I had a little fling recently. It wasn't a big thing. But it was a thing. I was a walking cliché of selfish middle-class ennui: I've been married a long time, we've drifted apart, the spark has gone ... all the usual stuff. So I had a little fling. He was older, unburdened by the trappings of family life that were pulling me under. Charming and quick, he seemed light, like spun sugar for the soul.
It happened mostly via our phones – such a strange thing. In the flesh we shared brief, awkward meetings in cars. There were a couple of nights away: wild abandon and sickening guilt. Intoxicated by the thrill of it all, I was poised to fall in love. It was him who pulled away. I guess he knew what was on the horizon. He went cold. His language changed. And there he was, gone.
I'm grateful it ended when it did – and that my family didn't get hurt. I'm a little heartbroken, too. I catch my breath occasionally when I think about him. But I'm also wiser. I stepped briefly into a parallel universe, where the world runs on different rules. So here, in no particular order, are some of the things I learnt about life when you are having an affair:
Monday is the new Friday. Your new life as the "other" woman takes place on the days that mean almost nothing in your life as wife and mother. You can say you're working late on a Monday, or staying over somewhere for that early meeting on Tuesday. You can say you are trying a new class or seeing a movie with an old friend. All these things seem perfectly acceptable on Mondays. The downside is that you and your partner in crime will only ever eat in quiet, half-empty restaurants, where the air is thick with the guilt of all the other cheating couples.
Opposites attract. Not, as the saying usually means, in the you-and-him way, but the him-and-him way. Married to a younger man? Nothing less than a pensioner will do. Does your husband work with his hands? You're all over that man in a suit. Live with an extrovert? Mr quiet and brooding over there seems kind of cute. If he's the polar opposite of what you've already got, it's hot.
You learn a new language. All the schmaltzy things you say to your existing partner - sweetheart, baby, sugar-pie, honey - sound like a foreign language when you say them to the new object of your affections. They don't make sense. So you have to learn a new language. You'll feel self-conscious at first, and you'll make mistakes, but you'll soon be able to get by in restaurants and hotels.
Clichés become your reality. The grass is always greener; better the devil you know; you don't know what you've got until it's gone; play with fire and you're going to get burnt: whoever wrote all the great clichés was definitely having an affair. Never have so many of them been so relevant.
You confide in strangers. You are keeping just about the biggest secret ever, but don't want to tell anyone who might give you "the talk". So you tell random people, like your taxi driver and the girl blow-drying your hair. You tell them because they'll say what you want to hear – "how exciting!" – and then you'll never have to see them again.
Production budgets are high. You'll want to look your best for the new flame. Expect to shell out plenty on plucking and waxing. New dresses and matching sets of bras and pants will be required. If you find yourself sequestering secret packets of expensive new stockings in your handbag, stop and ask yourself if he's really worth it. He probably isn't.
Life is a roller coaster. Ever moaned to friends that you want some excitement in your life? Be careful what you wish for. The excitement will make you sick as you career from nervous and vulnerable to overjoyed and aroused to guilty and regretful and, finally, exhausted. It's a stressful ride full of terrifying peaks and gut-wrenching troughs. Scream if you want to go faster.
*The author's name has been changed.
Stella Magazine, The Sunday Telegraph (UK).
