Sometimes

This is the story of a relationship breaking down.

Let me paint you a picture. Try to visualise: my wife and I, young and successful, university graduates, high flyers. Lawyers in different firms with the whole world there in front of us, living lives that most people only dream about.

And we were in love. My wife is still the most beautiful woman I have ever met. Somehow I lost her.

We met at university. She was glorious. A goddess. Bright, intelligent, funny and beautiful. She was incandescent when we were out in a crowd, but she burned with a slow mellow glow when we were alone. It was impossible not to fall in love with her.

We married a year after we graduated. Some of our friends and family thought we were too young, but we knew it was the right thing to do. When we moved into our first home together, she was so excited - choosing furniture, designing layouts and decor. Real nest-making stuff. I was charmed and loved her even more. There was nothing better than waking up next to her in the morning and falling asleep next to her at night.

As we moved up our career ladders, we moved to a house in the fashionable north of the city. We bought bigger cars. We went on holiday to the exotic places we'd visited as students, but staying in the best hotels and eating in the classiest restaurants. We really lived the dream.

We decided not to have children for a while. I was always more keen than she was, but I tried to understand her trepidation. Having kids isn't a decision to take lightly, especially in this day and age. Sometimes I'm glad we made that decision, now that we're apart; other times I think it would have been nice to have created something - someone - that was half her and half me. It would have kept us connected somehow. And I wonder whether, if we'd had children, we would have tried harder to stay together. Maybe if we'd had a child, I wouldn't miss her so much now.

How we moved from happiness to misery to separation isn't an easy story to tell. I'm still not exactly sure how it all happened myself. It began for me one day in a police station.

aaaaaaaaa

The desk sergeant looked up from the report he was filing and looked down the hall. The detective in charge of the case was helping the woman along the corridor. She looked small and crumpled. The desk sergeant turned to face the man seated on the bench opposite.

"Your wife is here Mr Bruce."

Phil Bruce looked up from staring at the floor between his feet. His face was grey, he looked haggard. He rubbed his face with his hands, pressing his fingers into his eye-sockets for a while, before standing to meet his wife. She was clutching her coat shut at her sternum. The detective was speaking to her, but she kept her eyes down, her head lowered.

"Thank you for giving your statement, Mrs Bruce. We'll send out a description of the men. When we locate your assailants, we'll be in touch." He looked to her husband. "You've left your details with the desk sergeant?"

Phil nodded in confirmation and reached out his arm towards his wife. She shied away from him and walked towards the door. He addressed the detective.

"Thanks for your help, officer. Please - find whoever did this."

"We'll do our best, sir."

They shook hands. The detective turned and walked back down the corridor. John Philip Bruce, thirty two, solicitor with a firm of architects and surveyors, followed his wife out onto the street. He could not shake the feeling that this should not be happening to him. His wife was standing outside the police station staring off down the street. He stood to one side of her.

"The car's just round the corner, sweetheart. Come on."

He put his arm around her shoulder. She was still clutching her coat shut and felt hard and resistant to his touch. She kept her face averted, her head down as they walked. When they reached the car, he opened the door and closed it for her once she was seated. She would not look at him when he sat in the driver's seat. Her face was slightly bruised down the left-hand side and her lower lip was swollen.

"Are you okay?" He put his hand on her shoulder. She nodded. "What did they say at the hospital?"

She licked her lips, opening her mouth slowly and biting down gently on her lower lip before she spoke.

"There's nothing broken, but I should go to the doctor's tomorrow."

He sat with his hand on her shoulder for a moment longer, willing her to look at him. He could not voice all the questions that were running round his head. He sighed and started the car.

They drove home in silence. He kept glancing at her and opening his mouth to speak, but she kept her face turned away from him and seemed locked away in a place where he could not have reached her if he had tried.

He had been called at work earlier in the day by the hospital. His wife had been found in an alleyway across town. She had been assaulted and her purse snatched. Someone had called an ambulance and she had been taken to the hospital where she had been examined. She would not speak, the doctor said through shock probably, but an internal examination had shown that there was semen in her vagina and on the inside of her thighs. Her underwear was slightly torn, as was her blouse. When he had arrived at the hospital, she had already been collected by the police and taken to the station nearest to where she had been found. She was being questioned when he arrived. A detective had spoken with him while he waited. Apparently she had been down town alone on a job from her office. She had been grabbed from behind as she was walking along a side street and dragged into an alley. Two men had pushed her against a wall and tried to grab her purse. She had put up some resistance and one of the men had put his hand up her skirt. She had tried to break free of him, so the second man had hit her across the face and the first man had raped her. She had let go of her purse then.

