Rachel

The first support band was a blur of noise, unfamiliar songs and Rory’s burning fury. Rachel capitulated when it became clear her husband was not going to back down. He wanted to do this now, here, for whatever reason. And who was she to call the shots? She had no leverage in this discussion, no rights, no moral high ground.

‘His name is Nico. And it’s over. You need to know that before I say anything further.’

‘When did it start?’

‘July. At that conference in Melbourne. But I didn’t sleep with him then.’

‘When did you sleep with him?’

She hung her head in shame. ‘Please. I don’t want to go into that level of detail. Not here. Can’t we talk at home?’

‘What you want doesn’t matter to me,’ he said coldly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I love you with all my heart.’

‘Then, why the fuck, Rach?’ The words burst out of him, loud and aggressive. ‘Why would you do this? To me? To the kids?’

A blonde woman sitting in the row in front turned around at the angry exchange.

‘You okay?’ she mouthed to Rachel.

Rachel nodded, mortified. She waited a few moments before answering Rory, trying to take the heat out of the argument.

‘My only defence is that I wasn’t myself. My hormones have been all over the place.’ Her excuses sounded pathetic even to her own ears. ‘How did you find out? Amy?’

‘It doesn’t fucking matter how I found out. That’s the last thing that matters.’

She went to the bathroom a few minutes later, splashed cold water on her face. Why the fuck, Rach? Why would you do this? She gave herself a long scathing look in the mirror, but still couldn’t find an acceptable answer to Rory’s
question.

He’d been to the bar by the time she got back to her seat. He’d bought them two drinks each and had already downed most of his first one. The second support band had come on at some point, maybe while she was in the bathroom.

She sipped her wine, its tangy aftertaste adding to her misery. Her thoughts sidetracked to Amy. How could she have done this? Betrayed her confidence? Detonated her marriage? Rachel had specifically asked her friend not to say anything. What had motivated her? Loyalty to Rory? Envy of their ‘happy
family’?

She would deal with Amy tomorrow. Tonight her focus was on Rory. She risked a sideways glance at him. He sat ramrod straight, glaring towards the stage; he couldn’t even bear to look at her.

Hopefully, they’d talk once they got home and the kids were in bed, though it would be the early hours of the morning by then. Rachel would stay up all night if needed. She would show him how sorry she was, how ashamed and regretful, how she would do anything to make amends.

She touched his arm, unable to help herself. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He removed her hand roughly, placing it back in her lap.

The rain had stopped some time ago. Down on the throbbing, chanting field were her children, who would be horrified if they knew what was going on, what she’d done.

‘Sydney, are you ready? Please welcome Coldplay …’

The stage was dark to begin with, the night air filling with the iconic piano riff from the beginning of ‘Clocks’ and rapturous cheers from the crowd. Then a sole blue spotlight highlighted Chris Martin’s profile at the piano. A few bars later, the drums, a primal beat of percussion, and the lead and bass guitars. Finally, with every step choreographed for maximum effect, Chris stood up from the piano and glided his way to centre stage; he began to sing the opening lyrics, which everyone knew by heart.

Rachel felt nothing, none of the joy or nostalgia she’d expected to feel when she’d paid a fortune for the tickets. Guilt and shame churned in her stomach, along with the wine, to the point where she felt like she might actually throw up.

Rory didn’t make it past the first few verses. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t sit here with you.’

Again, unable to help herself, she touched his arm. ‘Please, don’t go. We’ll talk later. Please.’

Again, he forcibly removed her hand, and stood up from his seat. And once again, the woman in front – this time sensing movement rather than raised voices – turned around to check that everything was okay.

Rory was already squeezing past the other people in their row, muttering ‘excuse me’ as he went. He took the concrete steps in long angry strides; Rachel watched until he was out of sight, realising that this was inevitable. Of course his instinct would be to retreat, to be alone while he came to grips with the enormity of her betrayal, to organise his thoughts, his next steps.

She turned her eyes back to the stage, where a blurry Chris Martin, two hands holding the microphone stand, was singing about ticking clocks. The words of the song had never been so poignant. She desperately wanted to turn back time, to obliterate the confusion, mistakes and destruction of the last few months. Tears poured down her face, tears of shame and sadness. Of fear. Part of her wanted to hurry after Rory, to catch up with him and try to redeem the situation. And part of her wanted to run in the opposite direction, far away from her husband and her children, unable to face the consequences of what she’d done.

Suddenly, a disturbance. The blonde woman was climbing over the back of her seat. She sat down beside Rachel, and slung an arm around her shoulders as if she’d known her all her life. ‘It’s okay, hon. You’re better off without him.’

Rachel shook her head and sobbed even harder. ‘No, it’s all my fault … I’m the bad person, not him.’