Page 3 of The Stranger in Room Six

Belinda

Fifteen Years Ago

Beads of sweat roll down Gerald’s forehead. It’s not an attractive look. In fact, I observe (as I have done many times earlier in our marriage) that it’s quite a repulsive forehead, full stop. Red and rather wrinkled, like a newborn baby. A leathery forty-nine-year-old one.

‘Nearly there,’ he gasps.

Oh, for God’s sake! Just get on with it. It’s not like he doesn’t know how. But my husband has always been so particular. Why hadn’t I noticed that before the children, when there had been time to get out?

His breathing is becoming increasingly ragged. ‘Come on, come on,’ he urges as if he’s on a horse – something he’d never dare do in his life.

I try to distract myself, letting my mind wander back over the years, as it has been doing more and more recently.

If it hadn’t been for my mother nagging and nagging about settling down with someone who had ‘prospects’, I would have waited until I’d found someone who had set fireworks off in my heart. Just as …

No, I won’t think about him. Not now. Not ever. Not even after the letter, which has been pulsing a secret excitement through my body ever since it fluttered unexpectedly onto the hall mat.

Sometimes I can’t believe that Gerald and I are actually coming up to our silver wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years of utter boredom and loneliness. If it hadn’t been for our daughters, I’d have left long ago. Maybe when they’re both at university I’ll finally do it. Take the plunge and go.

I know, deep down, that I don’t mean this.

It’s just something I say to reassure myself that things might get better one day.

I’ve seen enough from my small circle of not-very-close friends to know how divorce shatters a family.

One has a son who dropped out of college; another whose daughter chose to live with her father and his new girlfriend. It broke my friend’s heart.

I’d die without my girls. So, instead, I just stay here and pretend everything is fine until Gerald finally –

‘I’m there!’ he explodes. ‘I’ve got it! Nine down is “antipathy”!’ He glances at his gold watch with a gleam of satisfaction. ‘Done it! In only nine minutes and forty seconds.’

‘Well done, dear,’ I say quietly, watching my husband as he folds up his Times neatly before rising from the breakfast table.

‘Thank you,’ he says, as if taking a bow. ‘See you tonight – 6.30 p.m.’

Of course, that’s when he’s always home from his job as an accountant: 6.30 p.m. on the dot, every day apart from ‘high days and holidays’, as he puts it.

How bloody boring can you get? I’m not a swearer but sometimes the situation calls for it.

I wait, heart in mouth, for him to close the front door behind him (‘I’ll do it, Belinda.

You’ll damage the catch again’). Then I go up to my drawer and retrieve the letter that has dominated my thoughts since it arrived last week.

I absorb the hue of the dark blue ink again, allowing myself to savour the delicious pleasure of his distinctive writing.

I hear the words in my head as if Imran is here to say them himself.

‘Please ring me. I can’t wait to hear your voice.’

‘No,’ screams the sensible voice inside me; the one that wants to hang on to the safety of the table for four; the casserole I’ll prepare later this afternoon for family supper at 7 p.m. sharp.

But why not? Why can’t he be allowed to hear my voice? Why can’t I give myself permission to hear his? What is it about first love that just won’t go away?

I reach for my mobile.

Nine down has done it for me.

Antipathy. What supreme irony! Isn’t that what I’ve been feeling for Gerald for twenty-five long, uneventful years?

Enough is enough.

If I don’t do something, I might just murder my husband.