The Invisible Wife

The Invisible Wife

Lizzie! came a bright voice as my friend, brushing rain from her vivid red trench coat, dropped onto the chair opposite me. Sorry, traffic was monstrous. Have you ordered yet?

Just a coffee, I replied with a faint smile. I was waiting for you.

Irene whipped off her coat, surveyed me critically, then gave a low whistle.

Good heavens, Liz, do you even look in the mirror these days? What are you wearing? Grey jumper, grey trousers. Are you depressed, or just hoping for invisibility?

Its comfortable, I shrugged. Im fifty-two now, Irene. Not much incentive to dress up.

Right. Irene ordered herself a cappuccino and a croissant with a casual gesture. And wheres your Tim? Off fishing again?

I nodded.

Left Friday night. Back Sunday for lunch. Same as ever.

Same as ever, Irene mimicked. And you sit at home like always, yeah? Watching telly, darning socks? Liz, when was the last time he invited you anywhere? Out for dinner, the theatreeven a film? Think, come on, dig deep!

I felt my cheeks burn.

We we went to the cottage in July. Together.

The cottage! Irene burst out laughing. You weeded the veg patch and he fixed the shed! Oh, the romance! Listen, love, lifes passing by us. Were not girls anymore, true. But were hardly old biddies. And yet youre shutting yourself away alive.

Dont be silly, I replied, sipping my coffee that tasted unusually bitter. Were a normal couple. Twenty-eight years together. Surely thats something?

Twenty-eight years of habit, Irene countered. Know what I see? Youve become transparent. To him youre the fridge or a kitchen stoola fixture. Whens the last time he complimented you? Or even asked how you are?

I wanted to argue, but the words caught in my throat. Truth is, our evenings drowned in silence. Tim read his tablet about fishing tackle, I knitted or watched a series. Occasionally hed ask what was for dinner. Id remind him to pay the bills. That was the sum total of conversation.

I see Ive hit a nerve, Irene leaned in, eyes bright. Listen, Ive met someone new. Photographer. Andrew. Very interesting manloves to talk and listen. Hes got an exhibition at a small gallery on Queens Parade Saturday. Come with me, stretch your legs a bit.

Irene, I dont

No excuses. She waved me off. You need to crawl out of this shell, see people, let them see you. Dress up a bitI’ll help. Its brilliant when someone actually notices you, when you talk about something other than leaky taps.

I sighed. Arguing with Irene was hopeless. Besides, if I was honest, the thought of going out didnt seem so awful. The house really was too empty and quiet. Far, far too quiet.

***

Saturday evening found me staring at the mirror, unrecognisable. Irene arrived clutching a burgundy dressnot too flashy, but smart, with a belt that gave me a waist. I put on make-up for the first time in months, styled my hair.

Well I never, I muttered, squinting in wonder. And I thought Id

…turn into a granny? Irene gave an approving hum. Not on my watch. You just needed a reminder, love.

The gallery was a cosy little place, high ceilings, white walls. Black and white photographs everywhereold terraces, strangers faces, abandoned train stations. About thirty people with wine glasses, chatting quietly.

Irene led me straight to a tall man with a hint of silver in his dark hair, dressed in a black roll-neck and jeans.

Andrew, this is my best friend Elizabeth, she announced. Lizzie, this is Andrew, who made all this magic.

Andrew turned and I caught his gaze. Grey eyes, warm smile, gentle crows feet. He offered his hand.

Pleasure to meet you. Hope youll enjoy it.

I honestly, I dont know much about photography, I admitted, shaking his dry, warm hand.

You dont have to, his grin widened. You just have to feel. Come, Ill show you my favourite piece.

He guided me to a photograph in the corner. An elderly lady framed by a window, the light sculpting lines in her face, her eyes deep and sorrowful, fixed somewhere far away.

See? Andrew whispered. Shes my neighbour. Eighty-three. I took it a year and a half back. She told me about the war, her late husband, raising three children on her own. You know whats striking? Theres no self-pity in her eyes. Just that beautiful sorrow, and dignity.

I stared at the picture, something tightening in my chest.

Shes beautiful, I whispered.

He nodded. Beautys not just youth or smooth skin. Its surviving, and staying yourself. Youve got that sadness in your eyes, too. Interesting sortlike youre always thinking, but never saying.

I was flustered. No one had really looked at me like that for years. Tim saw me, but never truly looked. Yet this stranger seemed to see straight through.

I suppose Im just a bit tired, I confessed.