He pulled up outside the house and got out of the car. He opened her door for her and helped her out.

"I'm all right, I can manage," she said, thickly, and walked up the path, still clutching her coat closed. She stopped at the door. "My keys. They were in my purse."

He unlocked the door, saying, "It's all right - we can change the locks."

"I never put my keys in my purse. They're always in my pocket. Why did I do that?" She did not move into the house. He put his arm around her, shushing her.

"It's all right," he said. "It's all right. Hush now. Come on. It'll all be all right."

He moved her into the house, closing the door behind them, one arm around his wife, who kept her coat front clenched in her whitened fist.

"Come in here. Sit down." He walked with her into the living room. "Let's get your coat off." He put his hand over hers to begin to take the coat from her, but she curled in on herself.

"Stop it. My blouse is torn."

"It's okay. We're home. You're safe. Come on, honey, let me help you off with this."

She sat down, refusing to let him take her coat off her, keeping it clasped shut with her hand, a barrier, a protection.

"Okay. Well, you sit there for a while and take it easy. I'll get you some tea, shall I? And I'll ring around a few places to see how quickly we can get these locks changed. Will you be all right there?" He crouched in front of her, trying to look into her face, but she would not look at him.

He went into the kitchen. The fluorescent lights made it seem harsh and sterile. He leaned into a work unit, supporting his body weight with his arms and hands against the cool work surface. He tried to pull his thoughts together. He did not know what to think. He was not even sure what had happened, he was struggling to grasp it. It horrified him to think that someone could do that. He wanted to go out there, find the men that had done this. He wanted to kill them. They had violated his wife. He hoped the police would catch them soon. He would have a few things to say to them, to ask them. He took a deep breath.

He took the tea through to his wife, but she was not there. He heard the shower running and went upstairs. Her clothes were in a pile in their bedroom. He picked them up and began folding them neatly. He hung her coat up inside the wardrobe and placed the skirt and torn blouse over the back of a chair. He did not know what to do with her bra and pants, so he dropped them onto the bed. He went into the bathroom. Through the frosted shower screen he could see that she was standing perfectly still, just allowing the water to run over her. He stood watching in obscurity for a moment, then he began to feel like a voyeur, so he went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

She had seen him standing there, looking at her through the panel of frosted glass. She willed him to go away. She did not want anyone to look at her. She only wanted to be clean, but the water could not remove the feeling of that man's hands on her body, groping her. She could not rid herself of the feel of his thrusting inside her. The pain had been a searing white heat - like the loss of her virginity magnified a thousand times: the same clumsiness but for different reasons. She did not know if she would ever be clean.

Eventually she emerged from the bathroom. She stood in the doorway, looking at him as he sat on the bed's edge. Her face was impassive, the bruising down the left lending a distorted shading, like an abstract painting. He cleared his throat and sought for words in his numbed brain.

"Is that better now?"

She did not reply but moved into the room. She had a strange rigid stillness about her, like a tower of wooden building blocks. She began to dress. He watched her. Apart from the injuries to her face, he could see no other mark on her body to suggest that anything had happened. Somehow this confused and enraged him. He felt like he wanted to hit her. It didn't seem right this apparent lack of reaction. He wanted her to cry so that he could hold her and tell her it was okay, he was there. He wanted her to know that he was there. Somehow she was making him feel that he wasn't.

She could feel him watching her. She could feel the tension in him. She knew that he wanted to hit her, that he was struggling to understand. She paused in her dressing, still with her back to him, and picked up the scissors that were on the chest of drawers. She took hold of a handful of her hair and bluntly cut it off. Behind her, he had become very still; she could tell that he was barely breathing. She took hold of another handful of hair and cut that off too. Systematically she sheared herself of this symbol of her femininity. The hair lay on the floor around her feet, thick and lustrous. She put the scissors back on top of the chest of drawers and stepped out of the pile of hair. She took some clothes from the closet and went back into the bathroom to finish dressing.

After she had closed the door, he continued to sit staring at the pile of hair, his hands square on his knees. His mind could not even begin to understand what it was about. It had seemed almost ceremonial, as he watched it happen; now it just seemed surreal. He got up, then picked up as much of the carpet of hair as he could and put it into the waste bin next to the dressing table. It almost filled it, so long and thick had her hair been. He stood looking down at it for quite a long time, until he heard her come back into the bedroom.

