It was universally acknowledged, amongst their friends and family, that Sophia and Drew were one of the world’s more elusive creatures; a perfectly happy couple.

Married for three years, second marriages both, they had skipped past the brutal stages of life. It wasn’t that they hadn’t done the hard yards, Sophia was careful to explain to those interested, it was that they hadn’t had to do them together. Drew had never borne witness to the appalling moment when Sophia had slapped the beetroot red face of her squalling newborn. Sophia had never been abandoned to cope with three children under three by a younger Drew off on a dirtbike weekend. It was by tacit agreement that they shared these snippets of their former lives; God knows the guilt I feel, but I was pushed to the limit, and Jeez I was selfish, I can see that now, but only so they could hold them up as mirrors to the new, untarnished people they now were to each other.

Within this pristine, unblemished relationship, they congratulated themselves on their feelings as they shared those murmurings universal to all lovers. You are all that I need. You are my best, my only, my everything. I will never leave you, never hurt you, never let you down. Sophia adored the way Drew’s tanned skin contrasted so beautifully against the pale white of her own. The way his calloused hands were not afraid to touch every part of her, as though he knew her woman’s body better than she did herself. Under Drew’s gaze, Sophia felt loved and adored and worshipped. Drew lavished kisses on her feet and told her she was beautiful. He stared at her with awe in his eyes when he came. “If I asked him,” she found herself telling a friend, “to rob a bank for me, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he got up from his chair, gave me a kiss, and told me to sit tight, he’d be right back with a great sack of cash.”

It didn’t matter, Sophia told herself, that Drew depended on her more than she did on him. That she was the smart one, the strong one. With Drew, she was free to be playful and mischievous and cheeky. He indulged her and worshipped the ground she walked on. In turn, Sophia took care to tread in exactly the right manner. Four years on and the sex was still daily, and still filthy enough to sometimes shock him. For Sophia, it was as though Drew saw only her. He understood, she thought, how lucky they were. How precious their relationship was. She could be smart and strong for both of them. They had paid their dues in other lives, and when they’d glided to a halt, they’d looked up and found each other.

So it came as a very great surprise to Sophia when she received an email from Drew’s mistress, detailing a nine-month affair.

On receipt of the first email, and long before the drawn-out exhumation of the details of fornication, an icy splash of shock hit the top of Sophia’s head and flowed down her body until she was completely encased in a comforting cocoon of numbness. It wasn’t actually that bad at all, Sophia found herself thinking through the fog. Drew’s apologies and self-flagellation fell like droplets of hot iron onto the carpeted floor of the study where she sat marooned at the computer. Further emails flooded through with attachments latched onto them as proof: photos and movie tickets and a Scoopon voucher for a weekend away to a place in the bush Sophia had never heard of. These things happen she found herself saying, as through Drew were a small child who had spilled a glass of milk.

“Out of everyone we know,” her friend Kat said, a week later over a cocktail, “I’d have put Drew last on the list of who would cheat on their partner. I would have sworn on a fucking bible that he only had eyes for you. He clearly adores you.”

Sophia, who had set about reinforcing her precious numbness with a series of frozen margaritas, paused mid-sip and nodded vigorously. “I know. I think he’s surprised himself.”

“Why did he do it? Has he told you? Does he even know?”

Not yet secretive about the affair, Sophia again lifted her head from the drink to reply. “He said sex.”

Kat looked incredulous. “But he had that with you.”

The numbness had spread to her ears. Sophia held out her hands, palms facing up. Clueless. “I know.”

We, Drew had said, days later when the truth really started pouring out, leaving him staggered by his weightlessness now that the lies were being drained away. We discussed being careful, you don’t have to worry about that. Sophia was amazed that hearing that one pronoun from his lips could hurt more than hearing he’d been fucking another woman for the past nine months. Carefully. Not continually though. Drew had wanted Sophia to know that. Three weeks in April, another two in August, and the grand finale in December, four weeks of fucking bliss before he’d decided he felt bad and broke it off, and the Other Woman had decided she wasn’t going to take that shit without throwing some back and sent every single one of his badly spelled emails to Sophia.

Why, Sophia had asked. She meant how could you do this, you were supposed to need me, but why was all she could manage to pass through desensitised lips. He squeezed his eyes shut like the pain was his, not hers, and said it was just sex, it didn’t mean anything.

“Then how do I know that sex with me means something to you?”

“Jesus Soph.” Drew looked away. Ran his fingers through his still thick hair. “Can’t you tell the difference?”

There weren’t any answers, Sophia learned. Or at least none that made anything better. It didn’t stop her from looking for them though – in the middle of breakfast, during ad breaks, whenever he got up to leave the room. Once, at four o’clock in the morning, Sophia sat bolt upright in bed and shook Drew awake to ask if he had gone down on the other woman. A sleepy Drew, who was floating on the benefits of uncensored honesty, had replied unthinkingly. Some details, Sophia discovered, hurt more than others.

Sophia became careless. She drank too much, she drove too fast, and when she did them together and the police pulled her over, she was so obviously beyond caring that they drove her and her car home and let her off with a warning. The female policeman waited until her partner was busy texting his wife that he was going to be late home to grab Sophia by the arm and whisper into her ear. “All men,” she hissed, “are liars.”

The policewoman was right. Drew was a liar. He hadn’t confessed, he’d gotten caught.

He was sorry, he said. He said the same thing for two months straight, but Sophia couldn’t bring herself to believe such a watery sentiment for more than a few minutes at a time, fewer if he wasn’t there. The Boy Scout face she had married no longer reassured her, the words of love he lavished upon her had been soiled by their use on another woman. When he kissed her toes she had to consciously restrain herself from slamming her feet into his face. Still, she went out and bought perfume and lingerie and she lit candles and she went through the eight top positions preferred by men and acted like someone too insouciant to care that her husband could never pay enough for his betrayal. And Drew, who wasn’t as strong or as smart and never had been able to spell, fucked his wife as though it were a penance, and that with each union achieved, he was one step closer to achieving absolution.

And afterward, Sophia would lay there with her head on Drew’s chest, in the lingerie that itched and dug into the tender skin under her breasts and listen to him breathing. With time, her understanding would wither and grow hard and bitter, but for the while, it was still flexible enough to seem capable of stretching on forever, or at least far enough to smother the terrible betrayal, and for Sophia to pretend that they would once again be a perfectly happy couple.

– Alison Key