Tired of what? Andrews question was gentle, easy, as if we were old friends.

I started to brush it off, but the words spilled out.

Of every day being the same. Getting up, breakfast, housework. Tims at work, then off fishing. Kids all grown and gone. And now I just sit in that flat and wonderwhere did I go? The girl who dreamed about adventures, about something bigger?

I fell silent, shocked by my own honesty.

Dont apologise, Andrew touched my elbow, a comforting pressure. Thats called honesty. Rare as hens teeth. Tell you whatI run a little club. We meet weekly, talk about photography, books, sometimes have outings. Come next Wednesday. Youll love it, I promise.

I wanted to say no. Wanted to say I had plans or couldnt just

All right, I heard my own voice reply. Ill come.

***

Tim returned Sunday, as always, smelling of river and woodsmoke. I met him in the hall.

Howd it go? I asked. Catch anything?

Couple of perch, he answered, wandering into the kitchen, dumping his rucksack. Not bad. You alright here? All fine?

All fine, I replied. I went to the exhibition with Irene.

Good, Tim replied, rummaging in the fridge for the ham. You should go out more. Bit too cooped up lately.

He said it distractedly, eyes on the open fridge, already somewhere else in his thoughts. I felt a flash of irritation.

Tim, why dont we go somewhere one evening? Just us. A restaurant, or the theatre?

He looked at me, baffled. Why? Its expensive, isnt it? And Im knackered after fishing. Maybe some other time, eh?

Some other time. It was always some other time. I nodded and left the kitchen. In the sitting room, I pulled out my phone and texted Irene: Send me the club address. Im going Wednesday.

***

The club met in the cellar of a Victorian terrace converted into a snug space with sofas, bookshelves, and cameras scattered on little tables. About fifteen people, most in their forties or fifties. Andrew greeted me at the door.

Glad you could make it, he said warmly. Come in, sit wherever you fancy.

The evening flew by. We talked about a French photographer, then read poetry, then just chatted. I stayed mostly quiet, soaking it all in, oddly content. No talk about bills or housework. No one looked at me as background.

Afterwards, Andrew walked me to the bus stop.

Did you enjoy it? he asked.

Very much, I admitted. I didnt expect to. I feel as if Ive stepped into another world.

You have, Andrew smiled. You know, Elizabeth, I look at you and see someone whos not lived for herself in ages. All for othershusband, children, house. When did you last do something just for you?

I thought, but couldnt remember.

Thats middle ages main trap, Andrew continued. We give everything to others and forget about ourselves. Then comes a sort of crisisyou feel life slipping away. But its never too late to reclaim who you truly are.

His words felt like a soothing balm. I listened, entranced.

Look, he said suddenly, how about a country trip on Saturday? Old manor house, gorgeous autumn light, perfect for photos. Will you join me? I promise itll be worth it.

I hesitated. SaturdayTim would be fishing, Id be alone, as usual.

Im not sure, I mumbled. It seems

Wrong? Andrew smiled, wry. Elizabeth, its just a day in the countryside with company and a camera. Thats all. Youre allowed a life, arent you?

I am, I whispered.

Good. Meet me at the tube at ten, and wear something warmits windy out there.

He waved goodbye and strode off. I stood at the bus stop, heart pounding like a woman half my age.

***

Friday evening, Tim packed his fishing gear.

Back Sunday, he called, zipping up his bag. Ill keep my phone on me, ring if you need anything.

Alright, I watched him check his tackle box. Tim, maybe I could come with you?

He looked at me, surprised. Why? You always moan about it being cold and the midges biting.

I just thought we could spend some time, I mumbled.

Liz, we see each other all week, Tim shrugged. Just relax at home, watch your shows.

He pecked my cheek, hoisted the rucksack and left. I stood in the hallway watching the door close.

We see each other all week, I repeated his words. But did we really?

Next morning, I rose early, fussed over what to wear. Jeans, warm jumper, coat. I looked in the mirror: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, younger, somehow more alive.

Im only going for a walk in the country, I told myself. With a friend. Thats all.

Andrew met me with two takeaway coffees.

Morning! he handed one to me. Ready for an adventure?

We trundled out of London in his battered old Ford, turned up the music and swapped stories. Andrew told anecdotes from his travels; I found myself laughing, lighter than in years.

The manor was crumbling yet beautiful. Old pillars, windswept parkland, a pond dark in the autumn light. Andrew took photos, I wandered in the leaves, collecting golden ones.

Stand there, Andrew called. By the pillar. Yes, just like that. Dont look at megaze into the distance.

