Peter suggested going to see the magician. Illusionist, he called him, but it’s still the same old tricks. Something to while away the empty hours in our empty nest, I supposed. I wasn’t sure it was my kind of thing, but I agreed anyway; I’d just been reading a magazine article about the power of yes.
I poured myself into my merlot-red dress, the one I bought not quite five years ago for Chloe’s eighteenth. Still got it, I thought, but Peter barely looked at me as we took a cab into town, past the main square’s tatty Christmas tree and the temporary ice rink filled with young people holding hands.
The theatre brought back memories of pantos, Chloe’s face lit up by something other than a screen. The place needed a lick of paint; I’d never noticed before that it was so shabby. Inside, seats slammed down, sending up little puffs of dust, and we took our places, our plastic cups of wine crackling, threatening to spill no matter how carefully we held them. Everyone middle aged or older, liberally sprayed aftershave and perfume barely covering the stench of disappointment. It was boiling, the heating cranked up, sending me into a menopausal sweat. I wished I’d worn something not quite so tight.
We were close enough to see the patches sewed onto the threadbare velveteen curtains. Then music boomed through the heavy air and they slid back, revealing the illusionist’s greasy make-up and rictus grin. He began his act, bowing and prancing, smoke billowing, things appearing, or disappearing. God, it was interminable.
I turned to Peter, hoping we could share a laugh about how naff it was, but his eyes were fixed on the pretty young assistant in a sparkly leotard as she bent and flexed, flicking glossy long hair and smiling with bright white teeth.
I finished my wine, wished I’d bought another, then started needing the loo and wished I hadn’t drunk anything at all. I could barely sit still for the grand finale: making the assistant disappear. But from where we were sitting, off to the side, we saw her sneaking out of the back of the box, her pert bottom bouncing as she ran behind the curtain. I swear I could hear Peter licking his lips above the applause.
When she reappeared, little fireworks went off at the front of the stage, leaving behind the stench of burning.
On the cab ride home we barely spoke, but once we were back in the house Peter rounded on me.
I don’t know why I bother. You could’ve at least tried to enjoy it rather than sitting there with a face like a slapped arse. He stomped away to the fridge; as I took off my coat and unwound the scarf from my neck, there was a clink of glass, the hiss of a beer bottle opening.
#
Another drive home, five years earlier, from the Harrisons’ Christmas party; Peter clutching the wheel, me staring at his hands, the hands that had just been touching Carly Harrison, snaking around her waist when they thought they were alone. But I was watching from the bedroom doorway, finally finding him after a long search, sure the thudding of my heart would give me away.
Instead of looking up and noticing me, he whispered into her ear and she laughed and pushed him off, but playfully, like really she wanted him closer, even closer than they were, her pumped-up tits pressed against him.
I swallowed a cry, turned and walked away on silent feet, went into the kitchen and poured a big glass of wine. John Harrison said I thought you were going home, and I replied Peter’s not ready yet, and I half hoped he’d go into the bedroom and find my husband kissing his wife, but he didn’t. About twenty minutes later Peter and Carly appeared, flushed, but no one else noticed, and Peter gave me that disapproving look and said, You’re pissed.
I didn’t say anything then, or in the car, or in the months afterwards when I tried to make myself smaller and smaller, never asking for anything, until I felt like I was about to disappear. Months of checking his phone every night while he slept, reading increasingly desperate messages from Carly, asking when he was going to leave me.
Then Chloe turned eighteen and went off to uni and I thought that was going to be the moment he went, but still nothing happened, and a few months later I heard Carly and John had split up. I waited and waited, but Peter still didn’t leave, then the messages fizzled out and the Harrisons were back together like it’d been nothing at all.
I never told him I knew. We settled into a routine of gardening (him) and visiting Chloe (me) and too much drinking (both).
Until a few months ago, when I noticed him being strangely protective of his phone. When I checked it that night, there were messages from another woman. Louisa. God knows where he met that one, but it was the same old shit. I can’t wait to suck you off eventually became I need more from you.
I was embarrassed for her. Then I saw the way he looked at every young and attractive woman we met, his tongue practically lolling, and I was embarrassed for him.
#
He drank his beer in the kitchen and slammed around for a bit, still muttering about the cost of the illusionist tickets and how I’d ruined the evening, then eventually went to bed. Once he was snoring I packed a small wheelie suitcase with everything I needed, which wasn’t much. I got in the car and let off the handbrake, easing down the driveway, waiting until I was on the road to start the engine, but it probably didn’t matter: Peter slept like the dead.
The headlights caught the sparkle of forming frost as I drove away, the darkness swallowing me up; no need for fireworks or a jewelled leotard.
Madeleine Armstrong is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly and Urban Pigs. She lives in London with her husband, son and two cats.
Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social
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