Page 4 of The Stranger in Room Six

Of course, I tell myself as I dial the number at the bottom of Imran’s letter, I don’t mean it. I wouldn’t dream of hurting Gerald; it’s just a turn of phrase. Nor, as I’ve already said, would I ever leave him.

One ring.

It’s not ‘just’ that I’m terrified of wrecking my children’s lives, although that is a major part of it. It’s because I’m scared. How would I manage on my own? Apart from university, I’ve never lived on my own. Crazy as it sounds nowadays, I’d gone straight from my mother’s house to my husband’s.

Besides, I couldn’t hurt him. Gerald might be boring; pedantic even. But there’s something inside me that flinches at the thought of his face crumbling if I told him I wanted out. Even though we are totally incompatible.

Two rings.

Mind you, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one to feel like this, judging by the conversation at book club. It’s become part of our language.

‘Oh Alan/Douglas/Clive …’ one of the ‘girls’ will say with a sigh.

Then there’ll be some story about how the offending husband hadn’t put the car in the garage so it needed de-icing or had left his muddy shoes on, leaving footprints on the new expensive carpet or had failed to book the usual family trip to the Dordogne on time and now the ferry was full.

That’s when we all roll our eyes in sympathy, knowing that the complainant is just like the rest of us, and it isn’t a big deal.

Not really. Not compared with the thought of being a ‘single mother’: a phrase our own mothers used to whisper in hushed voices, as if this was the worst – the very worst – thing that could happen.

We might criticize our men, our marriages. But in the end we go along with them because it’s so much safer and kinder than the alternative.

Three rings.

But would it hurt – would it really hurt – to hear Imran’s voice if no one else knew? The temptation is just too much …

I think back to our Oxford days. To those heady long summer evenings when we’d lie in his narrow bed in the men’s hall (or he in mine in the women’s).

But then he’d flown home to get married, and I’d sloped back to my mother because I couldn’t afford a flat on my tiny salary, and it was as though Imran had never existed.

Until his letter arrived last week.

I’ve been treasuring the pale blue envelope ever since, so that now and then I can reread it. Of course, I tell myself in my stronger moments, I won’t respond. What good would it do?

But one little phone conversation …

Don’t I deserve that? It’s not as though I’m going to do anything.

Four rings.

He’s not answering. It’s not meant to be.

I put down my mobile.

My knees are trembling so much that I can barely stand up. This isn’t me. I like to think I’m pretty fit; in fact, I play tennis three times a week and often choose singles over doubles so I can get more exercise.

But doubles in marriage isn’t what I thought it would be.

There’s no passion. There never has been.

It’s a comfortable routine. A secure pattern of him going to work and coming home; me looking after the girls and the house (‘There’s no need for you to work, Belinda’); badminton, tennis; and my book club meetings, although Gerald isn’t keen on my going out on winter evenings.

(‘Don’t you want to stay inside and watch Morse on video with me instead? ’)

It sounds old-fashioned and it is. I often think that Gerald should have been born in a previous decade.

I look at my mobile again. Surely Imran will see the missed call? Then again, he won’t know it was my number. I’m not even sure how he got my address, unless it was through the university alumni society.

Still the phone remains resolutely silent. He’s not ringing back. Not yet, anyway. And even if he were to, is it possible that I’ve read too much into his words?

I smooth the crease of the paper and read it again. It’s not so much a letter as a three-line note, although it is written on Basildon Bond paper:

It’s been a long time. Things have changed in my life. Can we meet? How about dinner on Tuesday night in London? I’m going to be there for work. Please ring me. I can’t wait to hear your voice. x

Then he’d put his phone number.

‘Things have changed in my life.’

What does that mean? Is he divorced? No. He’d often told me that he couldn’t do that in his religion. Has he changed his mind? Is he widowed now? The thought makes my heart thump with excitement, which, in turn, makes me feel horribly guilty.

‘That’s wicked,’ I tell myself sternly. Maybe it’s as simple as Imran moving back to London with his job. That’s it! He’d want me to meet his wife. Probably his children. He’s bound to have them. They’d all sit there and make polite conversation. Gerald would have to come too.

I couldn’t take that. I know I couldn’t.

Why haven’t I ever been able to get Imran out of my head?

Is it because Gerald simply never measured up to that rush of first love; that bolt of electricity when Imran would take my hand as we’d walk across the quad to lectures; that ‘Oh my God, he’s kissing me!

’ when our lips had first met during the freshers’ summer ball; the way he ran his fingers through my hair (‘It’s like spun autumn gold, Belinda’); that terrible agonizing emptiness when he’d left after graduation.

Is that why, despite being married now to a perfectly decent man, I can’t stop dreaming of a parallel universe where someone had really loved me? Really listened to me, desired me.

Why do we make such hasty choices in our youth, without realizing the impact they have on later life?

I jump. My mobile’s ringing! A number I don’t recognize. Imran must be calling back; he would have guessed it was me. Guiltily, I stuff the letter into my pocket, as if someone is watching.

My heart is thudding so violently that it threatens to leap out of my chest. What am I going to say? I think back to the last time we saw each other, my things packed up waiting to go. His trunk already at the porter’s lodge. His eyes on mine.

The lie I had told him.

Shaking, I press green to accept on my mobile.

‘Is that Belinda?’

It’s a woman’s voice. Sharp, clipped, official.

‘Yes,’ I say shakily. Could this be Imran’s wife wondering who just called him?

‘Your husband’s behaviour towards Karen is disgusting,’ spits the voice.

‘Karen?’ I repeat. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Come on. They’re having an affair. Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

I’m so stunned that I’m certain I’ve misheard her. This must be one of those awful hoax calls.

‘They’ve been seeing each other for years,’ she adds.

I don’t normally get angry. But I find myself shouting now.

‘Get off this phone now or I will report you.’

‘Then you’ll be sorry,’ says the voice coldly. ‘I’m a friend of Karen’s. And I don’t like to see her being messed around.’

There’s a click as the woman rings off.