Catherine had been puzzled for more than a year. 

Puzzlement had niggled its way into doubt, and doubt had become suspicion.  The thought that Daniel was having an affair insinuated itself into the vacuum of a non-communicative, childless, marriage thirty years in the making.  Insinuation had become insistence.

He explained the late night office meetings, and attending an increasing number of conferences, as the inevitable price of advancing his career.  He was just “getting on”, climbing the corporate ladder and, as he frequently reminded her, to the benefit of them both.

She managed to dismiss his sudden interest in more colourful and younger casual clothes as an attempt to stave off a mid-life crisis.  It was less obvious why he now occasionally joined her shopping, because he had always said that shopping with her was mind numbingly boring.  However, as he seemed to be genuinely interested in her choices, she had taken it as evidence that, however late in the day, he was showing her that there was still something about her that he found attractive.  By far the most surprising change was that there had been signs of a sex drive that had lain dormant in him for years.  Once or twice, though, when sending his suits to the cleaners, she thought there had been the faintest hint of a perfume not hers, a smudge of lipstick on a lapel, and once a stray red hair, but these were easily explainable as innocently transferred at post-conference dinner-dances.

But then, in the week before her 49th birthday, there was no room left for doubt. 

When he was supposed to be at work, she saw him in Next buying a dress and, anticipating her present, she had excitedly bought herself some matching accessories.  He did not give it to her.  He gave her life membership of the National Trust.  Visiting dusty old buildings with her was another thing he had always avoided, so she suddenly felt like she, and their marriage, was also dusty, roped off, “do not touch”, history.

It was an affair.  A younger woman.  Perhaps younger women.  She was briefly hurt, but only briefly.  Then she was furious, incandescent, vengeful but, once calm, steely.  She realised that the next conference provided her with a golden opportunity to find him out.  She would catch them “in flagrante delicto”, and she would be done with him.   

It wasn’t difficult to find out from his office which hotel he was registered in.   Waiting for him to return at the end of conference business was the most difficult part, keeping the lid on simmering rage while she rehearsed an eviscerating tirade.  By midnight she assumed that whatever was going on would be going on.  Being able to prove her relationship with the occupant of room 242, on the pretext of surprising him on his birthday, a romantic and understanding night porter was persuaded to give her the electronic key.

Standing outside the room, holding her breath, she listened intently.  There was no sound.  They must already be in bed.  Catherine slowly eased open the door, but in the soft lighting she could see that the only thing on the bed was a pair of high heels and a pashmina.   She picked it up and crushed it against her face, and there was the perfume she had smelled weeks before.  The bastard had never bought her Jaeger.  The Lauren dress she had seen him buy was draped across a chair, and jewellery lay on the dressing table.  His discarded clothes lay in a trail to the bathroom door, from behind which came the unmistakable sound of giggling.  Gotcha!

But, on opening the unlocked bathroom door, Catherine’s boiling fury completely drained away.

Daniel, standing in front of the mirror, was now red-headed Daniella, and in pants, tights and a rather nice bra, she was applying her mascara.