But I Told Her I Don't Like Cats

I found out a terrible thing about my husband. I found it out long before we married. Actually, it was just a little after we met. I forgave him and decided I could make it work. In all honesty, maybe I always knew, on some level. The very thing that should have repelled me, drew me in. Isn't that the way with all of us?

In any case, I am losing the knack of these things. You know. Computers. Pens. I am going to have a lovely long bath and a nap, and I'll let him tell you all about it.

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I started to suspect my wife was having an affair. It turned out to be a bit more complicated than that. Listen, it's my turn to cook dinner tonight, so let me go and brown some sausages and then I'll come back and tell you all about it. I don't like cooking, but if I don't take a turn, all we'd eat would be fish, and I'd loathe that even more.

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I told her I didn't like cats. I told her before we married, I said, Janice, once Gladys dies we aren't getting another. Gladys was her pet, of course. I thought it was odd, naming it after her mother, but people can be strange about their animals, can't they?

I wish I'd been able to lie, way back when we first met. I could've said I was allergic. But she'd already had Gladys for years by then. It wouldn't have been fair. I never insisted she get rid of it, of course. I'm not a monster. The creature was already pushing fourteen when we met, how was I to know she had the better part of a decade left in her? Twenty-fucking-three she was when she finally copped it. Oh my eyes.

Anyway. She was devastated when Gladys died. I tried to talk sense into her. I said, "Janice, listen, it was just a cat," and holy hell you'd think I'd shat on her mother's grave or something.

The next thing, she starts disappearing of a night. I'd wake at 2am and her half of the bed would be empty. At first, I just assumed she went to the bathroom, or to get a glass of water. Occam's Razor, yes? One night she seemed to take a terribly long time to come back to bed, and I asked her the next morning, "What happened to you last night?" and she replied, "Oh, I couldn't sleep so I went downstairs to read my book. You know I'm a night owl, and I didn't want to wake you with my tossing and turning..."

It sounded very reasonable. But it started happening all the time. Always, she had an excuse. "Oh, I had a tummy ache." "I was feeling a bit sick." "I needed a snack."

Around this time, she started feeding strays. That ticked me off no end, as you can imagine. She'd found a loophole hadn't she. "Well, darling," she said reasonably, "you know I'm a cat person. This is a compromise."

I ground my teeth. I shut windows that I kept inexplicably finding open at all times of year. I tried to lock Gladys' old catflap, but it seemed to be broken. I threatened to replace the door, and Janice threatened to drown me in her tears.

One night I was feeling a little, shall we say, affectionate, and I waited for her to come back to bed. And I waited. And I waited. Nearly two hours later, the door creaks open, and she tiptoes round to her side of the bed. I lie there, seething, long since on the wilt, quite frankly, and I breathed as if I were amid a peaceful slumber.

It was a lie. The first of many lies. On my side, at any rate. She'd been lying to me for years by then. I wasn't asleep at all. I don't think I slept a single, solitary wink. My brain was ticking all night long.

In the morning, I brewed real coffee. I sat at the table and brewed as well.

I know I looked like death, because I'd caught a glimpse of my face in the landing mirror - the only mirror in the house. My wife hates mirrors. She is a petite person, and this one is too high for her to see herself in. My eyes were red rimmed, and my face looked like it had been haphazardly put together with slabs of grey Play-Doh.

What could she possibly have been doing in the middle of the night? For hours! It couldn't be some birthday or anniversary surprise she was working on. We'd only just recently celebrated both of those. I didn't hear the front door, so she couldn't have actually gone anywhere. But there are all kinds of ways to have affairs these days. People meet online. Flirt with each other by text. Send each other fruit emojis and all sorts.

I drained my coffee and went up for my shower. It steamed. I steamed. I was certain she was having some sort of illicit wossname with some - some - boy toy - and I was going to find proof. And then I was going to confront her, and then - and then - well, I didn't know what then.

I started by checking her browser history. Empty. Ha! That was suspicious for a start.

Next, I tried to check her phone, but nothing on there except pictures of bloody cats.

Only one thing for it. Catch her red-handed.

We went to bed, normal-like. Was it my imagination or did she make ever such a show of cleaning her teeth and brushing her coppery waves? She sleeps naked, my wife, and I will admit to some amorous thoughts when she sloughed the robe and slid between the sheets next to me. She's a fit woman, all things considered. I eyed her thinking, I don't know how she does it. The closest she gets to a workout is Olympic Napping. Must have a terrific metabolism.

I turned my back on her creamy, dreamy curves, had a stern word with Him Downstairs, and tried to think of something unappealing to bore him to sleep. At the same time, I had to keep my own mind alert, while I closed my eyes and steadied my breath.

This "pretending to kip" lark was a bit like being a child again, lying between my Star Wars sheets on Christmas Eve. Desparate for a peek at Santy Claus but also quite determined that he should be convinced I was many miles into Dreamland already.