Slowly he turned to face her. They stood looking at each other in silence. He took his eyes from hers and looked at her hair. She put up a hand to touch it, then let it drop like a dead weight back to her side. Although her face was set, cold and hard, she looked small and vulnerable; he wanted very much to step over to her and hold her safely in his arms, protect her, though he was not sure from what, and yet he could not even lift a hand to reach out to her.

She could see him struggling but she was helpless to help him. Watching him she could only feel a despising sickness at how weak he was. It was as though a barrier had appeared between them which he was incapable of climbing over. Eventually she decided to break the silence.

"What's the time?"

He looked down at his watch.

"5.30" He paused, then looked up at her. "I should go back to the office for a few hours."

She could not be bothered to reply.

"Will you be all right on your own, if I do?"

She wanted to scream. Instead she nodded. He edged past her, trying not to touch her, and she heard him go downstairs, leave the house and drive away. Only when she was sure he was gone did she allow herself to crumple to the floor and cry.

When he returned from work late that night, she was in bed asleep, or pretending to be asleep. He undressed as quietly as he could and got into bed beside her. She was curled away from him. He lay on his back for a while, staring at the ceiling. He could not hear her breathing so he guessed she was still awake. Tentatively he spoke.

"Honey? Are you awake?"

She did not reply.

"Sweetheart. I just don't get this one thing. I mean, what were you doing down town? Why were you on that street?"

She sighed. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not. I just can't get it out of my head. I can't figure out why you were down there."

"I'd gone to see a client."

"What, was he renting space down there? Were you setting up a lease? Only you haven't mentioned anything like that when we've talked about work."

"It just came up. I was free. I went to the meeting. It was down town." Her voice was dull, flat.

"I'm sorry sweetie. It just seems weird."

"Can we go to sleep? I don't really want to talk about it."

"Sorry. Of course. Sorry. Good night, hon'."

In the morning he left her sleeping. He ate breakfast silently, staring out of the kitchen window at the damp garden. His mind kept trying to consider what had happened yesterday, but recoiled every time it came close. What she was doing in that part of town still puzzled him. Her firm did not deal in property in that area - its clients would not choose to locate there. There was something not quite right in what she had said had happened.

She was still sleeping when he went back upstairs to say goodbye. He kissed her gently. She stirred but did not wake up.

He took her car keys, leaving her his car in case she decided to go to the doctor's. He walked to the station and caught a train into town. He got off near where she worked and walked the short distance to her firm's building.

The receptionist looked up as he entered.

"Mr Bruce. How is Caroline?"

"She's not too bad. I left her sleeping. I just called in to collect her car. I take it she caught a bus to her meeting yesterday?"

"Actually I think she walked there. Her car should be in her usual parking space. Do you know the way?"

"Yes, thanks. Erm - I wonder - do you mind if I just pop up to her section? I'd like to speak with her boss."

"Of course. I'll buzz you through."

She released the electronic door mechanism and he made his way up to his wife's office. He was not sure why he was doing this, other than he felt a need to know exactly where she had been going yesterday.

She continued to lie in bed for a few minutes after he had gone, then got up. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her hair. She tried to brush it. She ran her fingers through it. She picked up the telephone and called her hairdresser. He said that he could not fit her in for a week. She hung up without making an appointment. She picked up the scissors and tried to neaten up what she had done the previous day. Once she had finished, it did not look too bad - a little spiky perhaps, but a bit less like a hatchet job.

She telephoned the doctor's surgery. Again she could not get an appointment until the following week. She tried to talk the receptionist into giving her an emergency appointment, but it was clear that if she was unprepared to divulge why she considered herself to be an emergency, she could not be an emergency. It was also after 10 a.m. and therefore she was too late for the doctor to make a house call. She was exhausted when she hung up, and sat on the bed to recover. She needed to get her head together. She needed to get away.

He came away from her office no wiser about who she had been going to meet or why. She had written the time of the appointment on her desk-top planner, but no other details, and she had given minimal information to her colleagues. Someone had even said that they thought she had gone out of the office on flexi-time. It all implied that she had gone to a private meeting, and yet she had said that she had gone to meet a client. Still puzzling over this, he collected her car from the car park and drove across town to his own office.

