Janice Horton - The Backpacking Housewife - Escape around the world with this feel good novel about second chances!

I also saw my phone was almost out of charge, but I didn’t have a two-pin charger.

Instead of calling my sons back, I texted instead.

I’m fine. I’m at the Holiday Inn in Bangkok. Don’t worry.

I’d already spoken to my mum and my sons from Gatwick. I’d been in a bit of a state.

Well, that’s an understatement, I’d been in a hell of a state.

My mum had been just as distraught and as angry as I was when I told her what Charles had done to me. Josh and Lucas aren’t children anymore, they’re grown men in their twenties – so although they, too, were upset, they’d also understood my reasons for leaving their father.

‘Mum, stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you!’ Josh, my eldest, had insisted.

‘No. darling, please, I need to get away. I’ll call you when I get there.’

‘Where is there? Where are you going, Mum?’

‘As far away from your father and his whore as I can possibly get!’ I’d yelled into my phone.

Now, feeling faint with hunger, I brush my teeth and shower, before slipping into one of the lightweight dresses I’d bought at Gatwick and deciding I’ll be brave and go down for breakfast.

I seem to be operating on autopilot. Not so much thinking but functioning. My head hurts from crying, jetlag and dehydration. Downstairs, I manage to buy painkillers, a two-pin plug adapter in the hotel shop, and order coffee and a chocolate chip muffin at the lobby café. It’s 1 p.m. local time and so breakfast has apparently been over for quite some time.

The café is busy. I sit at a table next to a couple of middle-aged American ladies who are chatting to each other enthusiastically over a tourist map and planning their afternoon sightseeing. ‘I say we go to the Grand Palace and the Emerald Buddha,’ says the blonde one.

‘Or, we could head over to the temple on the river and save the palace and the Buddha for tomorrow?’ suggests the redheaded one.

I listen. These are all places I’ve dreamed of seeing myself for as long as I can remember.

But now, in such stressful, horrible and lonely circumstances, I doubt I’ve the confidence or the courage to go out amongst the heaving crowds of strangers to explore alone.

Which makes me question what I’m doing here, if I’m too scared to even leave the hotel?

I could have stayed in London and done the same thing, after all.

The two women suddenly stop talking to each other and look directly at me.

I’m tearing my muffin apart into bite sized pieces.

‘Which would you recommend, honey? Have you done the palace yet?’ asked the blonde.

I falter at being spoken to so unexpectedly. I guess I’m still feeling invisible.

‘Oh, erm, I’m sure you must go and see them all.’

‘Oh, you’re English,’ they both say in unison, sounding delighted. ‘I love your accent!’

I nod. ‘Yes. But I just arrived here last night, so I’m not really the best person to ask.’

‘There is so much to see. If you’re wondering what to do first, then our advice would be to go to the floating market. It’s wonderful. We went last night, didn’t we, Marcie?’

Redheaded Marcie nods eagerly. ‘Oh, yes, you must. There’s wooden boats on the river all piled up with things for sale and local food being cooked right from the boat. It’s amazing!’

I smile and nod my head again as if I’m agreeing, but I don’t want to go to a floating market. I don’t want to go to the palace. I just want to go back up to my room and close the curtains and cry. But I only have another couple of hours or so to decide to either book another night at this hotel or to move on. But to where? I really don’t know yet. I don’t know what to do . What an odd feeling it is to be so disconnected from normal life.

Here I am; a stranger in a strange land full of strangers.

Yet this feeling of total anonymity has ignited something within me too.

It’s a weird feeling. What is it? Excitement? Freedom?

I realise I could start my life anew. I could be someone else entirely, if I wanted.

Because no one knows me here. No one knows anything about me.

Marcie and Joanie continue chattering. They tell me how they’ve been friends for years but they both now live in different countries. Marcie lives in Australia on the Gold Coast. Joanie lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Both their husbands, they tell me, are in banking.

‘Boring men who’d rather stay at home than travel!’ they chorus gleefully.

‘Sounds like my husband,’ I agree, wondering why I’d even mentioned him.

‘So, we meet up in a different place every year and tick something else off our bucket list,’ Joanie tells me. ‘Last year, we met up in Hong Kong.’

Marcie roars with laughter. ‘Oh, yeah, we had a ball in Hong Kong!’

When we part, the ladies go off laughing and chatting and I go back up to my room.

I sit on my bed and plug my phone into its charger, thinking about my own bucket list.

I do have one. I’ve had one for a long time. Only, until now, it’s been more of a wish list.

My phone suddenly comes back to life and I see I have two new messages.

One is from Sally, the traitorous whore, and one is from my lying husband.

I can hardly believe their nerve in texting me.

Especially as it’s so obviously coordinated.

I open Sally’s first. In it, she says she’s sorry for the way I’d found out about her and Charles, but apparently, she’s not sorry about their affair (which she calls a ‘relationship’) that has been going on for over a year. I want you to know Charles and I are in love and that he was planning to leave you. I feel like her hand has just come right through the phone and slapped my face.

My anger flares up again. Tears of betrayal fill my eyes and pour down my cheeks.

How can this be true? For over a year? How could I not have known about this?

Have there been any tell-tale clues, that I’ve missed?

Receipts for things I hadn’t known about? Meals, hotels, gifts?

Has Charles’ behaviour over the past year been an indication?

He’d been a little distant. Uncaring on occasions. Indifferent, certainly.

Should I have been going through his pockets and secretly checking his phone records?

We hadn’t been having sex. Was that a factor?

I’d just assumed we were typical of all couples who’d been married a long time.

Charles works long hours for seven days a week, running our business. He often complained of being tired. I understood when he fell asleep in front of the TV at the end of the day. But what kind of wife doesn’t have a clue that her husband is fucking another woman?

A busy one? A preoccupied one? A trusting one?

An incredibly stupid one?

I open Charles’s message next. It’s written in short, sharp sentences, exactly the way he speaks in real life. Lorraine, I’m divorcing you. We haven’t been happy in a long time. Let’s keep things amicable. Best of luck. Charles.

Divorce! Amicable? Luck?!

His reason for having an affair is that we haven’t been happy in a long time?

On the contrary, it sounds to me like Charles has been very happy indeed.

Going balls deep in Sally behind my back while planning to leave me!

But he’s right about one thing. I haven’t been happy. I’m not happy.

I’ve been bloody miserable for as long as I can remember!

It seems clear to me now that I’ve spent my whole life waiting to be happy on his terms.

Charles is eight years older than me. I was only twenty-two when we met and started dating. We both worked at a travel agency office in town back then. He was the branch manager and I was on the sales desk. It was my dream job and he was my dream boyfriend. He seemed so worldly. Charles and I fell in love over our passionate plans to explore the world together.