I allowed myself the softest of snores, ears pricking to hear the sound echoed behind me. At last, her breathing changed, became more shallow, softened to a quiet rumble. I did not move a single muscle. Wait, I told myself. Don't be previous, now. Waaaaiiiit.

Her facade ended, almost with a snap. It could not have been more abrupt if she'd received some sort of signal. In my mind's eye I could see her eyes pop open wide, lying still, listening to see if I stir. Very obligingly, I continued my slow, shallow breathing as if I'd noticed nothing. I felt the mattress shift with her weight. She's sitting up now. Big stretch - she always does that. Feet feeling for her slippers. Another movement - that's her standing up. Pad, pad, pad around the bed, lightfooted as you like. Sneaky? Surely in my line of sight now, but I dare not crack my eyelids to check, in case she is looking right at me to be certain I am deeply asleep. Creeeeeeeaaaaaak. Pad pad pad. Quieter, now, on the landing (pad pad...) and the stairs, even quieter still...

At last, I let my eyes ping open, and I stared into the gloom. It's no good. I can't see a bloody thing. She must have used the light from her phone to be able to see to get around the bed. I switched on the bedside lamp and noticed it still lying there, next to her book Carbonel.

Aha. If she's being unfaithful, of course she's left her phone - she has a second one! My heart was really thudding at this point. I pulled my bathrobe - confrontations in the nude are so undignified, I feel - and tiptoed after her, determined to catch her in flagrante.

Do you know, she was nowhere in the bloody house? I searched high and low and she was nowhere to be seen. The front door hadn't clicked. Where could she possibly have gone? The wind gone from my sails, I headed back upstairs, not troubling myself to be silent this time.

Hang on. Did she definitely go downstairs? What if I've been unfair to her? What if she just has one of her tummyaches and she's gone to the spare room to avoid disturbing me? I lingered at the door. It seemed the most reasonable explanation. I tapped.

"Janice? Janice, honey? Are you in there? Is everything OK?"

No answer, except for the softest of thuds. I pushed open the door.

Moonlight streamed in through the open window onto the bedspread. Cat hairs.

Well, now I had plenty of things to be cross about. The wife has gone sneaking off somewhere in the middle of the night, and has been doing so on the regular for goodness knows how long. Goodness only knows what she is up to. She's left the damned window open (again) and one of her strays has got in.

Inspiration struck. I felt like Aragorn, or that chap from The Lone Ranger. I stood very still and put my hand out to touch the moonlit patch of ginger and white hairs. Still warm.

My breath caught. The air in the room felt tense, coiled like a spring. It's still here.

I squatted, balls hanging free in my robe, a perilous temptation for stray claws. But worth the risk. I peered under the bed.

There it is!

Right at the back by the wall, wide golden eyes fixed on me. When I reached for it, a rumbling snarl emanated from its white throat. I hesitated. Sod this, it's my blasted house! I reached again, closer this time, hoping to grab it before it knew what was happening, but it shrank back closer to the skirting. Ears flattened, mouth open, teeth looking terrible sharp. I'll wring your little n- damn! Those claws nearly got me!

It took a few attempts, but in the end it broke for freedom and tried to streak past me. Almost managed it too, wicked fast it was. I grabbed it by the tail, got my other hand on the scruff of its neck, and hauled it out into the moonlight. I marched it down to the front door aloft, at arms length, where its claws couldn't reach me, and dumped it outside with no ceremony but a great deal of satisfaction.

Before I went back to bed, I shoved a large box in front of the broken catflap to stop the little blighter getting back in, and checked all the windows.

I lay awake till dawn, and no sign of my wife.

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The police were no help whatsoever. I think I was not convincing enough that this was out of character for Janice. I mentioned about her restlessness at night, and they took that to mean she'd done this before. In my distress, I confessed I'd been worried she was having an affair, and I saw the shutter come down in their eyes. That's it then, she's done a runner with her side-piece, no mystery at all, nothing to get worked up about...

Over the following days and weeks I oscillated between worry, anger and depression. When I wasn't frantic and searching for her, calling every relative and acquaintance I could think of, or drinking bitterly... I was shooing that damned cat away from the house.

It got gradually raggedier, and I almost took pity on it. Almost!

And then, one night last week, I heard her.

"Jerry? Jerry, it's me! Let me in!"

She was on the back doorstep, naked as the day she was born, and looking very much worse for wear.

I didn't believe her at first. I thought she was insane. I was ready to call someone, get her taken to a special hospital. But she convinced me to shut her in the spare room, and when I opened the door - she was gone, and there it was. Ginger and white and blinking at me in the moonlight.

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Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment so I can reciprocate. Tell me what details stood out to you. Did anything pull you out of the story?

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