A glimpse of the truth

 

Half way along the carefully tended flowerbed, I stop. Or at least, inside me stops; the outside of me carries on strolling, admiring the dahlias. No-one will have noticed – not least my husband, who is walking half a step ahead of me, mentally selecting plants for our garden.

 

It is the cerebral equivalent of a thunderclap, a parting of the skies by sheet lightning that illuminates the truth. And it is so funny that I almost laugh out loud. Almost that funny, but not quite.

 

You see what’s been going on is that there are two people living inside my head. There’s the sensible one who’s spent all morning visiting a National Trust property and making all the right noises about history; there’s another who would rather have been lounging on the beach. The first one is quite happy to be with her husband; the second yearns for a surfer-boy to come out of the waves and whisk her away for an afternoon of red hot sex. Owen surfs – but I push the thought away because this has sod all to do with him.

 

He’s like an innocent bystander to the car crash that was so very nearly my life. And if he’s the innocent bystander then my husband is the unwitting passenger as I take my eye off the road to change the CD. Luckily, I notice the approaching juggernaut just in time.

 

We wander down the grassy path towards the manor house and I try to come to terms with my discovery. Some mornings, I look in the mirror and I see an attractive young woman; on others I see a knackered old harridan approaching middle age. I rather suspect that the reality is somewhere between the two; however the truth is that I don’t seem able to accept it.

 

This is the reason so many middle aged men have affairs and make such fools of themselves; a last attempt to taste the fruits of youth before they over-ripen and fall to the ground in a sticky mess. A selfish railing against the perceived injustices of increasing age; a genetic urge to stick up two fingers at the passing of time.

 

But they are not bad people because of it, I realise, and neither am I. Not bad, just foolish. I wonder if my husband is going through the same thing and rather uncomfortably admit to myself that he might be. In which case, I think I know the answer. Lots of sex – with each other.