The Husband’s Secret

place.’
    ‘That’s a bit, I don’t know, rude? Sexist? Oh. Oh, well.’
    ‘Do you like that, Teresa? Wait, what was your name again?’
    ‘Stop talking please.’

chapter thirty
    Cecilia sat on the couch next to Esther watching YouTube videos of the cold, clear November night in 1989 when the Berlin Wall came down. She was becoming obsessed with the Wall herself. After John-Paul’s mother had left, she’d stayed sitting at the kitchen table reading one of Esther’s books until it was time to pick the girls up from school. There were so many things she should have been doing – Tupperware deliveries, preparations for Easter Sunday, the pirate party – but reading about the Wall was a good way of pretending she wasn’t thinking about what she was really thinking about.
    Esther was drinking warm milk. Cecilia was drinking her third – or fourth? – glass of sauvignon blanc. John-Paul was listening to Polly do her reading. Isabel sat at the computer in the family room downloading music onto her iPod. Their home was a cosy lamplit bubble of domesticity. Cecilia sniffed. The scent of sesame oil seemed to have pervaded the whole house now.
    ‘Look, Mum,’ Esther elbowed her.
    ‘I’m watching,’ said Cecilia.
    Cecilia’s memories of the news footage she’d seen back in 1989 were rowdier than this. She remembered crowdsof people dancing on top of the Wall, fists punching the air. Wasn’t David Hasselhoff singing at some point? But there was a strange, eerie quietness to the clips Esther had found. The people walking out from East Berlin seemed quietly stunned, exhilarated but calm, filing out in such an orderly fashion. (They were Germans after all. Cecilia’s sort of people.) Men and women with eighties hairstyles drank champagne straight from the bottle, tipping their heads back and smiling at the cameras. They hooted and hugged and wept, they tooted the horns of their cars, but they all seemed so well behaved, so very nice about it. Even the people slamming sledge-hammers against the wall seemed to do so with controlled jubilation, not vicious fury. Cecilia watched a woman of about her own age dance in circles with a bearded man in a leather jacket.
    ‘Why are you crying, Mum?’ asked Esther.
    ‘Because they’re so happy,’ said Cecilia.
    Because they endured this unacceptable thing. Because that woman probably thought, like so many people had, that the Wall would eventually come down, but not in her lifetime, that she would never see this day, and yet she had, and now she was dancing.
    ‘It’s weird how you always cry about happy things,’ said Esther.
    ‘I know,’ said Cecilia.
    Happy endings always made her cry. It was the relief.
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ John-Paul stood up from the dining-room table, while Polly put away her book. He looked at Cecilia anxiously. All evening she’d been aware of his timid, solicitous glances. It was driving her crazy.
    ‘No,’ said Cecilia sharply, avoiding his eyes. She felt the perplexed gaze of her daughters. ‘I do not want a cup of tea.’

chapter thirty-one
    ‘I remember Felicity,’ said Connor. ‘She was funny. Quick-witted. A bit scary.’
    They’d moved to Connor’s bed. It was an ordinary queen-sized mattress with plain white Egyptian cotton sheets. (She’d forgotten that: how he loved good sheets, like in a hotel.) Connor had heated up some leftover pasta he’d made the night before and they were eating it in bed.
    ‘We could be civilised and sit at the table,’ Connor had offered. ‘I could make a salad. Put out placemats.’
    ‘Let’s just stay here,’ Tess had said. ‘I might remember to feel awkward about this.’
    ‘Good point,’ Connor had said.
    The pasta was delicious. Tess ate hungrily. She felt that ravenous sensation she used to feel when Liam was a baby and she’d been up all night breastfeeding.
    Except instead of a night innocently suckling her son, she’d just had two very boisterous, highly satisfying sexual encounters with a man who was not her husband. She should have lost her appetite, not got it back.
    ‘So she and your husband are having an affair,’ said Connor.
    ‘No,’ said Tess. ‘They just fell in love. It’s all very pure and romantic.’
    ‘That’s horrible.’
    ‘I know,’ said Tess. ‘I only found out on Monday, and here I am –’ She waved her fork around the room, and at herself and her own state of undress (she was wearing nothing but a T-shirt of Connor’s