February

      ‘I’m getting good at this,’ I said to Graham as I went through Peter’s clothes again this morning. You see I’m used to it now, so the second time wasn’t so bad. My heart wasn’t in my mouth as it had been when I’d done it the first time. My nerve endings didn’t feel as though they were attached to twitching wires. In fact I was quite business-like about it, and I told myself that I was perfectly entitled to go through my husband’s things.

      ‘Other women do this all the time,’ I said to Graham briskly. ‘In any case, I need to go through them to see if any of them want dry cleaning.’ I found nothing untoward this time, except, well, one very odd thing actually – in his grey trouser pockets – a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I showed it to Graham and we exchanged a meaningful glance.

      ‘I think I’ll go to the gym this evening,’ Peter said when he got home. ‘I haven’t been for over a week.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said. And whereas before I’d have thought nothing of it and gaily waved him off, now I was instantly on the alert. Why did he want to go to the gym all of a sudden? Who was he meeting there? Perhaps he had a rendezvous. Right. Let’s nip this in the bud.

      ‘Can I come too?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to have a swim.’

      ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ he said, so we put on Ready Steady Cook for Graham, got our sports bags and left.

      ‘Any news from Andy?’ I enquired as we drove along.

      ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘not yet.’ He changed up a gear.

      ‘And did you manage to finish the Amber Dane?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘At long last. Satire!’ he expostulated again. ‘It’s not so much Juvenal as juvenile. I mean, why Charmaine wants to keep her on, I really don’t know. God, that woman gives me stress.’

      ‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I asked innocently as we loitered at a red light.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Is that why you’ve started smoking?’ I repeated. I wanted to see how well he could lie.

      ‘I don’t smoke,’ he said indignantly. ‘You know that.’

      ‘In that case, darling, why, when I emptied your grey trouser pockets at the dry cleaners today, did I find a packet of cigarettes?’

      ‘Cigarettes?’ he said. And I could see, even in the semi-darkness, that his face had flushed bright red. ‘What cigarettes?’

      ‘Lucky Strike,’ I replied.

      ‘Oh. Oh. Those cigarettes,’ he said as the car nosed forward again. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t want you to know this, but actually … I do smoke, just occasionally, when I’m stressed.’

      ‘I’ve never seen you do it,’ I said as the sign for the Hogarth Health Club came into view.

      ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d approve,’ he replied. ‘In any case, you’ve never seen me with serious stress before. But when I’m stressed, then just now and again, yes, I do like to have a quick fag.’

      ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’ And then I suddenly remembered another thing that didn’t quite fit.

      ‘You don’t like chewing gum, do you?’ I asked as he parked the car.

      ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I hate it.’

      ‘So you’d never buy it, then?’

      ‘No. Of course not. Why on earth would I?’

      ‘Well, exactly,’ I said.

      ‘Look, Faith, I hope that’s the end of today’s inquisition,’ he said as he pulled up the handbrake.

      ‘No further questions,’ I said with a grim little smile.

      ‘And in future, Faith,’ he added as he turned off the ignition, ‘I’d rather you didn’t go through my pockets. You’ve never done it before and I don’t want you to start now.’ Of course he didn’t. Because then I’d find out for certain what at present I only suspected.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ I said breezily. ‘I won’t do it again.’ When we got home at nine thirty I pretended I was going to bed, but instead I crept into Matt’s room to use his computer. I knew he wouldn’t mind. There was a pile of CD Roms on the chair, and dozens of computer games on the bed. He seemed to be in the middle of reorganising his vast collection. I picked them up and looked at them – they’ve got the weirdest names: Zombie Revenge, Strider, Super Pang and Chu-Chu Rocket. Oh well, I thought, they keep him happy. Then I sat at his desk, turned on the computer and hit ‘Connect’. Eeeeeeeeeekkkk. Berddinnnnnggg. Chingggg. Bongggggg. Pingggggg. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep. Blooooop. Krrrrrkkkkkkk. Krrrrrrkkkkkk. And I was in. I clicked onto Yahoo, did a search for the www.IsHeCheating.com website, then click, click, click … And there it was. As the page downloaded I quickly got the gist. It was one of these interactive sites. American. You could log on pseudonymously, e-mail your suspicions, and ask other people for advice. It was riveting to read. Sherry from Iowa was worried because she’d found a stocking in her husband’s car; Brandy from North Carolina was in despair because her boyfriend kept talking about a woman at work; and Chuck from Utah was upset because he’d intercepted his wife talking to her lover on the phone.

      I’m almost certain he’s cheating, said Sherry. But although I want to know in one way, in another I don’t, because I’m scared of what I may find out.

      Go with your guts, girl, advised Mary-Ann from Maine. A woman’s intuition is NEVER wrong.

      Maybe it’s HIS stocking? suggested Frank from New Jersey. Maybe your husband’s a cross-dresser, and is too embarrassed to say.

      Follow him to work, said Cathy from Milwaukee. But make sure you wear a wig.

      I can’t. He’s a long-distance lorry-driver, Sherry had e-mailed back. I decided to log on as ‘Emily’ because that’s my middle name.

      I think my husband may be having an affair, I typed. Or it could just be that I’m paranoid and insecure. But he has been behaving strangely, and I’m not sure it’s all due to pressure at work. He’s a publisher, I went on. So he gets to meet all sorts of glamorous people in the book world. And though I know he’s never strayed before, I think he may be doing so now. Firstly, he ordered flowers for someone in December, using our joint credit card. And when I challenged him about this he claimed – not very convincingly – that they were congratulatory flowers for an author. Secondly, I’ve been finding some odd things in his pockets – chewing gum, which he hates; and today I found a packet of cigarettes. But in fifteen years of marriage I have never, ever, seen him smoke. So I simply don’t trust him in the way I’ve always done before. And it’s making me feel terrible, so I’d be grateful for your thoughts.

      The next afternoon I phoned Lily. ‘I need your advice,’ I said.

      ‘Of course, darling,’ she replied. ‘Whatever I can do to help.’

      ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s about Peter.’

      ‘Is it?’ she breathed. ‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’

      I sat down on the hall chair. ‘I’ve found out a few things.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. But I don’t know what they mean.’

      ‘They probably mean nothing,’ she said confidently. ‘But I’ll tell you what I think.’

      ‘Right