He snapped a few shots, then handed me the camera to show me.

See? Youre very photogenic. And that sadness in your eyes makes you profound.

I stared at the imagenot someone I recognised. Wind-tossed hair, thoughtful eyes. Was that really me?

We walked until dusk. Later, Andrew suggested the village caféhot pies and tea, conversation growing slowly more personal.

Married long? Andrew asked.

Twenty-eight years, I replied.

And are you happy?

I hesitated. What is happiness? Habit? Security?

I dont know, I said softly. I thought so once. Now Im not sure what I feel. Its like sleepwalking. Everythings fine, as it should be, yet somethings missing.

Passion, Andrew supplied. Thats whats gone. That feeling youre alive. Not just a function in someone elses routine, but a person with her own desires.

He laid his hand gently over mine.

Elizabeth, youre an astonishing woman. Clever, beautiful, deep. You deserve happinessyour own happiness.

I looked down at our joined hands, my heart thumping. I ought to pull away, walk out. But I didnt. I didnt want to.

***

The following weeks flew by in a blur. I saw Andrew more frequentlyat the club, at exhibitions, just wandering the city. He gave me what was missing at home: attention, compliments, proper conversation.

Tim was unchanged. He worked, he fished, he caught the news. I shopped, cooked, cleaned. Our exchanges were strictly business.

Liz, did you get milk?

Yes, theres plenty.

Great. Where are my socks?

In the drawer, same as always.

And that was that. Never: How are you? But Andrew asked, always. And I blossomed in those conversations.

Irene, of course, picked up on everything.

Soyouve got a new lease of life, eh? she smirked when we met at the café.

Dont be silly, I blushed. Were just friends.

Oh yes, just friends. Irene rolled her eyes. Liz, you havent looked this radiant in years. Honestly, Im glad. You deserve it.

But Im married, I whispered.

And? Your Tim cant even see you anymore. Hes in his own world. Why shouldnt you have your own happiness? Youre a living woman, not a saint. If Andrew puts a spark in your step, so what?

I listened, and her words sank deep inside. I told myself, Im just living. I have a right to a bit of joy.

The turning point came in November. Andrew invited me on a day trip out to Stratford, where there was a street photography festival.

Well stay the night, he said. Ive booked two rooms at the hotel. Itll be a laugh, youll see.

Two rooms. I clung to that phrase for comfort.

I told Tim I was going on a shopping weekend with Irene.

Fine by me, he nodded, eyes not leaving the tablet. Just dont blow too much.

I waited, hoping for him to look up, ask something, but he didnt.

At the hotel, Andrew really had booked two rooms. We spent the day at the festivalsaw the exhibitions, listened to talks. In the evening at the bistro over wine, Andrew spoke about treasuring fleeting moments, about how short life was, and not putting happiness on hold.

You know, Elizabeth, he said, gazing right at me, Ive met a lot of women. But you youre special. So real, so unspoiled. That sadness of yours makes me want to give you nothing but joy.

He took my hand.

I wont rush you, wont pressure. But I want you to know: I care about you. Very, very much.

My head spunnot just from wine, but his words, his look. Upstairs, he kissed my cheek at my door.

Sleep well, he whispered. If you need to talk, Im just next door.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart thudded.

Im married. Twenty-eight years. I cant.

When did he last kiss you for no reason? When did he say you mattered?

This is betrayal.

Its life. It may be the last chance to feel alive.

At two in the morning I rose, pulled on my dressing gown, and knocked on Andrews door.

He opened at once, as if he hadnt been sleeping.

Elizabeth, he whispered.

I stepped inside.

***

The next morning dawned with a heavy hangoverbut it wasnt the wine. I lay in a strangers bed, beside a stranger, not quite believing it was me. That it had happened.

Andrew was sleeping, arms flung wide. I dressed quietly, slipped back into my room, sat on the bed with my head in my hands.

What have I done? God, what have I done?

On the drive back, Andrew was caring and attentivecomplimenting, hand-holding, soothing away shame until a brittle happiness crept in to take its place.

Im alive, I thought. For the first time in years, Im really alive.

Tim greeted me as usual.

Did you get anything nice?

A bit, I lied, not meeting his eyes. Not much really.

Fair enough. Im starvingwhichs for dinner?

Life slotted back to its usual grooves. By day, wife, housekeeper. Nights, I texted Andrew, slipped out to meet him. He took me to theatre, gave me books, read me poetry.

Tim and I barely spoke outside logistics.

