Page 7 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Honey, I’m Home

I return to the kitchen, my legs shaking so badly I have to place my hands on the bench to keep myself upright. I need to focus. I can’t break into pieces. There will be plenty of time for that later.

Jonathan’s key turns in the lock. I hear a couple of footsteps then the thud of his briefcase hitting the polished wooden floor of the hallway. There is silence for a moment before the bedroom door clicks open and then shut.

I place the rice in the microwave. Hopefully, it will still be warm when he finally makes his way to the kitchen.

Getting out of his office clothes is always a more immediate concern than greeting his wife—it is a routine established over many years of marriage, and one that I have never thought to question.

Until now. All that has ever changed over the years is the time he walks through the door.

For most of our married life, he got in just as the nightly news came on.

Then little by little, he started getting home later.

I am often sound asleep before he’s even left the office.

I’ve always considered those late nights to be proof that my husband works hard to provide our family with the best life possible.

Now I wonder if it is actually evidence of his betrayal.

It’s strange how your perception changes just by looking at things from a slightly different viewpoint.

And adultery is certainly a different viewpoint from which to evaluate one’s life.

Those extra few kilos Jonathan has lost recently.

Perhaps he isn’t taking care of himself so much as caring what his new girlfriend thinks.

His gym sessions are now a five-morning-a-week obsession, gnawing into what little time we have together.

It’s a practice that only emphasises how far we’ve grown apart.

Years have passed since I last broke out of a walk.

Nowadays, I only sweat during hot flushes.

Then there are all the other changes I’ve noticed but haven’t thought to question.

Jonathan is using a new brand of aftershave—a scent the women’s magazines would describe as oriental.

And his clothes are different, not quite as conservative as they used to be—yesterday he went to work wearing a pastel-coloured tie with a repeating heart motif.

Once he would never have worn a pattern like that; he always used to opt for bold stripes or plain colours with a discreet but interesting weave.

The paisley tie I bought him one Christmas never made it out of the box.

It’s still sitting at the back of the wardrobe somewhere.

Maybe I should dig it out. But who would I be pleasing if I did?

The microwave breaks into my thoughts with three long, loud beeps. I take a plate out of the cupboard, shake out the rice and ladle some stroganoff over the top.

Right on cue, Jonathan emerges from the bedroom. He looks more like himself, wearing cotton pyjama pants and an old footy T-shirt. The only hint of his trendy new alter ego is the issue of Men’s Fitness magazine tucked under one splendidly toned arm.

‘How was your day?’ I don’t sound like myself, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to notice. I feel foolish for changing into my best shirt. If he hasn’t noticed the red rimming my eyes, he isn’t going to register the flattering green of my outfit.

‘Long.’ He sits down at the table without looking in my direction. He doesn’t ask how my day has been. He rarely does. And for once, I’m grateful for his lack of interest. What would I tell him anyway? Oh, I got sacked from my job, acquired a troll and by the way are you having an affair?

The rhythmic beat of the carriage clock on the mantel cuts through the silence between us. I count thirty-seven ticks and thirty-six tocks before Jonathan speaks again.

‘What’s for dinner?’

I collect the plate from the bench and set it in front of him. Around us, the house thrums with the ordinary sounds of an evening at home. Cutlery scrapes and the fridge drones.

Tick. Tock.

Jonathan doesn’t seem inclined to talk and I don’t know what to say or how to say it.

Whatever happened to conversation? Household communication has become a Morse code of grunts, scheduling information and Post-it notes. If my family was a pod of whales, we’d have beached ourselves long ago.

I sit at the far end of the table, hands under my chin, watching my husband devour his meal.

I stare intently, hoping to find some clue in the curve of his lips, in the tiny footy scar above his left eyebrow or in the patch of grey above one ear.

But there is no lipstick on his collar and no telltale bruises on his neck.

His body is completely relaxed, his posture free of any tension.

There is absolutely nothing to suggest that Ernest Friend is anything more than a troublemaker. Except my gut.

Forkful after forkful of stroganoff travel from the plate to his mouth in awkward silence.

