Do they smell it?

It happened about a few summers ago.

As I made my way through the mad rush of passengers darting from one platform to the next at Paddington station I heard a familiar voice, "Cate, how the devil are you?!"

I laughed. It had been years since I had seen Phil, but he was still very much the same despite having lost a few pounds and graying a bit around the temples. It was a pleasure to see him and I told him so. And with his posh West Country accent he winked and said, "Likewise my dear and YOU are as beautiful as ever."

We stood and chatted for a few minutes and then I glanced at my watch thinking I really should get home. But it was Phil and I hadn't seen him in ages so what could be the harm? And so he convinced me to call the babysitter and tell her I was going to be a little later than expected demanding that we must have "a proper chat".

And so we did.

Phil has always lived life a bit more extravagantly than the rest of us. While my husband and I were scraping together our pennies to rent a two bedroom flat in the city, Phil had a big house with the Jaguar in the driveway and a real diva for a wife. She had once been an opera singer and not only did she have a voice that could command a room but the attitude to go with it. I never understood what Phil was doing with her. To me he was the epitome of English charm and social graces. It didn't matter where he was or who he was with, he was always full of stories that had you crying with laughter while he ordered you another pint. But his wife took her diva role seriously and quickly put a stop to his trips to the local pub and just about anything else that Phil described as fun - so what the hell was he doing with her?

Apparently I wasn't wrong in my line of questioning. Phil was now asking himself the same thing and confessed that he had gone to visit an attorney the week before. The house was up for sale and the Jaguar had long since disappeared to another part of England where the diva has since found herself a new man to push around.

I felt bad. This is Phil's second failed marriage and I could see the distress in his face. So I got out my soapbox and began to express my views of marriage and how I think it is a farce that anyone can still possibly feel any great enthusiasm for their spouse after ten years of dirty laundry, in-laws and mortgages. He laughed and I kept on. I described my own marriage as workable because my husband and I are competing to see who can get more stamps in our passports and we are not doing it together. We hardly see each other so we get along marvellously!

Stupid, stupid Cate.I finally came to my senses and realised that I was going to have to drain my bank account to pay the babysitter if I didn't get home soon. We kissed the air, Continental style, and parted ways for another few years.

Or so I thought.

The next afternoon my phone beeped with a message. Ahhhh... Titus! And my heart skipped a beat at the thought. But it wasn't my lover. And it wasn't my husband. It was Phil. He'd sent me a lovely message thanking me for my company the evening before and hoped that we could do it again some time. So I politely responded in kind and figured Miss Manners would give me a star of approval.

And then my phone beeped again. A 'thank you' for my 'thank you' and a wish that I was enjoying the lovely, albeit wet, English weather. I responded again. This time with an explanation of how I had so much work to do that I could barely see straight. I hoped he might take the hint that I need to put the phone down and get on with things. Instead I got a recommendation that I should see an optometrist and a hope that my baby blues weren't hurting too much. My patience for politeness was running out fast. It was all terribly sweet but I wasn't really in the mood for chit-chat. So I finally got a bit blunt and told him I was off to collect children from school. It worked.

Until the next day.

I got another text. Actually about ten of them. And fortunately this time I was less concerned about having manners fit for the Queen and made it clear that I didn't have time.

It worked again.

Well, not really. I may have managed to discourage Phil's enthusiasm for idle chat via text but I hadn't got the message through that I got up early the next morning and noticed that my phone was flashing with a message. It was Phil again. And I nearly dropped the phone.

It wasn't the usual message full of niceties and good wishes. This was much different. In it he declared his admiration for me that had begun years ago when we worked together. He then went on to explain how he had been burned, twice now, and didn't want to make the same mistake again. Seeing as I was all by myself most evenings he felt it the gentlemanly thing to do to offer his services and keep my bed warm since my husband was rarely around to do it.

Oh. My. God.

My heart was pounding, but not in a good way. It was one of those rare mornings that my husband was actually home. He was still in bed sound asleep but my brain sped through the dozens of possible scenes that could have happened had he seen my phone first.

Thankfully he hadn't. The message had only been sent an hour before and my husband is not an early riser. But I was stunned by Phil's stupidity. And I was even more in awe of how he could have the audacity to suggest that we should have an affair. I admit that I tend to be oblivious to many things and have often found myself wondering 'did he just imply what I think he did?'

But Phil didn't imply anything. He came right out and suggested that we have a little fun with no strings attached. I am certain that he was not suggesting we go parachuting.

So this leaves me asking the very question written above - do they smell it? Is there something about me that gives away my sinful side? Have I unknowingly joined some kind of secret society? Can adulterers can spot each other in a crowd when others can't? I once had a colleague who explained the wonders of Gaydar to me and exclaimed, "when you are in the family, you just know". Does the same thing apply to the unfaithful?

Hmmm. I wonder.

Cate xxx