Remarkably, after the affair has been ‘outed’ the atmosphere in the house improves dramatically. As though the lid has been lifted off the pressure cooker. Suddenly we are talking again and making love passionately as an act of mutual comfort and reassurance. What has happened has given us both a big fright and we are doing our best to claw our way back together. All our life as partners has been punctuated by long separations followed by intense sexual reunions. And sex has always been used as a way of healing rifts whenever we have had serious arguments. Now we need it more than ever.
David is determined to have a conversation with my lover. I am terrified by the prospect. What can be gained? He claims that his knowledge of the affair was nothing more than a gradual realisation. Putting pieces together in a jigsaw to arrive at a conclusion. But I suspect he’s been tipped off by one of the gossips, and he admits that he has already discussed the matter with some of our mutual friends, who have confirmed that there have been rumours around for quite some time. Nobody, it seems, was prepared to confirm these rumours but they were virulent enough to have had a deadly impact.
David only has a few weeks left in France. Before we left Australia, it had been agreed that he would spend a couple of months with me after the Cannes festival then leave me to work on my novel before the arrival of the walking tour group in September. At the time he expressed concern that I was ‘trying to get rid of him’ but I was adamant that I simply wanted some time to myself between his visit and the start of the tour, which always involves a lot of hard work. A little bit of down time. Some space to just do my own thing.
Now he is convinced that I planned the whole thing from the start. To allow him to come and stay for a while and then banish him back to Australia so that I can continue my affair. It sounds plausible from his point of view, but I try to convince him that none of this was ever planned or premeditated. It just evolved.
So David visits the home of my lover to confront him. My lover is prepared for this encounter, as we’ve had time for a brief conversation about the fact that our relationship has been discovered. It is apparently a calm and civilised meeting between the two men. Afterwards David tries to tell me the detail of their discussion but I refuse to listen. I am so mortified by the whole thing that I simply don’t want to hear what has transpired. I have spent my life dodging confrontation, and even though he assures me there were no heated words or crossing of swords, the very thought of the conversation fills me with dismay. I realise of course that I have created the situation in which I now find myself, but I can’t deal with the consequences. I know that even if I wanted to pick up the threads of my relationship with my lover, it is now impossible. And that, in itself, is a good thing.
David’s way of handling the whole scenario is uncharacteristic. Most husbands would have reacted with immediate rage. Shouted, screamed, ranted, raved and then probably walked out the door. The marriage would have been over. Full stop. It’s possible that one affair in thirty years can be tolerated. But two affairs in two years is unendurable. Yet he appears to be taking it all in his stride. He is affectionate towards me, we talk a lot and we make love more often than usual. However, he’s drinking the local wine to excess. David is normally a moderate drinker. He’s also now chain-smoking roll-your-own black Gauloise tobacco and is beginning to look raddled. The combination of the unabated heat, the stress, the drinking and the smoking are taking their toll. On both of us.
We are invited to, and agree now to attend, several summer parties as people try to counteract the heatwave by socialising as a diversion. David is concerned about the rumour mill and I reassure him that in France nobody much cares about these things. That we must tough it out and act as though nothing untoward has been happening. It’s not easy. A couple of times we find ourselves at large gatherings where my lover is also in attendance. David and he always have a polite chat and outwardly there are no signs of the turmoil that is simmering away under the surface. I am so relieved that things haven’t escalated into a giant uproar. We are all in our own way testing the water and it’s an artificial attempt at normality. I have no idea who’s talked to whom or what anybody knows. It’s just a matter of keeping up appearances. Putting on a brave face.
One night, after a long, long lunch and a hot and breathless afternoon during which we have failed to sleep, we relax in our pretty sitting room and talk late into the night. On one hand, David seems very pragmatic about the whole thing, but he wants to talk about the future. My intentions. I say, as I have said over and over these past two years, that the last thing I want is for our marriage to end. That I love him and that our family is more important to me than anything in the world. He knows that to be true.
But I cannot promise that this will never happen again. I must be honest here. I know that I am in a very highly charged emotional state and that to guarantee that I will just stop now, settle down and go back to being the wife I was before all this happened would be totally unrealistic. I want to leave things open-ended. Dangling.
‘I’ll get through this phase,’ I say to try and assuage his doubts. ‘Just give me time until I get whatever it is that’s troubling me out of my system.’
His final words on the ‘Australian Story’ documentary return to me over and over. Like a mantra:
‘I’m not a forgiving person but I could forgive Mary Moody anything. I love her that much.’
I have convinced myself that this is the crux of the matter. I am going through a rocky period because of my age, because of the difficulties of our long-term relationship and because of my unsettled sexuality. But I will recover my senses and everything will work out okay in the long run.
I really am kidding myself.