Perfect Ten Novel – I didn’t expect that I would accidentally open my husband’s diary and find that he had recorded his countless extramarital affairs. One of the women was even my sister. Each of these women had long-term affairs with my husband. Not one-night stands – those were at the end of the journal with a puny line each. Thirty-seven one-night stands, all marked out of ten. I try to tell myself that none of them knew that you were married to me, that we had two beautiful babies. I read the detailed descriptions of your mistresses, months and months of receipts tucked away, I stare at the picture of Paula. If I was in any doubt at all about these women being innocent, this killed it. Paula knew I was married to you. Paula was my bridesmaid. Paula is my sister. I can’t believe I was betrayed by two people I trusted the most.
Caroline. I know you have my bag. I’m warning you. You need to give it back. All my papers. But I’m not listening to you. I can’t hear the words. I’m listening to the background of the call, ears desperately pricked for children’s voices. Charlie and Laura. Are they there with you? You took them away and not a single moment has gone by in the last year when I didn’t miss them. My babies. Every time I shut my eyes I see my son’s face, terrified, as he realised I wasn’t coming with you. Laura crying as you bundled her into the car. You prevented me from seeing them at every turn and forced fear into my soul. The call ends and I sink back into the journal. I might pretend to myself that I care about your other women, and I did back then.
But what I really care about is getting my children back. And this is a means to an end. I force myself to turn the pages and see myself age slightly: us in front of the Christmas tree right here in this house, and your handwriting at the side of the picture. Perfect ten . The warm reminiscence turns a little cool. Perfect ten? That’s what you said to me when we first slept together. You said it like I should be pleased, but all it made me do was think of who you were comparing me to. ‘Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.’ It was a statement, not a question. A warning shot. But you answered. ‘No. I’ve never had a ten before. Eight. Nine. Yeah. But not a ten.’ You said it with a smile, but it niggled and I didn’t know why. I suppose that I was still heavily invested in romance and love back then, and I just didn’t expect you to mark me on my performance. I let it go.
I shouldn’t have. Because it led directly to this moment, when I turn the next page and see a picture of a blonde woman. Younger than I was then. Around nineteen. Arms linked with yours. That would be around fourteen years ago, just after we married. You’re at The Cabin, a nightclub you worked at as a part-time barman. It’s stuck in with glue and I pull it from the page and turn it over. Christine Dearden . There were more photos, all dated, spanning two years. Then, overleaf, in the bottom right-hand corner of the page, I see it. You marked her too. Eight out of ten. You stuck hotel receipts and even a rubber packet between the pages. I turn the pages quickly. There are nine more women, all marked out of ten. Julie Carson. Seven out of ten (possessive). Frances Burrows. Six out of ten. (No BJ). Pam Harding. Nine out of ten (would have been a ten but couldn’t keep her mouth shut). Alicia Turnbull. Seven out of ten (expensive tastes). Lorna Kershaw.
Three out of ten (great company but frigid). Katy Squires. Eight out of ten (drinks too much). Louise Shaw. Nine out of ten (would have been a ten if she hadn’t wanted a kid). Paula Lord. Nine and a half out of ten (nearly as good). And the last one: Emma Parsons. Eight out of ten. Each of these women had long-term affairs with my husband. Not one-night stands – those were at the end of the journal with a puny line each. Thirty-seven one-night stands, all marked out of ten. I try to tell myself that none of them knew that you were married to me, that we had two beautiful babies. I read the detailed descriptions of your mistresses, months and months of receipts tucked away, I stare at the picture of Paula. If I was in any doubt at all about these women being innocent, this killed it dead. Paula knew I was married to you. Paula was my bridesmaid. Paula is my sister. My phone is in my hand and, fuming, I speed-dial the last number I had for her.
Out of all of the women, this is the worst by far. It doesn’t even ring out. Out of service. I start to dial my parents to see if they know where she is, but stop. They would ask how I am and right now I’m not sure. The second journal has lists of books you’ve read, music you’ve bought, galleries you’ve visited on your travels. No surprises with the music. You love American rock and Madchester. I scan the galleries and wonder why on earth you kept your love of modern art to yourself. You’ve read hundreds of books and, right at the back, you’ve ranked your top ten. You love biographies. Alec Ferguson. Robbie Williams. Roy Keane. Beckham. Obviously. Tom Jones. Lord of the Rings . The Hobbit . Terry Pratchett. Martin Amis. And Nick Hornby, High Fidelity . Really? And you’ve written a review. I can feel my blood pressure rise, the familiar redness sweep over my chest and neck as I read your words. ‘… what a sucker. I’d never do that for Caroline.
Apologising to exes? That’d be a long job. Work in progress. LOL. Anyway, she’s too dense to know what it’s all about. Clever academically, but … well … I close the journal. That’s enough for tonight. The words are shut between the pages with the receipts and the photographs and the rubber wrappers. Sordid souvenirs of your life outside our life. It all seems like an anticlimax now as I reach for the blackcurrant-flavoured Absolut vodka. Too dense to know what it’s all about. I’m momentarily defensive, of course, but you’re completely right. I was too stupid to know what you were up to and, when I did have an inkling, too clumsy. That’s when it started, really. I’d been at your office, waiting outside to surprise you, take you out to dinner. It was the early days of our marriage, just after our first anniversary. That first year had flown by in a mist of romantic lunches and late dinners. Then, just after we’d returned from a weekend in Paris to celebrate our first year, it tailed off.
I’d mentioned it to my friend Anita. ‘It’s as if, well, as if he’s … losing interest.’ It was all I could do not to let the brimming tears out. She’d patted my arm gently over our cappuccinos. ‘Well, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. Most people just settle back into their lives. But you two are strong. He’s not losing interest. But if you feel like he is, up the stakes. Surprise him.’ I’d trawled the internet advice columns for hints and tips on ‘surprising your husband’. Underwear and cooking seemed popular, but I settled on a surprise date. After all, you always decided what we did. You always paid. So I booked a table at The Ivy, where we’d joked about celeb-spotting. There’d been a cancellation and I snapped up a six-thirty table. You were working in your London office, so I took the train down and waited outside after work. You weren’t expecting me. That was clear. I saw you through the smoky glass, slightly swarthy with your five-o’clock shadow, and felt the familiar glow.
Then I saw her. She followed you out and you were laughing and joking. My hackles rose but I reminded myself that you had female friends. Of course you did. That was normal. So why did I feel so angry? Maybe I already knew deep down. Looking back, it was classic denial. You were always looking at other women and if I made a fuss you’d make a big deal about my ‘green-eyed monster’. This time it was more. You were touching her, your arm around her shoulder. She was laughing into your face. I hurried around the corner and watched as you stood on the pavement, hailing a taxi. I bit the bullet and walked around the corner as if I had just arrived. Suddenly you were colleagues. I remember thinking that it felt rehearsed, as if you’d been caught together in a lift or something. She knew who I was immediately. You’d windmilled your arms towards me. ‘Caro. My God. What a surprise.’ I was still shaken.