We need to look at that garden pipe, he said.

Lets leave it till spring, I replied.

Alright.

Silence. Long, stretching silence.

Irene was triumphant.

See, youre living at last! Not shrivelling away here.

I tried to justify myself: Tim only has himself to blame. He pulled away first. Ive the right to happiness.

But at night, lying awake next to Tim, I felt something inside me splinter.

***

December brought snow and ice. Andrew and I were meeting most weeks. Hed rented a little studio for photo shoots; I told Tim I was on IT courses. He nodded, never asking.

Andrew was wonderful. Attentive, passionate, full of compliments. But sometimes I noticed his compliments felt scripted, his stories perhaps performed for others before. I suspected I wasnt the first, nor the last.

But it was too late to step back. Id crossed too many lines.

Mid-December, I popped into the chemist to get Tim some cold and flu tablets. At the till, a small perfume box fell out of my bagthe one Andrew gave me last week. Moonlight Sonatasweet, delicate.

I didnt notice it drop. I paid, left.

That evening, Tim came back earlier than usual. I was cooking when he placed the box on the table.

This yours? he said, quietly.

I turned and saw it, heart sinking.

I yes. Found it on the street, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

On the street, he repeated. Perfume worth fifty quid. On the street.

He opened it, sniffed the scent.

Liz, Im not daft, he said, still softly. You thought I hadnt noticed? Youre different. Always out. Looking at me like Im a stranger.

I pressed my back to the stove, cornered.

Tim, I

Who is he? he interrupted. Who is this man?

No one, I whispered. Just a friend. We

Dont lie. Tim clenched the box in his fist. Dont, Liz. Youve been unfaithful, havent you?

The silence was crushing. I watched something fade from his facegentleness, after all these years.

Yes, I breathed. Yes, Tim. Im sorry. I didnt mean

Didnt mean? He gave a hollow laugh. But you did. Alright.

He turned to leave.

Tim, wait I rushed after him. Lets talk, please. Let me explain

Explain what? He looked back, eyes filled with pain. That you slept with someone else because I didnt pay you enough attention? Maybe I am to blame. Maybe I got lost in work and fishing. Maybe I did forget to ask how you were. But I never, ever cheated on you. I loved you. Still do. And you you destroyed it all.

Tim, please, I sobbed. Dont go. We can try to fix this

I cant stay here, he said. I need to think. Ill be at Daves.

He packed in fifteen minutes. I stood in the doorway, watching him tuck shirts and socks into a bag.

Tim I whispered. Dont leave me.

Didnt you leave me, when you chose him? he replied.

He walked out quietly, not slamming the door. The silence that followed was something else altogetheran emptiness.

***

I paced the flat, at a total loss. I rang Tim, he didnt answer. I sent a message: Im so sorry. Please come home. No reply.

I phoned Andrew.

Andrew, I stammered, Tims found out. Hes gone. I dont know what to do.

Oh, Elizabeth, Andrew replied softly. Im really sorry. Lets meet, talk. Ill be there for you.

We met at his studio. I cried and rambled. Andrew hugged me, stroked my hair.

Itll be alright, he said. It couldnt go on like that. You werent happy with him. Now youve a chance for a new start.

A new life? I asked, eyes puffy. What sort of new life?

Well, Andrew hesitated, youre free now. Free to travel, create, be yourself.

And you? I asked quietly. Are you with me? Will it be us?

Andrew pulled away, scratching his head.

Liz, sweetheart, he said gently, I cant give you a home or commitments. Im sort of a free spirit myselflive for the moment. What we had was wonderful, but

But what? I felt cold all over.

But Im not one for settling down, Andrew said, hands spread. I said this from the start. I love my freedom. I thought maybe you just needed a taste of it too.

I stared at him, and everything fell into place. The lines, the complimentsit was all his script. I was a part hed played before.

So I was just entertainment? I murmured.

No, not at all, he tried to take my hand, but I pulled away. You mattered to me. A lot. But I cant be a fixture. I thought you just wanted to feel aliveand you did. Isnt that something?

I stood up.

Youre right, Andrew, I said, my voice strangely steady. I felt alive. And now I feel broken to bits. You, me, my own foolishness.

I left without looking back. Trudged through the snowy streets, tears mixing with the flakes.

***

It was dark and cold at home. I switched on the light, dropped onto the sofa, stared at the wall. Then I called Irene.

Irene, I said the moment she answered. I need to talk.

We met at Maggies Café, where it had all started. Irene sipped her cappuccino as I poured it all out.

