Under My Skin

This is the first instalment in my *Under My Skin* Series.

My name is Rue, and I'm having an affair.

Sometimes I still can't quite believe it.

Not because I think I'm innocent. That would be too easy. But because if you had asked me a year ago what kind of woman has an affair, I would probably have pictured someone completely different from me.

Someone reckless. Someone selfish. Someone with too much time on her hands.

Not a thirty-eight-year-old mother standing barefoot in her kitchen at six in the morning mentally calculating school lunches while simultaneously trying to remember whether the dog's worming tablets had arrived.

My life was full. Oppressively full, if I'm being honest.

Children. Schedules. Shopping lists. Laundry. Vet appointments. Work deadlines. Dinner plans. WhatsApp groups. Permission slips. A husband who loved me deeply and depended on me for more than either of us probably realised.

There was always something needing done. Always someone needing me.

And somewhere along the way, without any dramatic collapse or obvious unhappiness, I think I quietly disappeared inside all of it a little.

James and I had been together for nearly twelve years. Married for eight. He had been married before me, which perhaps explained why I stepped so naturally into the role of peacemaker, organiser, emotional translator and safe pair of hands in our relationship. I was good at it too. I made our life run smoothly. I remembered everything. Anticipated everything before it became a problem.

The trouble was, after years of doing that for everyone else, I no longer really knew what I wanted unless someone directly asked me.

And almost nobody did.

Not intentionally cruelly. James wasn't neglectful in the obvious ways. He kissed me goodbye every morning. We still had sex. We still laughed together. From the outside we were solid. Good, even.

But somewhere over the years, intimacy had slowly been replaced by functionality, and I don't think either of us fully noticed it happening at the time.

One evening a few months before I met William, I was standing at the kitchen island packing school bags while James paced nearby on the phone making plans with someone from work.

"Tuesday afternoon should work," he was saying casually. "Yeah, anytime after lunch--"

"You can't," I interrupted automatically, not even looking up.

He covered the phone slightly. "Can't what?"

"You've got the dentist at four. Then parents' evening at six-thirty."

There was a pause while he stared at me blankly for a second before muttering,

"Oh shit."

I nodded towards the phone. "You'll need to do Wednesday."

He relayed the change into the phone before ending the call and tossing it onto the counter beside me.

"What time's the dentist again?"

I stopped folding the youngest one's jumper and looked up at him.

"Four."

"Right."

He opened the fridge absently while I zipped up school bags around him.

After a moment, I said quietly,

"You need to start keeping note of these things yourself."

James looked over at me, genuinely confused by my tone.

"Why would I?" he said lightly. "I've got you."

He smiled when he said it. Warmly. Lovingly. Like it was a compliment.

And maybe years ago I would have taken it as one too.

But standing there surrounded by permission slips and water bottles and everyone else's schedules, all I felt was suddenly, unexpectedly tired.

Not physically tired. Something deeper than that.

Because somewhere along the way, being needed had quietly replaced being known.

I don't think I fully understood that until the train.

It was raining that Thursday. Proper miserable Scottish rain that somehow soaked through coats and into your mood. The station was overcrowded and humid, everyone standing too close together pretending not to notice each other.

By the time I got onto the delayed train home, I was exhausted. I sank into a seat near the window and tucked my pink jacket tighter around myself with a sigh.

The jacket had been a ridiculous impulse purchase a few weeks earlier. Bright rose pink wool in a wardrobe otherwise dominated by blacks, creams and practical neutrals. I'd nearly put it back three separate times before buying it.

It felt too noticeable somehow. Too bright. Too much for me.

But every time I wore it, I felt a little lighter in it, which was probably why I kept reaching for it anyway.

I was halfway through mentally rearranging dinner plans when someone slid into the seat opposite me.

At first, I barely looked up. Just enough to register a navy coat darkened slightly by rain and hands that looked cold from outside. Another tired commuter heading home after a long day.

Then he smiled at me.

"That's a great jacket."

The comment caught me off guard enough that I actually glanced down at myself before laughing softly.

