My Husband’s Mistress Was Stunning—The Kind of Woman I’d Choose Myself, If I Were a Man. You know …

My husbands mistress was strikingly beautiful. Honestly, if I were a man, Id probably have picked someone like her myself. You know the sort of woman I meanthey carry themselves with such poise, as if they truly know their own worth. They walk tall, make eye contact without flinching, listen with thoughtful attention. Theres nothing rushed or frantic about them. They dont need to show off their cleavage or bare their backs to be noticedthey have this calm, dignified air and never seem the least bit flustered.

If I were to choose, Id have chosen her too. She was absolutely my opposite.

What am I like? Always in a hurry, snapping at the children, sighing at my husband, clumsy and overwhelmed, forever running behind both at work and at home. Theres always paperwork piling up, bosses who seem dissatisfied, shoes left out, kids bags sprawled on the floor. I live in trousers and old jumperswho has time to iron a dress or blouse every morning? I cant even remember the last time I pulled the iron out for frills and ruffles. Thank goodness for the new tumble dryer that smoothes out most of the creases, so ironing has become a distant memory.

But herhis mistressshe was glamorous in every way. Her figure, her posture, her legs, her dark hair, clear eyes and that classic facebreathtaking! It left me holding my breath.

And I suppose I havent quite let it out since the moment I found out. Actually, more like when I saw it for myself. Id ended up, purely by chance, in a distant part of London for work. So hungry after errands that I ducked into the first little café I found. Work done, stomach grumbling, I just wanted a cup of tea and a sarnie. The place was crowded but there was a free spot in the corner. I sat down, glanced at the menu, and when I looked up, there he was. My husband, unmistakable even from behind. And with himher.

He was holding her hands, kissing her fingers. Honestly, I almost gaggedit was so cliché, so completely your hands smell of lilies. But, to be fair, she was everything a woman might envy.

My state was oddlike the numbness that follows a burn, when you see the red skin and you know the pain is about to hit, but for a moment, you only feel blank anticipation and try desperately to cool the sting before it starts.

I felt nothing. Not yet. Just a hollow void.

My husband came home at the usual time. Hes always steady, mild-mannered, easy-goinga typical optimist with a dry sense of humour. I wish Id had his sense of humour at that moment. Mine certainly didnt suit this situation.

All evening, I was tempted to ask, in the most indifferent tone, So, hows your mistress? Saw you the other day at that little café by the parkshes stunning, really. Hard not to see the appeal. I wouldve struggled to resist too, you know.

I longed to see him sweat, to watch the colour creep up his face as he tried to act composed.

I wouldve carried on with, So what now? Going to introduce her to the children? Shes sure to make a lovely stepmum. Where do you plan to stash me? Will you bring her here, or is she at least bringing a flat with her?

Of course, I said none of these things. He curled around me in bed as usual, pulled me close, and promptly fell asleep.

Maybe they hadnt actually slept together yet, I thought, rolling away to my side of the bed, stifling a bitter giggle. There I was, thinking like a woman whos just caught her husband red-handed but keeps insisting its all in her head. Maybe it hadnt gone that farjust the early stage, the thrill of secret compliments and sharing glances. He was a master of concealmentdidnt give anything away.

I barely slept that night, tossing and turning, dreaming vividly of wild flowers and strange women in red dresses.

I woke with a heavy head, moved around the house more slowly than usual, quietly got the children ready for school.

All the while, the question lingeredwhat does one do in this situation? What do English women do when they catch their husbands with mistresses? Should I Google it for advice?

Google was utterly useless. I couldnt find the answers. Do I just try to go on living as before?

Not much to try. I was already living as before. Same routine: husband home every evening, no lipstick on his shirt, no foreign perfume, kids bouncing about, Sunday trips to the cinema. No dramatic changes, same twice-a-week sex, sometimes three if Im keeping proper track.

Maybe I was mistaken about what I saw that day?

No, no mistake. I called him at lunch, he didnt answer. In a fit of restless energy, I took a cab back to that same café, made up a work story for the cabbie about collecting a parcel. My husbands car was parked right across the street. I watched as the two of them came out together, got into his car, and drove off.

I went pale, asked the driver for water, faked a call, and, as if to someone on the line, shouted, Fine, do what you like with your parcel! I cant wait any longerIm heading back to work!

As if it mattered what the cab driver thought of me.

Realising your husband has a mistress turns your entire world upside down. Should I divorce him? Probably. How else could I live? Tolerate it? Why, for what? To what end?

I remembered how, a couple of years back, a friends husband was found cheating. He tried to cover up and deny everything. In the end, his wife caught him outold messages hed forgotten to delete, and all that. He claimed hed been hacked, that jealous rivals had set him up.

At the time, my husband had said firmly, Id never lie like that. Its pathetic. If youve done something, own up to it. If you care about your family, break it off. Or leave, but provide for your family first.

Id actually felt proud of him then. Responsible and solid, Id thought.

Its always easy to solve someone elses problems, isnt it? At a distance, with nothing at stake.

But when youre living the drama yourself, when you can see both wife and mistress before you, your courage and conviction seem to vanish.

I marched up to their table in the café and sat in the empty seat. She looked at me with startled eyes. My husband froze, started to fidget.

They both stared. It was almost amusing, watching them squirm. I think the mistress knew who I was at once. Perhaps she always did.

My husband started to speak but I held up my hand: This isnt what I think, is it? I said. Truthfully, theres nothing surprising here. These things happen. But you two will have to sort this out nowthink about the children, the house, our aging parents. Youre clever peopleyoull figure it out.

And with that, I stood, smoothed my freshly ironed dress (which suited me more than I remembered), and walked steadily out. Funny, I shouldnt have waited so long to wear it.