I can hear you saying.
Well, sorry, chaps, but I had a major backlog of Loss and Abandonment in my in-box.
A little twinge of humiliation at first. An odd little feeling one day when I wondered how long Judy had known about James and Denise. That feeling expanded like a balloon until humiliation was nearly all I felt. I smarted with it. I was raw with it. My soul blushed with it.
Who had known that James was having an affair? I wondered.
Had all my friends known about it and talked about it among themselves and agonized about telling me?
Did they say things like "Oh, we can't tell her now, not when she's pregnant."
Did they look at me with pity?
Did they thank God that at least they could trust their husbands or boy- friends?
Did they say to themselves, "The one thing Dave/Frank/William would never do is have an affair. He mightn't do any housework/give me enough money/ever discuss a problem, but at least he wouldn't be unfaithful."
Did they look at me and sigh huge sighs of relief and say, even while feeling guilty, "I'm so glad it's her and not me."
I was so angry. I wanted to shout at the world, "You're wrong! I thought I could trust my husband! I thought he was too goddamn lazy to have an affair. But he did have one. And so could Dave/Frank/William."
When I thought about Denise I cringed. When I thought about herself and myself exchanging pleasantries about the weather and me compliment- ing her on how well she was looking and telling her how my pregnancy was going and thinking
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that she was so sweet and nice, when all the time she was having sex with my husband and making him fall in love with her, I wanted to travel back in time and grab myself by the scruff of the neck and drag myself, protesting, away from the conversation with Denise and admonish myself, like a mother to a naughty child, "Don't speak to that horrible woman."
And then I wanted to get Denise and beat the living daylights out of her.
Then I started to feel extremely angry at James.
The humiliation arrived gradually. It sidled its way in and one day I turned around and it was there, grinning at me. "Hi there," it said, as though we were old friends. "Remember me? And I'm sure my friend Jealousy needs no introduction."
I was with my mother one afternoon when she put a video on. Some film that was supposed to be a romance, but it was really an excuse for porno- graphy. She was engrossed in it, and "tut-tutted" energetically. I tried to pay attention to it and feed Kate at the same time. I kept losing track of the plot. "Who's that he's having sex with now? Is that the woman from the elevator?"
"No, silly," said Mum. "It's the woman from the elevator's daughter."
"But I thought he was found in bed with the woman from the elevator," I said, confused.
"Yes, he was," explained Mum kindly. "But he's being unfaithful to her now, with her daughter."
"The poor woman from the elevator," I said sorrowfully.
Mum gave me a sharp glance. Oh God, no. I could feel her thinking in alarm. Was I going to start crying? I bet she was sorry that she hadn't gotten something innocuous like The Amityville Horror or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
I watched the two people on the screen, having sex, enjoying themselves at the cost of the woman in the elevator's happiness. I suddenly thought of James and Denise in bed.
They do this, you know, a voice in my head told me.
They go to bed together. They have sex. They lose themselves in their passion for each other. She touches him. She sleeps with his beautiful body and his delicious skin and his silky black hair. She can wake up and watch him sleeping, his spiky black eyelashes throwing little shadows on his face.
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What are they like together? I found myself wondering. What way does he treat her? What's he like when he's with her?
Does he gently scrape his stubbly jaw across her face in the morning, the way he used to do to me and then laugh at my shout of outrage, his even teeth showing very white in his handsome face?
Does she go to sleep with her head on his muscular chest, her arm thrown across his stomach, his manly arm around her neck, smelling the faint scent of Tuscany from his lightly tanned skin, the way I used to?
Does he wake her in the morning by trailing his hands along her thighs, the way he used to with me, and instantly turn her on, the way he used to with me?
Does he pin her down in bed, his hands holding her arms above her head, his legs locking hers, grinning down at her, leaving her deliciously helpless as he moves slowly against her, driving her mad with desire, the way he used to with me?
Does he kiss her with an ice cube in his mouth, turning her mouth cold and her body hot with desire, the way he used to with me?
Does he gently bite the curve of her neck and shoulder and send shivers of lust through her whole body, the way he used to with me?
When she wakes up in the morning is her first thought, "Jesus, he's beautiful and he's in bed with me"? Because mine always was.
I was insane with jealousy.
Or do they do it differently? I wondered. Is she different from me in bed? Is she better? What's her body like? Has she a smaller butt, bigger tits, flatter stomach, longer legs? Is she really adventurous and does she drive him crazy with passion?
I wondered all this, even though I knew Denise and could have answered most of those questions myself. (Smaller butt? No. Bigger tits? Yes. Flatter stomach? Unlikely. Longer legs? Hard to tell. We're probably neck and neck.)
She didn't act or behave like a sex kitten. She had always seemed so nice and well...ordinary, I suppose, but now in my head she was Helen of Troy or Sharon Stone or Madonna.
I was being torn apart by jealousy. It was like having a
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burning spiky ball in my chest that was sending out green poisonous rays all over my body, choking me so that I could barely breathe. My head was filled with pictures of what I imagined they were like together in bed.
I just couldn't bear the idea of his desiring her. It filled me with powerful and impotent rage. And fury. I felt like killing them both. I felt like sobbing hysterically. I felt ugly with jealousy. Disfigured with it. I felt my face was twisted and green with it.
It's such an ugly emotion. And it's so utterly pointless. And it has nowhere to go.
If you lose someone or something, you feel a loss, then after a while you fill in the hole in your life and the loss gradually gets smaller and smaller and eventually goes away. There's a point to the pain. There's a reason and a direction.