"Oh. Thank you." I smoothed my hand unconsciously over the bright pink wool at my wrist. "It was a complete impulse buy, but I love it."

"You should," he said easily. "It suits you."

There was something immediately calming about him.

Not in a boring way. Quite the opposite, actually. He had one of those faces that made you instinctively feel safe enough to relax around him. Kind eyes. That was the first thing I properly noticed about him. The kindest eyes I'd ever seen on anyone, I think. Steady and attentive without feeling intrusive.

He looked like someone who listened properly.

As he shifted his leather bag onto the seat beside him, a small notebook slipped from his lap and landed awkwardly between our feet.

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered with a quiet laugh, leaning down for it at exactly the same time I did.

Our hands touched.

It was barely anything really. Just skin against skin for the briefest moment. But I felt it immediately.

Not fireworks. Nothing dramatic. Just this sudden awareness of him that hadn't been there a second before.

When I looked up, he was already looking at me.

And something in his expression told me he'd felt it too.

Neither of us acknowledged it. We simply sat back into our seats almost simultaneously, both smiling slightly now in that awkward, involuntary way people do when something tiny but noticeable has just happened between them.

Then he tilted his head slightly and said,

"Now that is definitely not a Scottish accent."

I laughed quietly.

"No?"

"Not even slightly."

"South African originally."

"I knew it," he said, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

I smiled despite myself. "Is that a good thing?"

"Very."

There was no hesitation in the answer. No flirtatious smirk attached to it either. He just said it plainly, like it was obvious.

Outside, rain streaked across the windows while the carriage rocked gently beneath us. Around us, people sat in silence scrolling through phones or staring blankly ahead after long days at work, but somehow the space between us already felt strangely separate from the rest of the train.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked.

"Twelve years."

"And you still sound like that?"

I laughed properly then. "Apparently my children are more Scottish than I am now."

That made him laugh too. Warmly. Easily. The kind of laugh that instantly puts other people at ease.

Conversation with strangers usually felt like effort to me. A sort of polite performance where everyone asked the same questions and only half listened to the answers.

This didn't feel like that.

This felt easy almost immediately.

We started with harmless things at first. The weather. Delayed trains. How aggressively British people reacted to the possibility of snow. But somehow, without either of us intentionally steering it there, the conversation gradually deepened in that rare natural way that only really happens with certain people.

He asked what I did for work and listened carefully while I answered instead of simply waiting for his turn to speak again.

"That makes sense," he said after I'd explained.

I frowned slightly. "What does?"

"The jacket."

I laughed. "You're going to have to explain that one."

"You seem creative," he said simply.

It should have been such a small comment, but something about it lodged itself unexpectedly deep inside me.

Maybe because I couldn't remember the last time someone had noticed something about me that wasn't connected to what I could organise, fix, remember or provide.

I found myself relaxing more with every passing minute. Leaning forward slightly when he spoke. Talking with my hands the way I always did when I forgot to be self-conscious. At one point I realised I hadn't checked my phone in almost half an hour, which honestly might have been a personal record.

He told me he travelled often for work. Self-employed. Clients scattered all over the country. He wasn't local, he explained. Only on this route every few weeks usually.

Married too.

That should probably have mattered more than it did.

Maybe it did matter. Maybe that was partly why I felt so aware of it afterwards.

But by then there was already something quietly unfolding between us. Not overt flirting. Nothing either of us couldn't technically explain away later.

Looking back, I think recognition is probably the only word I can really use for it.

Like some hidden part of me had quietly sat up and started paying attention.

By the time the automated voice announced there were only two stops left before mine, I felt this strange heaviness settle low in my chest.

I didn't want the conversation to end.

And judging by the slight shift in his expression as he glanced towards the station display and then back at me, neither did he.

For a moment neither of us said anything at all.

The train rattled softly beneath us while rain tapped against the windows and somewhere further down the carriage somebody's headphones leaked tinny music into the quiet.

Then he looked at me again.

