Miles Taylor reveals the dangers of concealing the truth in a marriage that is falling apart.

Miles Taylor reveals from both the husband and wife’s viewpoint the dangers of concealing the truth in a marriage that is falling apart.

Scenario One

“It is all-inclusive” she whined in that grating voice she puts on when trying to cajole me into doing something she knows I’ll hate.

I put on my best supercilious tone. I knew I was staring defeat in the face, but might as well score a few cheap points on the way down. “Oh good. Some featureless gated compound with all the character of tofu.”

Then she hit me with the ‘killer’ punch. “It’s not just about you, you know. Think of the boys. It wouldn’t hurt you to think about my needs once in a while either.”

The neglectful husband. I was caught. Hook, line and sinker.

Well here we are, three weeks later, standing in a ridiculously long queue, even by Heathrow’s appalling standards, for the check-in desk, at some god-forsaken hour in the morning. I can’t stand it any longer.

OK, time to drop the bombshell. “Hell, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” she snaps.

“My passport. I can’t find it. It was here earlier. I’m sure of it.” Now to pull the stumbling bag trick. Paper, books, iPod, get them all out in as untidy a manner as possible. God, I’ve got this shambling man thing down pat.

Then, her voice above me. She’s more than a bit peeved now. “What do you mean you’ve forgotten it? I put them all on the hall table together. All the others are here.”

Now for the new bit, this is where it could all go wrong. “I, er, took it upstairs to check the car reservation. Forgot to print the confirmation out, and I needed my passport number to check the booking.”

Complete bollocks of course. Not like she’d ever know.

“Sodding typical. One thing. That’s all you had to do. I packed the boys’ things, the toiletries, the suncream, the antihistamine. I even packed your inhaler.  I chose where we’re going, I even booked the damn thing. It’s not like you’d ever put any thought into a holiday for all of us….”

Oh good, it’s a rhetorical rant. Doesn’t look like I’m going to be asked any awkward questions, just the odd feeble protestation of innocence, the odd stare from bleary-eyed onlookers and we’ll be through this in no time.

“I’ll just have to go back for it.” I say, mustering what I feel is just the right amount of foolish optimism.

“You’ll never get back in time,” she snaps.

Now for the piece de resistance, the moment of enlightened self-sacrifice. “You go on without me. I’ll book myself on the next flight out. There’s bound to be one in the next day or two. Can’t believe they’re all as busy as this.”

“Don’t bother!” she hisses.

I didn’t realise it was going to be this easy! A whole fortnight! I drag my bag off the trolley, handy it’s on top, and head off toward the exit with as cowed a gait as I can muster.

Right, terminal two. Christ, is that the time? Better leg it, or I’ll be late. I sprint out of the departure lounge, past the taxi stand, over the bus station forecourt, narrowly missing an oncoming 285, idiot should really watch where he’s going, and over to another check-in desk.

OK, can’t see her. Should be here by now. Relax, desk doesn’t close for another five minutes, she’ll be here. I feel my phone vibrating, trumpeting the arrival of a text. It’s Nicole!

Scenario Two

She knew he didn’t really want to go, but then what did he want to do any more? At least the boys would enjoy it, he might even play with them, and she’d be able to get some sun.

“It is all-inclusive” she said, scrabbling around frantically for something, anything, including their finances, which might make it appeal to him.

He adopted that sneering voice he reserved for situations when he knows something is for everybody’s good but his own. “Oh good. Some featureless gated compound with all the character of tofu.”

Hurt, she retorted “It’s not just about you, you know. Think of the boys. It wouldn’t hurt you to think about my needs once in a while either.”

She took his silence to signal his acquiescence.

Three weeks later, she’d booked the holiday, packed the bags, apart from his, and now they were standing, in the queue for the check-in desk.

Then, his routine began. “Hell, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” she snapped.

“My passport. I can’t find it. It was here earlier. I’m sure of it.” He emptied out the contents of his rucksack - paper, books, and iPod - an ostentatious search.

She couldn’t believe this. Not after all she’d done. “What do you mean you’ve forgotten it? I put them all on the hall table together. All the others are here.”

He stuttered out an excuse. “I, er, took it upstairs to check the car reservation. Forgot to print the confirmation out and I needed my passport number to check the booking.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Sodding typical. One thing. That’s all you had to do. I packed the boys’ things, the toiletries, the suncream, the antihistamine. I even packed your inhaler.  I chose where we’re going, I even booked the damn thing. It’s not like you’d ever put any thought into a holiday for all of us….”

He just carried on kneeling over his still open bag, slowly stuffing everything back in, oblivious to the stares from everyone around them.

Eventually, when his packing was complete, he said “I’ll just have to go back for it.”

“You’ll never get back in time” she snapped.

His next gambit struck her as almost wilfully naive. “You go on without me. I’ll book myself on the next flight out. There’s bound to be one in the next day or two. Can’t believe they’re all as busy as this.”

And then it all became clear to her. She’d wondered what the other payment to Wantaway Holidays was for, when doing the banking online last week, and put it down to an admin error.

She knew about the affair. She’d known about all of them, but he’d never put his family so far down his list of priorities before. She’d had enough. “Don’t bother!” she hissed.

He dragged his bag off the trolley and headed off toward the exit without even turning to look back at them.

She opened her bag, took out her diary and leafed through the notes at the back until she found Nicole’s number. She hated checking his phone for text messages, but had feared there’d be a time when she’d have to make this call.

“Hello, is that Nicole? You don’t know me. You’re having an affair with my husband…”