In spite of his efforts to immerse himself in work, he could not shake off the questions he had in his mind. He was beginning to think that she was lying somehow. But why would she lie, and why would she say that she had been raped? He put his hand out towards the telephone, thinking about calling the detective who had questioned his wife, but he stopped himself. After all, what could he say? He thought that his wife was lying? Perhaps in a few days, as she began to get over it, she would talk more about it. Perhaps he should take her away for a few days.

His wife sat in the silent house, thinking about how sick she was of it all. She felt flat and stale. For at least six months she had felt as though she were treading water, going through the motions. It was as though her life had become stuck, like a record. The fire in her had gone out.

Nothing that she had tried made her feel any better. She had joined a gym, but the monotony of running on a treadmill or doing bench presses had been a sad irony. She had gone to evening classes but come away uninspired. She hardly saw her old girl friends. She worked a 50 or 60 hour week more often than not. They no longer went to the cinema or the theatre together. They did not even go for walks in the park or the country any more. She was beginning to feel trapped.

They had begun to dine out with a couple that her husband knew through work. Mark was a colleague of her husband's and was married to Alison. She could never remember what Alison did. They would meet up in town after work and usually conversation would be about work or politics or Noam Chomsky's latest pearl of wisdom. It was relentless and she longed for the days of parties and irresponsible behaviour, of wanting to change the world rather than discuss empty philosophies about it. Mark, Alison and Philip all seemed so settled and complacent about their existences. She felt as though she were expected to conform; or rather that they believed that she had conformed, like they had. It made her want to scream.

Soon after they had formed their little dining club, Mark began to call her at work. At first it was on work related pretexts, but gradually it became personal. She enjoyed hearing his voice and missed him if he did not call. Eventually they began to meet up, sometimes for lunch, sometimes on evenings between their regular nights out as a foursome. It reminded her of when she and Phil were first married and could not get through the day without speaking on the phone or meeting up for lunch. Although she and Mark reassured each other that their friendship was perfectly innocent, neither of them mentioned it to their respective spouses, nor was it alluded to when they were all out together.

He had phoned her yesterday morning and told her that he needed to see her. He wanted to talk. He gave her the address of a building down town that he was completing a survey on. She left work and walked across town to meet him.

She did not know how long she had been sitting there remembering. The second post had been delivered, mostly junk mail. She sorted through it, splitting it into piles. There was only one letter, for her husband, the envelope handwritten and bearing a central postmark. She did not recognise the handwriting. She ripped through the junk mail addressed to her and put it into the bin. She put her husband's pile of mail on top of the work unit in the kitchen, with the letter on top. She stood looking at it for a few minutes. She became filled with an icy calm as she stood there. It was almost a detachment. She saw her hand reach out for the pile of mail and take it up again, then she watched herself rip through each thing and throw it all into the bin. She could not have explained why if anyone had been there to ask. Then she pulled the half-filled liner from the bin, tied it closed and took it outside to the dustbin.

Phil had just returned from lunch. He had met up with Mark. Mark had not heard about what had happened yesterday, and had been shocked and concerned. He understood when he told him that they would have to postpone their dinner date for the next few weeks. He asked that his best wishes be passed on to Caroline. When Phil got back to the office, he wondered whether he should have talked his concerns over with Mark. Perhaps he could have reassured him that he was blowing things out of proportion.

After she had put the rubbish out, she went back into the house and found her bag. Pulling her address book out of it, she picked up the phone and dialled a Chicago number. A female voice answered.

"Hello? Suzie? Hi, it's Caroline..... Oh I'm fine really. Listen, I need to get away for a while. I wondered whether I could come and stay with you for a bit? ..... No, nothing serious - I'm not in trouble, no! Hmm? I just need a bit of space to get my head together..... When? As soon as I can get a flight, if that's all right with you..... Yes, that quickly! I'll phone you later when I know how soon I can get out there. Thanks, Suze, you don't know how much this means to me. I'll speak to you soon, yeah? Bye!"

She opened the telephone directory and found the number for the main flight operator to Chicago. She pulled her credit card wallet from her coat pocket and took out the mastercard. Then she dialled the number and booked a seat for the next available flight to Chicago.

She and Suzie had met at university. Suzie had spent an exchange year at the university and they had been in halls together. They had kept in touch over the ensuing years and were quite close, considering the geographical distance that lay between them. She dialled her number again and, as they spoke, filled Suzie in on what had been happening and why she needed to get away. She hung up feeling more invigorated than she had for a while.