"I haven't enjoyed talking to someone this much in a very long time."

The honesty of it caught me off guard. Not because it felt inappropriate. Because it felt true.

I looked down briefly at my hands in my lap, suddenly aware of my wedding ring.

"Neither have I," I admitted softly.

Something unreadable flickered across his face then. Not triumph. Not surprise.

Relief, maybe.

"I don't really want the conversation to end here," he said after a moment.

And there it was.

The moment where this could still become nothing.

Every sensible part of me should have smiled politely then. Gathered my bag. Gotten off at my stop and gone home to my life.

Instead, before fear or logic could properly catch up with me, I reached into my handbag for my phone.

He watched me quietly, almost cautiously, as though he genuinely hadn't been certain what I would do.

Then he handed me his phone.

Our fingers brushed again as I took it from him, and once again that same warmth moved through me so suddenly it stole my breath for a second.

God.

I typed my number carefully into his contacts before handing the phone back.

"You should probably know," I said softly, unable to quite meet his eyes now, "I'm usually painfully honest."

His mouth curved into the smallest smile.

"I had a feeling."

The train began slowing towards my stop.

I stood reluctantly, pulling my bag onto my shoulder while my heart suddenly beat far too hard for something as simple as getting off a train.

Then, before I could stop myself, I looked back at him and said,

"Ask me anything and I'll tell you the truth."

The doors slid open.

And somehow, even as I walked away from him, I already knew something in my life had changed.

The second I stepped through the front door, real life rushed at me in full force.

"Mum, where've you been?"

"Do we have ice cream?"

"Can I have a hot chocolate?"

"Can Ben come for a playdate after football on Saturday?"

All three questions hit me before I'd even managed to get my shoes off.

I laughed tiredly as I tried to stop the dog launching himself against my damp coat while balancing the shopping bag awkwardly against my hip.

"Hello to you too."

From the sofa, James looked up briefly from the television.

"Dad said we can have pizza because we didn't know when you'd be back," one of the children announced proudly.

"Ah," I said, hanging my jacket up carefully. "Pro parenting."

James grinned lazily from beneath the blanket half covering him. "They're fed. That's a win."

And the irritating thing was, part of me knew he wasn't entirely wrong.

The children were happy. Nobody was stressed. The kitchen was still clean.

But even as I smiled back at him, another part of my brain had already started quietly calculating how many takeaways we'd had that week, whether there was enough fruit left for packed lunches tomorrow and if I'd remembered to take chicken out of the freezer for the weekend.

That was the problem with carrying the mental load for a family. You never fully stopped.

Not even for one train journey home with a stranger whose eyes had somehow stayed with you all evening.

"Can I have a hot chocolate though?" came the question again.

"At this hour?"

"Yes."

"No."

"A small one?"

I sighed dramatically. "Fine. But only because I'm emotionally fragile."

That made the children laugh while James smiled faintly at the television like he'd only half heard the exchange.

The evening carried on the way most evenings always did. Homework. Baths. Negotiating bedtime. Finding missing shin pads. Agreeing to the football playdate after mentally rearranging half the weekend to make it work.

By the time the house finally quietened down, I felt emotionally wrung out in that familiar way motherhood sometimes leaves you. Touched out. Talked out. Needed beyond capacity.

James had fallen asleep on the sofa by then, one hand still resting absently on the remote control while some documentary narrated quietly in the background.

I stood watching him for a moment from the kitchen doorway and felt guilt arrive suddenly and sharply in my chest.

Because he was a good man.

That was the problem.

If he'd been cruel or distant or careless, perhaps everything that happened afterwards would feel easier to explain. But James loved me. I knew he did.

He just loved me in a way that had slowly stopped seeing me clearly.

I don't think either of us noticed when that happened.

I showered mostly for the silence.

An everything shower. Hair mask. Exfoliating scrub. The expensive body oil I always rationed despite nobody ever noticing when I wore it. Small rituals that made me feel vaguely connected to myself again after long days spent belonging to everybody else.