Well, she said at last. You got your excitement. At least you didnt wither away, right?

I gaped at her, incredulous.

Irene, are you serious? My lifes in ruins, and you

And what? Irene shrugged. You made your own choices. I just gave you options. Youre a grown woman.

You pushed me, I felt my temper rising. Kept telling me Tim didnt care, that I had to live for myself.

And was I wrong? she replied, smirking. He didnt appreciate you. Maybe now hell realise what hes lost. Or maybe he wont. Thats life, love. It doesnt stick to a script.

I stood up.

You know what, Irene? I said quietly. I always thought you were my best friend. Now I see you just envied what I hadmy home, my family. You wanted me as lonely as you.

Oh dont be so dramatic, Irene rolled her eyes.

Goodbye, Irene, I said and left.

***

A week passed. Tim didnt come home. I called, I texted. He replied only: I need time.

I was alone in the too-big, too-empty flat. Lying awake each night, replaying everything. Meeting Andrew. Giving in. Lying to Tim.

What have I done?

I remembered Tim fixing that leaky kitchen tap. Bringing tea when I was ill. Planting the apple tree at the cottage with me. The simple, everyday things once so tedious. Now Id give anything to have them back.

On New Years Eve, I couldnt stand it and made my way to Daveswhere I knew Tim was staying. Dave answered, awkward.

Liz, hello. Here for Tim?

Yes, I croaked. Please, just five minutes?

He hesitated, then went to fetch Tim.

Tim looked grey and weary, older. The guilt was sharper for seeing his pain.

What do you want? he asked quietly.

I I just want you to know how sorry I am, I spoke quickly, afraid hed go. Tim, I made a terrible mistake. I lost my head. That manhe was just an illusion. You youre real. My home. Please, give me another chance.

Tim was silent for a long time. Then shook his head.

Liz, I dont know, he said. Honestly. When I found out, I couldnt breathe. Now, I still see you with himcant push it out my mind.

I understand, I wept. But maybe, in time

Maybe, Tim interrupted. Or maybe not. I dont know if I can ever forget. Or forgive.

And I I brushed at tears, I dont even know who I am now. Ive wrecked everything. This home, your trust. Myself.

Long silence. We stood in the dull corridor, two people whod almost shared thirty years and were now strangers.

I have to go, Tim said at last. Sorry.

He closed the door; I listened to his steps fade.

I trudged outside. Snow fell. The city glittered with fairy lights, people laughing everywhere. But I walked alone, with a hollow inside that felt impossible to fill.

***

New Years Eve I spent alone. Switched on the telly, poured a glass of bubbly. At midnight, I raised it.

To new beginnings, I whispered bitterly. Whatever that means.

In January, Irene rang me.

Liz, you cant shut yourself away! her cheery voice rang out. Ive met someone newyoga teacher, fascinating guy. Just what you need. Shall we meet?

I sat clutching the phone, silent.

Liz, are you there? Why so quiet?

Im here, I said at last.

So, shall we meet? Our usual spot?

I shut my eyes, picturing the cafémore plans, more interesting men, another circle ready to repeat.

No, Irene, I told her softly. I cant anymore.

What do you mean, cant? she sounded annoyed.

I just cant. I felt something inside me collapse at last. Im sorry.

I hung up.

A few days later, I sat alone in Maggies Café. Drinking coffee, gazing out. Snow fell; people hurried by.

At some point, Irene arrived, spotted me, and came over.

Oh, Lizzie, youre here too, she said, dropping into the seat opposite. So, about that yoga guy

I watched herher red lips, lively eyes, all that restless energy. And behind it, I saw the same emptiness I felt. Only she couldnt see it.

So, what do you say? Irene leaned in. You cant just hide at home. Life goes on, you know?

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Fragments whirled in my mind.

How many times will I make the same mistakes? Wait for someone else to bring happiness? Maybe happiness was right here, and I never saw it

Liz? Irene snapped her fingers. Are you even listening?

I looked at her for a long, heavy moment. In my eyes was pain, but also bitter understanding. Id been a puppetseeking answers in all the wrong places. Breaking what mattered for an illusion.

Yes, I whispered at last.

Irene waited. I said nothing. Beyond the café window, snow continued to falland in that silence was everything: loss, reckoning, the crushing weight of a choice that cant be undone.

Well, what do you say then? Irene pressed. Meet him?

I looked at her and stayed silent. And in that silence was my answerthe one I was only just beginning to understand.