She was watching t.v. when her husband came home. He kissed the top of her head over the back of the sofa.

"You've tidied your hair up."

"Yes."

"Did you go to the doctor's?"

"Couldn't get in for a week."

"Wouldn't they give you an emergency appointment?"

"They wanted me to tell them why I considered it to be an emergency and I couldn't be bothered telling them."

"Oh. I saw Mark at work today."

"Oh, how is he?"

"Fine. I told him about what happened. He sends his best wishes."

"Mmm."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not hungry."

He went into the kitchen. She had not looked away from the t.v. once the whole time he had been talking with her. He looked in the fridge and poked about among the stuff that was in there. He called through to the living room.

"How about I go and get Chinese?"

She did not reply. He walked over to the door and stood looking at her. She did not look up. The light from the t.v. flickered on her face.

"I said - "

"I heard you. I'm not hungry. You have it if you want."

"No, it's all right. I'll have soup or something. I just thought it would be nice. We haven't had Chinese for ages."

"Mmm."

He went back into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge again. He wanted to cry. He felt incredibly alone. He did not know what to do. He knew that it was important to be patient, to give her time, but he was scared that this might go on for longer than he could bear. He took a carton of fresh soup from the fridge and began to prepare his meal.

He sensed rather than heard her come into the kitchen behind him. He continued eating without turning around, but could see her reflected in the window he was facing. She stood looking at him, her face expressionless. He raised his head slightly and made eye contact with her through their reflections.

"I'm going to bed. I'm really tired."

"Okay."

He turned round to face her. "I think you should try to get an emergency appointment tomorrow. Lie if you have to."

"Maybe. I'll see. Goodnight, then."

"I'll see you in a bit, sweetheart. I'm going to watch Newsnight. I'll try not to disturb you if you're asleep when I come up."

He listened to her go upstairs and move between bathroom and bedroom as she got ready for bed. After a while there was silence. He finished his soup and went into the living room. He flicked between channels, yawning, until Newsnight came on. He watched most of it with rolling eyes, and gradually drifted into sleep.

It was 2.15 when he woke up with a stiff neck and aching shoulders. He shuffled upstairs and undressed in the bathroom. His wife did not stir as he climbed into bed beside her.

She was already up and in the kitchen when he woke the next morning. He showered and dressed, heartened somehow by the fact that they could start the day together. A mug of coffee was waiting for him when he went into the kitchen.

"Good morning. You look a little better today."

He sat at the table and helped himself to cereal. She was eating a piece of toast and gazing out of the window.

"Did you sleep well?"

She came back into focus and looked at him.

"What?"

"Did you sleep well?"

"Oh. Yes. I think I needed it. I do feel better today."

"I was thinking yesterday - how about if we go away somewhere for a little break?"

"When?"

"Well, as soon as we can both get leave and I can book something, I suppose. A long weekend next week perhaps?"

He reached over to her and put his hand on hers. She smiled weakly.

"Okay. Whatever."

"Well, we don't have to. I just thought it would do us both good. We haven't really spent much time on our own together recently, have we?"

"I suppose not."

He continued to eat his cereal, his earlier good mood beginning to ebb away in the face of her unenthusiastic response.

She felt him deflate. It irritated her. She got up from the table and put her plate and mug into the dishwasher.

"Shall I phone a few places today, then?"

"If you like."

"And you'll call work to find out what leave you can take?"

"Mmm."

He sighed and got up himself. He drained his mug of coffee and put it with his cereal bowl into the dishwasher. He kissed her on the cheek and took his jacket from the back of the chair where he had left it the previous night.

"I'm off to work, then. Ring the doctor today, yes?"

He looked at her from the doorway. She nodded.

"I'll see you later. Let me know about the leave thing if you can."

"Okay. See you later."

He picked up his car keys from the side table in the hall and noticed her credit card tucked in next to the phone. He frowned then shook his head and left.

His absence galvanised her. She went to the phone and saw her credit card herself. She picked it up and took it and the phone through to the living room. She dialled her work number as she put the credit card back into her card wallet. Her secretary answered.

"Belinda? Hi, it's Caroline..... Oh. I'm okay - getting there, you know. Look, I need to book some leave. How many days do I have left?"

She waited as her secretary checked her leave chart.

"15 days? Right. Can I book them all starting from today? Yes, all of them. I know but I'd feel happier taking leave than sick. I'm going away for a week or so. Thanks Belinda. I'll see you when I come back."

