I got married when I was 20, to my brother’s best friend. His name (the husband’s, that is; not the brother’s) is Kurt, and he’s a policeman. That is, I suppose you’d still refer to him generally as a policeman, although after 20 years on the force, he’s a bit more than that. I’m proud of him, and I think I’ve supported him well since we got married. It was a long time ago, now, but I can remember fancying him from the moment I met him, and I still do now.
We always knew that he would have a career and I would not, although we didn’t rush straight into having a family. Our daughter, Gail, is ten years old, so I worked for a good few years before taking a maternity break. Most of our friends had families much earlier than us, but we weren’t ready to be tied down by having children. As a result of that, and the fact that Kurt has been really successful in the police force, we have a much nicer house than most of our friends, and we’ve been on more interesting holidays. We’re also in a position to spoil Gail a little bit, and she won’t ever have any brothers or sisters, so she doesn’t have to compete, either for our attention or our resources. I’d describe myself as utterly contented with my life so far; at least, as far as last Saturday night.
Occasionally, I go out with the girls from work. It’s usually a nice meal in town, or sometimes a trip to a show, up in London. We hire a minibus and get all dressed up, and have such a scream. Last Saturday, for a change, we went out in the next town. The temp who was working with us suggested a nightclub, that she said we would enjoy, because it has a great 80s disco, and we’re all getting on a bit, you know. There were six of us: Joanne, tall and blonde, in her jeans and cowboy boots; Emily and Ashleigh, petite and blonde, in their designer stuff; Caroline and Liz, both ever-so-slightly goth; and me. I reckon I’m the plainest of the bunch.
The club was great, it had comfortable booths, and the floor wasn’t sticky; I remember discos as being far more tacky than that. There was waitress service to the tables, which was pretty cool. Before the disco started, there was a sort of cabaret act, so we had a good laugh at that. Then the tables were cleared away, and the disco started. We were pretty drunk by then, so the empty dancefloor held no fear: we launched ourselves into the open space, shaking our booty to the sounds of Kylie and Madonna, laughing our heads off and feeling like teenagers again.
We weren’t alone up there for long; the floor was packed, all ages, all bright and beautiful, bouncing to the music. We reckoned we were probably among the oldest in there, and possibly the drunkest too, which would explain the buzzing cloud of blokes, attracted, perhaps, by our sophistication and evident maturity. Caro said afterwards that it was only because we were so pissed, but I could tell she was secretly flattered by all the attention from little shaven-headed scrotes.
Joanne was pulling them off her arms, and they were springing back like Velcro spiders. Ashleigh and Liz put their arms around each other and pretended to be lesbians; pretty short-sighted, as a measure for getting rid of horny blokes, don’t you think? I haven’t been in the midst of such a heaving, sweating mass of hormones and alcohol for years and years and years. It was ace.
We all pulled. Even me. I wasn’t trying, or anything, just jigging around, having a laugh with Joanne; and then the next minute, this guy has his arms round me, and I’m dancing with him, and he’s looking into my eyes, and smiling at me, and then we’re kissing, tongues and everything, kissing like teenagers who are in love. I mean, you just don’t kiss like that after eighteen years of marriage, I’m telling you.
I caught Joanne’s eye, and she shook her head at me – disbelief, I think. Or disapproval. I didn’t care. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be kissed like that, to have a man press his warm body against me, his hands digging into me a little bit, not quite enough to hurt, but plenty to make me feel wanted. I closed my eyes and let him kiss me, and then I opened my eyes, to check that it was really happening. Inside me, it felt like I was melting, dissolving; the way I felt was like blue ink dispersing in a cloud in a glass of water: stars and dreaminess and novelty.
Caro says I was kissing him for hours, and Liz barely spoke to me in the taxi home. We were all coming down from the energy of dancing and drinking that had given us such a high for a little while. I was so pleased with myself, to have hooked that big handsome bloke; and only slightly miffed that they had dragged me away from him.
I dropped my clothes on the floor and crawled into bed with my makeup still on. At lunchtime on Sunday, Kurt woke me up with a kiss on the forehead and a cup of tea. My eyes were heavy and sticky, difficult to open. As the hot tea flushed out the smoke and dirt from the night before, I realised what I had done, and I choked on my drink.
I put the tea down and pulled the covers back over my head. Go away, I said to Kurt, and it wasn’t his fault that I was unkind to him, but I couldn’t bear to talk to him. My head was aching heavily, and my memory was waking up faster than I wanted it to. I was seeing, or feeling, images of the night before. I was remembering how I had been kissed, and kissed back, and let that man touch me. He had told me his name, and I couldn’t even remember it. I could only remember his mouth.
You have to believe me, I’ve never done anything like that. I’ve been married for eighteen years, and all the time we’ve been together, we’ve been the most normal, sensible couple. We’ve done everything in the most conventional way, and it’s made us happy. What have I done, what have I done? Sobbing like a baby, dirty eyeliner-dyed tears, hoping Kurt and Gail had gone out somewhere, so they wouldn’t hear me, and I wouldn’t have to explain.
I feel as though I’ve betrayed everything, I’ve broken our perfectly good, functional, happy marriage, for no reason at all. I was drunk and stupid, I let a stranger touch me and kiss me, and I enjoyed it so much that I didn’t want to stop. When I think about it, my body gets flooded with pleasure, but I feel so guilty that it makes me sick.
I can hardly speak to Kurt, because I’m so frightened I’ll give myself away. And every time I look at Gail, I’m terrified I’ve done something that will ruin her life. I don’t know if I should confess to my husband or not. I don’t know how he will react, but I don’t know how I can possibly go on with this terrible secret inside me.