My scrutiny remains as searing and purposeful as a laser, challenging Jonathan to meet my gaze and ask what is wrong.

But he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t so much as take his eyes off his meal until he pushes the empty plate to one side and gets up.

I scramble to my feet, aware that my chance to sort out what is happening with my marriage is slipping away. Another day of wondering and worrying is more than I can endure or imagine.

‘Why don’t we talk for a while?’ I ask as I clear the table. ‘Let’s sit down in the living room together. I can get us a drink.’

Jonathan looks at me properly for the first time since he’s come home. From his wary expression, I may as well have proposed a flight to Mars.

‘I’m really not up to it tonight.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow. In fact, I might stay in town overnight. It will probably go way past midnight.’

It is everything I can do not to throw up on the spot. I have been told my husband is having an affair and now he is suggesting a night away from home. Again, I grip the bench, expecting my legs to give way at any moment.

Jonathan picks up his magazine and thumbs through the first few pages. ‘We can talk any time.’ His words are casual, but his tone is pure steel.

I know the subtext: the conversation is over unless I want to bear the brunt of his ill temper for the rest of the week. I weigh my options. Can I survive another twenty-four hours of uncertainty? I know the answer. I’ve known it from the moment Jonathan walked in the door.

‘Of course we can,’ I assure him, chewing at a nail that has dared grow above the quick. ‘Forget it.’

I start loading plates into the dishwasher a little more aggressively than necessary.

I hate my timid, non-confrontational self.

I wish I could channel a bit of that old Eva.

She would have been firing off questions the moment Jonathan stepped through the door.

And she would have burned dinner just to emphasise her point.

But why make life any harder than it needs to be?

The kitchen clock ticks past nine. I do a quick calculation. Jonathan has been home now for thirty-two minutes. He’s spent around ten minutes getting changed. So, we’ve been in the same room for just twenty-two minutes and we’ve exchanged, what? Maybe a dozen words between us?

Ernest Friend and his claims notwithstanding, I can’t ignore the obvious any longer. My marriage is on life support. The question is whether it is labelled ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ and if my husband cares either way.

Jonathan yawns as if in answer. ‘I’m going to read in bed for a while.’ He stretches theatrically then leans across the kitchen bench, kissing me with dry lips. The action is so infinitesimally quick I wonder if there is an Olympic timing device that could even record it.

He turns and heads to the bedroom.

I sit alone in the dark living room, hunched forward and cradling an empty glass.

It isn’t long before the walrus sounds of snoring echo through the house.

I wonder whether my husband and his girlfriend have already taken advantage of one of his midweek city sleepovers.

And if they have, what the woman made of his ferocious bellowing.

Maybe she hasn’t had the opportunity to experience it yet.

Maybe she will lose interest in a man with such an ear-splitting case of sleep apnoea.

Maybe she doesn’t exist , I remind myself reflexively. But it’s getting harder and harder to believe the pathetic little Pollyanna voice bleating inside my head.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The carriage clock continues to mark off time, marching relentlessly forward as I stay frozen in place.

I am paralysed, with no strategy to help me put one foot in front of the other.

The focus of my whole day has been Jonathan’s return from work.

But dinner is over, and I am no closer to knowing what goes on in his life beyond our front gate.

I don’t have a plan B. Not for tomorrow.

Not for the next hour. Not for the next minute.

I sit back in the chair and let my eyes close, regulating my breathing to the hypnotic rhythm of the clock. Those overpriced meditation classes are certainly coming into their own today.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I know I can’t sit in the dark forever, however appealing.

I need to pull on my big girl bloomers, as my mother would say.

Slowly, summoning all my strength, I force myself upright.

I stand in the middle of the room, blinking.

Bed isn’t an option. Even if Jonathan’s snoring subsides, I’m not going to fall asleep.

Not with all the ugly thoughts and fears churning around in my head.

Television holds no appeal. I look down at my glass and shrug.

Why not rub salt into the wound? Pick at the scab? Twist the knife? It can’t make me feel any worse.