She hung up and sat for a few minutes, deciding what to do next. Suddenly that last scene with Mark in the deserted office building flashed into her mind. How he had tried to kiss her and she had walked away. How he had told her that she was wasted on her husband. How he said that he believed he could make her much happier. How he had stood close behind her, removing her coat and kissing the back of her neck through her hair. How she had begun to yield and had turned her head so that their mouths met. How in the depth of that kiss she had begun to feel how wrong it was, how sordid to be in such a place. How she began to pull away from him only for him to grip her arms in his hands like a vice and kiss her with greater ferocity. How she had begun to struggle and, when he did not release her, finally to panic, causing him to strike her across the face and call her bitch. How he had torn at her blouse. How she had begun to cry and he had unzipped his flies and roughly pulled up her skirt. How she had pleaded with him to stop, please stop. How he had partly pulled partly ripped her pants down and entered her. How it had seemed to go on for eternity and she could do nothing but endure it. How he had stepped away from her when he had finished, adjusted himself, and left.

It had taken a few minutes to work out what to do next. She knew that she could not tell the truth. She would be held to blame. Phil could not possibly understand. She had emptied her purse of money and credit cards, putting these into her coat pockets, and then left the building by the emergency staircase, emerging into an alleyway. She flung her purse over the high wall at the end of the alley, then staggered out onto the street. A passer-by had come to her assistance and she had fabricated some story about having been assaulted. The lie of the past couple of days had grown from there.

She shuddered at the memory of him touching her. She knew that she had been na‹ve. She forced herself to become numb again to the memory. She got up from the sofa and walked purposefully up the stairs to the bedroom. She switched on the stereo and filled the room with music as she began to pack. She filled three suitcases with clothes, shoes and toiletries, and another travel bag with favourite books and cds. She knew that this was no holiday she was about to take. Somehow, living in this house, being in this marriage, she had lost sight of who she was. She had tried to be somebody different, and had watched her husband slide into being bland and successful.

She picked up the phone and called a cab to take her to the airport. She lugged her heavy cases and bag downstairs. She thought about leaving a note but she did not know what she could say. She did not want to leave him feeling that he could try to persuade her back. If she tried to explain how she felt he might feel compelled to do something. She was not sure what. Make promises he could not keep, say he would try to change, things that she did not want. She only wanted to be free, to discover who she was again.

The cab driver loaded her luggage into the boot of his taxi. As he took the last case from her hand and she began to shut the front door, the phone began to ring.

"Aren't you going to get that love?"

She carried on pulling the door towards her, listening to the ring as though from a great distance.

"No, it won't be anything important."

It was still ringing as she got into the taxi. She looked at the house for the last time as the cab pulled away.

Her husband put his phone down. She must have gone to the doctor's. He wondered whether to go ahead with booking the weekend cottage. He thought he should check with her first. They could discuss it when he got home tonight.

aaaaaaaaa

I did not see her for another two years after she left. She came back briefly to sign the divorce papers. It was as though we had never known each other.

She found work as a writer on a local newspaper in Chicago with her friend Suzie's help, and eventually obtained her green card. It was almost a year before I was sure where she was. She didn't write or phone. When I saw Suzie's number on our phone bill, of course I rang, but she would not come to the phone and Suzie wouldn't say very much.

The police never caught anybody in connection with the rape. They found her purse. It was empty except for her house keys and some odd bits of paper. The police said her attackers probably cleaned it out of money and threw it away. The only fingerprints on it were hers.

I never found out who she had gone to see that morning - whether it was a client or someone she had been seeing. Someone at her office suggested that she had been seeing someone for a while but didn't know who or whether it was him she met that day. I think that it probably was, and they had some sort of argument and rather than admit that, she had made up the story about being assaulted and raped. Perhaps he assaulted her. I don't know. I probably never will, either.

It has been a year since we were divorced. Like I said, I still miss her. I wonder if there were signs that she was unhappy and I just missed them. It never once crossed my mind that she might be unhappy.

I'm trying to get back out there but it isn't easy. Mark and Alison have been true friends, really supportive. Mark told me the other day that he'd had an affair once, but he'd quickly realised that Alison is the one for him. I'd thought that Caroline was the one for me. Still, they both seem to think that I'll meet someone else and be happy again. I'll just have to wait and see.

© April 2000 J R Hargreaves