Afterwards I stood at the bathroom sink in an oversized T-shirt, slowly removing the remains of my makeup while the house settled into sleep around me.

That was when my phone buzzed softly against the counter.

I glanced down automatically, expecting one of the school mums or another reminder notification.

Unknown number.

And instantly, absurdly, my stomach flipped.

For a moment I simply stared at the screen while my pulse thudded embarrassingly hard in my throat.

Then I opened the message.

*I hope you made it home safely.*

I actually smiled.

Not intentionally. It just happened.

Such a simple message. Perfectly innocent really. But there was something about the fact he'd thought about me afterwards that affected me far more than it should have.

I read it twice before replying.

*I did. Eventually. Survived the football sock crisis of 2026 too.*

His reply came almost immediately.

*That sounds serious. Do you require emotional support?*

I laughed quietly to myself before I could stop it.

From the bedroom, James called sleepily,

"What's funny?"

"Nothing," I answered automatically.

And that was the first lie.

Not a terrible one. Not really. But afterwards I stood there staring at myself in the mirror thinking about how instinctively I had kept that moment for myself.

Another message appeared.

*You said I could ask you anything and you'd tell me the truth.*

I leaned back slightly against the sink.

God. I'd forgotten I'd said that.

Or maybe I hadn't forgotten exactly. Maybe I just hadn't realised how intimate it sounded until now.

Before I could overthink it, another message came through.

*So I'll start easy.*

*Why the pink jacket?*

I smiled helplessly at my reflection.

Such a strange question.

And somehow exactly the kind of question I was already beginning to suspect only William would ask.

I thought about giving a light answer. Something playful and uncomplicated.

Instead my fingers moved before I could stop them.

*Because I got tired of disappearing into beige.*

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

I remember watching it with ridiculous concentration while leaning against the bathroom counter with one sock half hanging out the pocket of my dressing gown.

Finally his message came through.

*That might be the saddest thing anybody's said to me this week.*

I stared at it for longer than I probably should have.

Then:

*That's dramatic. It's just a jacket.*

Another pause.

*I don't think we're talking about the jacket anymore, Rue.*

And that was the moment, I think.

Not the train.

Not our hands touching.

Not even giving him my number.

That message.

Because it was the first time in years I felt like somebody had looked directly at me instead of simply at the role I occupied in their life.

And the frightening thing was how quickly I wanted more of it.

At first, the messages were sporadic enough that I could still pretend they were harmless.

A few throughout the day. Small pockets of conversation squeezed carefully between ordinary life. Sometimes hours would pass between replies because both of us were busy and, I think, still trying to behave like people whose lives had not just shifted slightly off their axis.

I would answer while standing in supermarket queues or sitting outside football practice with the engine running. William messaged from trains, airports and anonymous hotel bars in cities I only ever drove through.

And always the questions.

God, the questions.

Not interrogation. Not forced intimacy. Just curiosity in its purest form.

*What did you want to be when you were younger?*

*What's your favourite smell from home?*

*What do you miss most about South Africa?*

Nobody asks mothers questions like that after a certain point.

People ask what's for dinner. What time the appointment is. Whether there's enough milk.

But William asked about me as though I was still an entire person underneath all the roles I occupied.

And because I had promised honesty, I answered honestly.

Far more honestly than I probably should have.

One afternoon while I was waiting in the car outside dance class, he asked:

*When do you feel most like yourself?*

I stared at the message for ages before replying.

Because I genuinely didn't know anymore.

Eventually I typed:

*Probably late at night when everyone else is asleep.*

His reply came almost instantly.

*That answer made me sad.*

I remember laughing softly under my breath at that because there was something so unexpectedly tender about it.

Not pity. William never pitied me.

He just seemed to feel things deeply on my behalf sometimes.

Over the following weeks our conversations gradually stopped feeling like conversations with a stranger and started feeling woven into the fabric of my days.

A good morning message.

A check-in around eleven.

A voice note while he walked between meetings somewhere in Birmingham or Leeds or Manchester.