“God knows how anyone has an affair with a human; the lying is bad enough when it’s only a bike”
ing the stairs two at a time.
“It finished early,” he says.
“I just went down to Centra to get milk,” I shout down the stairs, before putting my windburnt cheeks under the bathroom tap.
“But we’ve got milk,” he shouts up. “I’ve just made tea with half a carton and there’s a whole other litre in the fridge.”
“And I wanted a Kit Kat,” I call, checking my face in the mirror for tell-tale signs of guilty glow.
“Oh,” he says, as I enter the kitchen. “Did you get me one?”
“No,” I say slowly which, I’m learning, is how you must proceed when you’re having an affair and innocent questions feel like carefully laid snares. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“You knew I was going to be here,” my daughter says. “Where’s mine?”
“I forgot,” I say.
“Where’s your Kit Kat then?” he says, handing me a cup. “We can have it with our tea.”
“I ate it,” I say.
“You’ve been gone ages,” my daughter says. tising.”
“Traumatising?” I say.
“You try cycling past the boys’ school at 16 with a big red face,” she says. “With boys all shouting, ‘HA, HA, HERE COMES MOLLY ON HER PURPLE LAND ROVER’.”
“Shame you never really got into cycling,” my husband says to my daughter.
“I couldn’t afford to show any sign of interest,” my daughter says to my husband. “Or you’d have had me cycling to school every day on a 10k round-trip. I knew better than that.”
I do too. Especially with Malin to Mizen being 612km. In certain situations, it is wise to padlock your mouth.
My husband catches me cycling up from Paul’s in kitten heels.
I think I can pass off this episode as a flirtation. Friday.
I am cycling over the causeway in my daughter’s runners; my instant-fix afternoon quickie. My husband passes me in his car: I think my number’s up.