My Husband’s Mistress Was Beautiful—She’s the Kind of Woman I’d Choose Myself if I Were a Man. You…

Her husbands mistress was stunningshe could hardly blame him. In fact, if she were a man, shed probably have chosen someone like that herself.

You know the type: women who know their worth. They move with grace, look you right in the eye, and really listen. No frantic energy, no need for low-cut tops or exposed shoulders to draw noticethey carry themselves with a calm dignity and never seem to lose composure.

If shes honest, shed have picked her too. The complete opposite of herself.

Because who was she? Always rushing around, snapping at the children and her husband, impatient and clumsy, behind on everythingwork piled up at the office, boss constantly displeased. Perpetually in trousers and jumpers because ironing a dress or blouse felt like an ordeal. She couldnt recall the last time shed bothered with ruffles or flounces. Thankfully, her brand-new tumble dryer left the laundry smooth enough to skip the iron most days.

But the mistress was dazzlingher posture, her figure, her legs, the shine of her hair, her vivid eyes and perfect faceso stunning you almost forgot to breathe.

And she hadnt truly breathed since finding out. Well, not exactly finding outmore like seeing it with her own eyes. Shed been in a far-off part of London for work, ducked into the first café for a bite. The job was finished, and hunger waits for no one. She found a seat in the crowded café, glanced up from the menu, and instantly recognized her husbandfrom behind. Then she saw *her*.

He was holding the womans hands and kissing her fingers. She cringedhow cliché, she thought, your fingers smell of lavender, or some such nonsense. But objectively, the woman was lovely.

The feeling was like the moments after a burn: you see the red mark, knowing pain is inevitable, living in the limbo before it strikes. Instinctively, you blow on it, hoping to ease the coming sting.

She should have hurt. Inside, all she felt was emptiness.

Her husband got home on time, same as always, in that good-natured, steady mood of his. Always unflappable. It was she who got wound up so quickly, always in a hurry, always pushing everyone along. He was calm and easygoing, broad-shouldered and witty.

She thought his sense of humour might help her now. Hers didnt fit the situation at all.

All evening, she wanted to break the silence, to ask coolly, So, hows the mistress? Saw you both in that café on Highbury Streetshes a real beauty, cant blame you. She imagined watching the sweat bead on his brow as he turned red, struggling to stay composed.

She pictured carrying on, matter-of-fact: So, what now? Will you be introducing her to the children? Will I get to meet my replacement? Perhaps shes got her own flat, or shall she move in here?

But she said nothing. In bed, as usual, he pulled her close and fell swiftly asleep.

Maybe theres nothing physical yet, she mused, rolling away to her own side. She nearly laughed aloud. Look at her, thinking like a woman whose husband is cheating right under her nose but who keeps insisting its her imagination.

Maybe there was nothing carnalyet. Only the first stage: attraction, shared laughter, minds in sync. And hes good at thisplaying the faithful husband without a slip of the tongue, not a single twitch betraying him.

She tossed and turned, snatching fragments of sleep filled with vivid flowers and unknown women in red dresses.

She awoke with a heavy head, moving around her house more sluggishly than usual, getting the children to school in a soft, almost peaceful way.

What was she to do? What do women usually do when they stumble upon their husbands and mistresses? Google it, perhaps?

Google was of no help. She had no answers of her own. Should she simply carry on with life?

But what did it matter? She *was* carrying on. Everything was as usual. The same daily routine, her husband home on time, no lipstick on his collar, no hint of unfamiliar perfume, the children shrieking around the house, and Sunday trips to the cinema. Nothing had changed. Even the usual two-times-a-week sex. Sometimes thrice, if youre keeping count.

Maybe she was mistaken about what shed seen in that café?

She knew she wasnt. The next day, she called him at lunchtimeno answer. She called a cab, made up a plausible story for the driver. Were expecting a packagework stuff, you know. Her husbands car was right outside the café. She watched as he and the mistress stepped out together, got into his car, and drove off.

Her hands shaking, she asked the taxi driver for water, then pretended to have a call. Well, suit yourself with your flaming package! I cant hang aboutIm off to work! she said to nobody, for the drivers benefit.

It shouldnt have mattered what the taxi driver thought.

The knowledge of the mistress utterly changed her life. Divorce? Probably, yes. How else to go on? Endure? But for what? To what end?

She thought back to a few years ago, when the husband of some friends had also strayed. He tried to hide it, but the truth came outmessages, meetings, the lot. He denied it all, even with the proof waved under his nose, insisting hed been hacked, some jealous rival trying to ruin him.

Her husband had said firmly back then, Id never lie like that. Its pathetic. If you mess up, have the courage to admit it. End it, or leave and take care of the family.

Shed been oddly proud of his certainty then. Responsible, she thought. Wise.

Its so much easier to judge someone elses troubles. Especially from a distance. Especially when its not your heart on the line.

But when youre suddenly in the thick of it, when you sit at the table with both wife and lover, courage leaks away, certainty dissipates.

So, she walked right up to their table and sat down. The mistress looked up in surprise. Her husband froze. Then he fidgeted, silent. She almost felt entertained by them both. The mistress understood at once who she was. Maybe shed known all along.

Her husband tried to speak, but she raised a hand to stop him. Its not what I think, is it? she said, voice calm. You know, this isnt so unusual. These things happen. The challenge is figuring out what nextthere are children, a shared house, ageing parents. Youre both sensible people; youll sort it out.

With that, she rose slowly and left. That freshly-ironed dress looked good on her; a shame she hadnt worn it in so long.

Sometimes, when lifes fabric is creased and hurt, were forced to pause and reflect; its in the act of straightening ourselves out, rather than others, that we regain our poise and dignity.