What took you so long? I can hear you saying.
Well, sorry, chaps, but I had a major backlog of Loss and Abandonment in my in-box.
A little twinge of humiliation at first. An odd little feeling one day when I wondered how long Judy had known about James and Denise. That feeling expanded like a balloon until humiliation was nearly all I felt. I smarted with it. I was raw with it. My soul blushed with it.
Who had known that James was having an affair? I wondered.
Had all my friends known about it and talked about it among themselves and agonized about telling me?
Did they say things like "Oh, we can't tell her now, not when she's pregnant."
Did they look at me with pity?
Did they thank God that at least they could trust their husbands or boy- friends?
Did they say to themselves, "The one thing Dave/Frank/William would never do is have an affair. He mightn't do any housework/give me enough money/ever discuss a problem, but at least he wouldn't be unfaithful."
Did they look at me and sigh huge sighs of relief and say, even while feeling guilty, "I'm so glad it's her and not me."
I was so angry. I wanted to shout at the world, "You're wrong! I thought I could trust my husband! I thought he was too goddamn lazy to have an affair. But he did have one. And so could Dave/Frank/William."
When I thought about Denise I cringed. When I thought about herself and myself exchanging pleasantries about the weather and me compliment- ing her on how well she was looking and telling her how my pregnancy was going and thinking
67
that she was so sweet and nice, when all the time she was having sex with my husband and making him fall in love with her, I wanted to travel back in time and grab myself by the scruff of the neck and drag myself, protesting, away from the conversation with Denise and admonish myself, like a mother to a naughty child, "Don't speak to that horrible woman."
And then I wanted to get Denise and beat the living daylights out of her.
Then I started to feel extremely angry at James.
The humiliation arrived gradually. It sidled its way in and one day I turned around and it was there, grinning at me. "Hi there," it said, as though we were old friends. "Remember me? And I'm sure my friend Jealousy needs no introduction."
I was with my mother one afternoon when she put a video on. Some film that was supposed to be a romance, but it was really an excuse for porno- graphy. She was engrossed in it, and "tut-tutted" energetically. I tried to pay attention to it and feed Kate at the same time. I kept losing track of the plot. "Who's that he's having sex with now? Is that the woman from the elevator?"
"No, silly," said Mum. "It's the woman from the elevator's daughter."
"But I thought he was found in bed with the woman from the elevator," I said, confused.
"Yes, he was," explained Mum kindly. "But he's being unfaithful to her now, with her daughter."
"The poor woman from the elevator," I said sorrowfully.
Mum gave me a sharp glance. Oh God, no. I could feel her thinking in alarm. Was I going to start crying? I bet she was sorry that she hadn't gotten something innocuous like The Amityville Horror or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
I watched the two people on the screen, having sex, enjoying themselves at the cost of the woman in the elevator's happiness. I suddenly thought of James and Denise in bed.
They do this, you know, a voice in my head told me.
They go to bed together. They have sex. They lose themselves in their passion for each other. She touches him. She sleeps with his beautiful body and his delicious skin and his silky black hair. She can wake up and watch him sleeping, his spiky black eyelashes throwing little shadows on his face.
68
What are they like together? I found myself wondering. What way does he treat her? What's he like when he's with her?
Does he gently scrape his stubbly jaw across her face in the morning, the way he used to do to me and then laugh at my shout of outrage, his even teeth showing very white in his handsome face?
Does she go to sleep with her head on his muscular chest, her arm thrown across his stomach, his manly arm around her neck, smelling the faint scent of Tuscany from his lightly tanned skin, the way I used to?
Does he wake her in the morning by trailing his hands along her thighs, the way he used to with me, and instantly turn her on, the way he used to with me?
Does he pin her down in bed, his hands holding her arms above her head, his legs locking hers, grinning down at her, leaving her deliciously helpless as he moves slowly against her, driving her mad with desire, the way he used to with me?
Does he kiss her with an ice cube in his mouth, turning her mouth cold and her body hot with desire, the way he used to with me?
Does he gently bite the curve of her neck and shoulder and send shivers of lust through her whole body, the way he used to with me?
When she wakes up in the morning is her first thought, "Jesus, he's beautiful and he's in bed with me"? Because mine always was.
I was insane with jealousy.
Or do they do it differently? I wondered. Is she different from me in bed? Is she better? What's her body like? Has she a smaller butt, bigger tits, flatter stomach, longer legs? Is she really adventurous and does she drive him crazy with passion?
I wondered all this, even though I knew Denise and could have answered most of those questions myself. (Smaller butt? No. Bigger tits? Yes. Flatter stomach? Unlikely. Longer legs? Hard to tell. We're probably neck and neck.)
She didn't act or behave like a sex kitten. She had always seemed so nice and well...ordinary, I suppose, but now in my head she was Helen of Troy or Sharon Stone or Madonna.
I was being torn apart by jealousy. It was like having a
69
burning spiky ball in my chest that was sending out green poisonous rays all over my body, choking me so that I could barely breathe. My head was filled with pictures of what I imagined they were like together in bed.
I just couldn't bear the idea of his desiring her. It filled me with powerful and impotent rage. And fury. I felt like killing them both. I felt like sobbing hysterically. I felt ugly with jealousy. Disfigured with it. I felt my face was twisted and green with it.
It's such an ugly emotion. And it's so utterly pointless. And it has nowhere to go.
If you lose someone or something, you feel a loss, then after a while you fill in the hole in your life and the loss gradually gets smaller and smaller and eventually goes away. There's a point to the pain. There's a reason and a direction.
