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and plunked down onto a seat beside a young man who was holding a chair for her in the over-packed class.
    Her intelligent, brown eyes would follow him around the class as he spoke about composition and diction, and he would convince himself that he was not falling in love with a young woman seven years his junior, and to top it off she was a student in his class.
    The day came when he asked the class to write an exit essay on something they felt passionately about. Her essay was about a mystery man in her life, she used adjectives like longing and wanting to be closer to this man, and he was jealous out of his wits. The essay was excellently written but he could not bring himself to give more than a B—he was not pleased with the subject matter.
    She stayed behind in class on the final day, her heart-shaped face was scrunched up with consternation. “Sir, this is an outrage,” she advanced to his desk, her slim frame poised for war.
    “I want to know why I got a B, and Tony,” she said, referring to the boy who sat beside her in class, “in all his awkward descriptions of his homeland got an A. Why?”
    She seemed to bristle from head to toe. She asked the question with such devastation that he replied, “Who is he, who is this mystery guy and why are you so passionately involved with him?”
    He went around his desk and stood before her, forcing her to look up at him. He wanted to shake her then find the guy and shake him.
    “It’s you,” she whispered and then walked out of the classroom, leaving him with his mouth wide open.
    He had to run her down as she fled the building. He turned her around; her body was tense as if she expected a lecture.
    “I feel the same way. I have been hiding it well.”
    She sighed as if a burden had lifted from her shoulders and asked, “Where do we go from here?”
    Three months later they were married. Within a year they had their first child, and twelve years on, he was facing the unpleasant gun of divorce pointed squarely at his heart. In a warped way, Karen had initially reminded him of all the promise and the anticipation of those first days with Marie.
    “Will that be all, Mr. Cameron?” his assistant asked, her face set in disapproving lines.
    “Uh huh.” George realised that he had not heard a word she said.
    “Cynthia,” he said, before she left his office, “get Jean Abrahams for me please.”
    “You mean the counsellor?”
    “Yes the counsellor, and my mother after.”
    “Okay, sir.” Cynthia shut the door and left him swimming in his thoughts.

CHAPTER TEN
     
    Marie
     
    I gripped my tattered diary closer as I sat on the steps of our back veranda. I could hear my mother-in-law fussing over Gabrielle’s hair somewhere in the house. She came over the house more and more frequently since the dramatic revelation of her son’s infidelity.
    I guess in her own quiet way she was ensuring that we stayed together, and that the family was living as smoothly as possible. I stared at the pink and yellow buds of the mango tree and tried to do the detachment exercise that I was fast beginning to learn. Every time I envisioned my husband stewing in a vat of oil with Karen, or burning in a fiery furnace somewhere hopefully still with Karen, I would relax my muscles and stare at an unmoving spot. The mango tree was making for a good location.
    I hated the tinge of guilt that still clung to George whenever he was near me. The furtive looks, the walking on tenterhooks. I did not want to feel as if I had something over him or that it was my responsibility to the family for things to run as smoothly as it did before. I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to take my children and hide somewhere from my husband and his defection.
    Mrs. Cameron came and sat beside me, her purple-rinsed hair hidden under a stylish hat.
    “I heard that there won’t be a divorce,” she began.
    I nodded and continued to stare at the mango tree. I was not interested in having a heart to