42

So here we are in a hotel room in Brisbane in bed together again. Clinging to each other as we fall into a sleep of nervous and physical exhaustion. In the middle of the night I wake up and find myself with my arms wrapped warmly around my husband. My old lover. The man I would certainly have shot through the forehead this morning if I had been unfortunate enough to own a gun. I run my hand down his chest, over his belly and into his groin. He stirs. I know exactly what I am doing. I am seducing him and it feels very strange that after all these years I need to convince him that he should make love to me. But he doesn’t seem to need much convincing. It’s what he told me he was afraid of. That if we were together again, if we fell back into intimacy, he would be incapable of resisting. Sex is a great way to relieve tension, to bring about a feeling of wellbeing. But this is much, much more than that for me. It is like a valve being opened on a pressure cooker. As though all the build-up of emotions over the last few days – not to mention weeks, and months and years – have suddenly been released. I cry with the sheer absolution of it. Surely this must mean we are okay. There is hope. We can go on. Surely we are destined to stay together.

We both sleep well afterwards but in the morning the tide has turned. David is now angry both with me and himself. Very angry. I have made him break his promise to the new woman in his life. She doesn’t realise he is staying here at the hotel with me, she thinks he is staying with friends. Now not only has he lied to her about his whereabouts, he has made love to me. He is distraught.

‘I know you say I don’t know this woman, but I know a lot more than you think. We have talked on the phone every day since she left and we know a lot about each other. She is a lovely person and I care about her a lot. I would rather die than hurt her. I will not hurt her.’

I have to appear on a panel later in the morning with several other authors and I beg him to calm down so I can get on with what is expected of me. I fear that if our discussion escalates into another furious row, I will be incapable of continuing. He has more film meetings so we go our separate ways. Over morning tea I fill Jane in on what’s been happening then go on to the panel session, which is a lot of fun and very well received. Perhaps the pressure of the tour will be good for me. Take my mind off things and give me an alternative focus. I hope so.

David and I stop talking about our troubles and just try our best to enjoy being part of the festival. There are interesting sessions to attend and a range of social events that are an ideal distraction. I meet his film colleagues and he meets up with lots of the other authors. Festivals are always fun, and we throw ourselves into this one with great enthusiasm. We also make love whenever we are alone together. Like we did when we first fell in love all those decades ago. The threat of his leaving me for another woman has made me desire him more than I have for years. And for him, I sense, it’s as though it’s our last opportunity to demonstrate to each other our old but somehow enduring love. As though we are offering comfort to each other in time of extreme pain and stress.

We travel back to Sydney for the big literary luncheon and, thank heavens, I am feeling steady again. More in control of myself and my emotions. In a taxi from the airport to the hotel, David’s mobile phone beeps to tell him that he has a message. He listens to it and because we are in such close proximity I can hear the voice of the caller. It’s the new woman. And there are several messages. One after the other. I gaze discreetly in the other direction, out of the taxi window, but I can clearly hear her voice and it fills me with pain. I am starting to hate her and that really isn’t fair. None of this is her fault. It’s mine. But I need to understand who she is and why she wants my husband.

I am jealous. Really jealous. And it’s an emotion I have never experienced before in my life. It doesn’t feel nice.

Part of my jealousy is that the woman is younger than me. Eight years younger, which makes her nearly nineteen years younger than David. I recall vividly David’s anger at my taking a younger lover. How poignantly I now understand. Why age should make such a difference I don’t really know. But it does.

David leaves me at the hotel and flies back to the farm for the night. In the morning, early, he and Miriam will drive back to the city for the big literary lunch and afterwards Miriam will fly back home to her family. In the hotel room I lie on the bed and my imagination races with thoughts of David and the woman. He’ll probably talk to her on the phone the minute he gets back home to the farm. Glad to be away from me so he can speak to her. He must have lied about where he’s been staying and I know his mobile phone has been switched off when we are together, in case she calls. It’s what happens when deception creeps into relationships. The tangled web. Life is suddenly complicated. It certainly was for me with my lovers in France and now it is for him. What a mess I have created.

The irony of my situation doesn’t escape me but I can see no humour in it at all. Somehow I have to convince David that he’s making a big mistake and that we should try and salvage our relationship and our marriage. But how can I change his mind? He is resolute. So determined.

I have an early night and take a sleeping pill in the hope that I will crash out and be refreshed for the big day ahead of me. I have to be at Channel 9 first thing for an interview on the Kerri-Anne show, then back at the hotel by noon for the big literary lunch. More than seven hundred bookings have been taken, so it’s going to be one of the most important events of the tour.

I do manage a good night’s sleep and feel quite sparky by the time Jane picks me up to go to the television station. The interview goes well and we are back at the hotel with more than an hour to spare. David and Miriam arrive and we have a cup of tea in the room before going down to the ballroom for the lunch. The room is packed with well-dressed women of a certain age. My age. And there are several familiar faces, including my niece Louise, my best friend Christine and some of the women who have been on my last couple of walking tours. After the main course I am introduced by the literary editor of the Sydney Morning Herald, Malcolm Knox. He says all the usual things – a bit of background about my career – then welcomes me onto the stage with the words: ‘It is therefore with great pleasure that I introduce to you the well-known author and adulterer Mary Moody.’

There is an audible gasp from the audience and they react to Malcolm’s introduction by cheering me onto the stage. In a way, it’s a fitting start to the tour. A barometer of how differently my book is being received by men and women. Even though his remark is not meant to be taken seriously – it’s just a throwaway line – it has created a ripple of outrage and gives me a perfect footing to launch into my speech. I love giving talks because I get such a warm and spontaneous reaction from the audience. I never quite know what I am going to say but I have the fortunate ability to be able to sense the mood of a room and then pitch my talk accordingly.

The way I speak is very much like the way I write. Straight down the line, forthright, candid and hopefully sometimes funny. Every so often I glance down to David and make eye contact. It seems weird that he is sitting there listening to me tell all these women about my adventures in France, including the affair, and about how supportive he has been of me through the rollercoaster of the last few years. I can’t imagine any other man in the world feeling comfortable sitting in a crowded room hearing his wife speak about her infidelity. But he does – in fact he claims to enjoy my talks no matter what the topic. I try not to think about the fact that some of the words I am speaking have a hollow ring to them. Nobody in the room, apart from Miriam, my friend Christine and Jane, knows the truth of our situation. That our marriage is over. It’s all too difficult at this stage – at the launch of the book – to flatten the audience with such a negative message.

At the end of my talk I sign books and I am thrilled by the length of the queue and the enthusiasm of everyone who approaches the table with a book to be signed. I also notice that David has been cornered by a large group of women and he is signing their copies of the books too. How bizarre is this? The wronged husband autographing copies of his unfaithful wife’s confessional book. I feel as though our lives are no longer our own. That by committing my story to paper and putting it out into a public place I have forfeited any right to or hope of privacy. The implications are appalling.