Playing Golf? That's His Excuse!

Sunday, finally it is Sunday. The only day which I get all to myself, though not by choice, I would rather spend it with my husband. But at least I can relax and try to get well. Last Sunday I put on my Marilyn Monroe records, I sang and danced around my kitchen pretending to be Marilyn! The Sunday before I was Judy Garland! Now this Sunday who shall I be? Doris Day? Julie Andrews? Or maybe even Dolly Parton?

I downed my second glass of wine. No, this Sunday there is no time to sing and dance my problems away. This Sunday I will become Jessica Fletcher and I will get to the bottom of what has been troubling me.

My husband of eight years, Patrick, has been playing golf every Sunday for four months. He is gone all day, leaving around 9am and he's not usually home until after 7pm. I pointed out to him that it is a very long time to be playing golf. He told me that he has dinner and drinks at the club house afterwards. I could tell that he was lying through his teeth. So, today I will get to the bottom of what my husband is up to, even if I don't like the answers, I will find out.

I've been so stressed these last four months, suffering from depression. Our home which Patrick and I live in isn't helping either, it's old, cold and in the middle of a city. It's constantly noisy. I need peace, quiet and to live amongst nature, I need to move to the countryside. It will help my mental health. I spoke to Patrick about us moving, but I got so stressed about it that it sunk me further into my depression. We never discussed it again.

I head upstairs to Patrick's office, which he told me to never go in. But I know that the answers to everything will be in there. Patrick has been acting so differently, treating me like a delicate flower, tiptoeing around me, being so quiet. These mysterious Sundays are just the final straw. I imagine that he is meeting up with another woman, maybe his beautiful secretary or that blonde who he used to play tennis with. Maybe he just can't deal with my depression any longer and he's planning his escape?

On Patrick's desk is his phone book. The Golf Club's number is in there. Right, I will call them to see if Patrick is there. I will say that I can't seem to be able to reach him on his own phone. Perfect, I'm thinking like Jessica Fletcher already!

As I suspected Patrick is not at the Golf Club. I knew that he was not playing golf every Sunday. I need to find his diary. I search everywhere, in drawers, in the filing cabinet, in his briefcase, then I see it, under a pile of books on the shelf. My heart skips a beat. I know that the answers will be in there.

I reach for the diary and sit in Patrick's chair. I can barely breathe. My palms feel sweaty, I start to shake. I open the diary. Oh my, what will I see? Do I really want to know? My mental health is at breaking point. But I must find out.

Every Sunday for the last four months Patrick has written “Meet Laura, Astonwood.” Who is Laura? Where is Astonwood? Laura must be his woman, his side chick, the mistress. I bet Astonwood is a place, a restaurant or a hotel where they meet up. My heart breaks into a million pieces. Oh Patrick, how could you do this to me?

Anger fills me, an anger which I have never felt before in my life. My eight years of marriage, to the man I love, is over. I am deeply depressed already and now I have to cope on my own.

I go back downstairs and finish off the bottle of wine. I pace the kitchen floor, deciding on what my next move should be. Should I just leave, go to a friend's house? Or should I wait for Patrick to return and tell him that I know everything? I know about Laura and their dirty Sundays at Astonwood.

I cry uncontrollably. I can hardly catch my breath. Patrick has left his coat on the back of a chair in the kitchen, so I do something which I never thought I would do, I search in his coat pockets. Let's see what else I can find. A pen, chewing gum, a letter. The letter hasn't been opened, so I open it. I have nothing to lose now.

The paper header says Astonwood.

Astonwood is an estate agent. Laura works there. The letter is regarding some houses in the countryside which Patrick has viewed. Oh my goodness! Patrick has been looking for a new home for us in the countryside. He hasn't told me, as he doesn't want me to have any more stress due to my depression. He hasn't been betraying me. My darling Patrick has been secretly helping me.