BERNADETTE CYNTHIA HEALY
It takes me longer to get dressed this morning because of the pain, but after a cool glass of water from the fridge, and a short sit down in Jonathon's chair I feel prepared for the day ahead, and grateful that the migraine seems to have ebbed somewhat. It's early but the birds are chirping and it is another beautiful day. I debate momentarily whether or not to use public transport, but I'd much rather drive myself to Polly's house – there are too many changes and at this time rush hour will already be in fully flow.
My keys are lying, neglected, on the dresser on top of the chest of drawers in the hallway, keeping my family photographs company. As I pick them up, listening to their jangle, my fingers glide against the hand delivered note from the previous afternoon. I'd forgotten about the unopened letter, and make to open it before halting. I have an errand to run, and the last letter I opened had turned my world upside-down. I have begun to feel sorry for my husband's mistress! No, I will wait and open the letter after I have spoken to Polly.
I pick up my bag that I'd packed the night before with all the documents and snippets of information I'd collected over the last few days. I have no doubt that Polly will want to cast a highly critical eye on everything I've found and then make a judgement. My heart is in my mouth and I can't remember ever feeling this anxious before. Not even on my wedding day, nor when I found out about the other woman in Jonathon's life. I know seeing Polly and getting a second opinion on the scattered and erratic thoughts in my head is sensible, but I can't help feeling that I'm missing something.
Locking the front door my mind flickers to Peter, whom I won't have seen for several days now. I know it isn't my place to contact the postman, especially as we only know each other professionally, but it is disconcerting to think he's gone and I could have helped.
I turn the corner and open the garage. My 2001 silver Jaguar sleeps in the darkness of the garage until I turn on the lights. It is a beautiful car and drives like a cloud – a thunder cloud no less, but seamlessly. Every other year I get the latest model, a tradition started by Jonathon and his love of cars. He had his heart set on owning a piece of British automotive history and I think he could have single-handedly kept the company going for decades had I allowed it.
The car feels expectant, as if it was waiting for me and knew I would come. I try not to think of the 1974 version my husband's mistress had. A car that could become mine... That stops me in my tracks. Who knows what went on in the back of that vehicle? Do I really want to be a part of my husband's hidden relationship.