TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013
MORNING
I watched Tom getting ready for work this morning,putting on his shirt and tie. He seemed a littledistracted, probably running through his schedule forthe day—meetings, appointments, who, what, where. Ifelt jealous. For the first time ever, I actually enviedhim the luxury of getting dressed up and leaving thehouse and rushing around all day, with purpose, allin the service of a pay cheque.
It’s not the work I miss—I was an estate agent, nota neurosurgeon, it’s not exactly a job you dreamabout as a child—but I did like being able to wanderaround the really expensive houses when the ownersweren’t there, running my fingers over the marbleworktops, sneaking¹ a peek² into the walk-inwardrobes. I used to imagine what my life would belike if I lived like that, the kind of person I would be.
I’m well aware there is no job more important thanthat of raising a child, but the problem is that it isn’tvalued. Not in the sense that counts to me at themoment, which is financial. I want us to have moremoney so that we can leave this house, this road.
It’s as simple as that.
Perhaps not quite as simple as that. After Tom leftfor work, I sat down at the kitchen table to do battlewith Evie over breakfast. Two months ago, I swearshe would eat anything. Now, if it’s not strawberryyoghurt, she’s not having it. I know this is normal. Ikeep telling myself this while I’m trying to get eggyolk out of my hair, while I’m crawling around onthe floor picking up spoons and upturned bowls. Ikeep telling myself this is normal.
Still, when we were finally done and she wasplaying happily by herself, I let myself cry for aminute. I allow myself these tears sparingly, only everwhen Tom’s not here, just a few moments to let itall out. It was when I was washing my faceafterwards, when I saw how tired I looked, howblotchy and bedraggled and bloody³ awful, that I felt itagain—that need to put on a dress and high heels,to blow-dry my hair and put on some makeup⁴ andwalk down the street and have men turn and lookat me.
I miss work, but I also miss what work meant tome in my last year of gainful employment, when Imet Tom. I miss being a mistress.
I enjoyed it. I loved it, in fact. I never felt guilty. Ipretended I did. I had to, with my marriedgirlfriends, the ones who live in terror of the pert aupair or the pretty, funny girl in the office who cantalk about football and spends half her life in thegym. I had to tell them that of course I felt terribleabout it, of course I felt bad for his wife, I nevermeant for any of this to happen, we fell in love,what could we do?

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