Susie doesn't know what she wants.
She knows what she doesn't want, which is much less helpful.
She doesn't want to make up lunchboxes every day for the next ten years. She doesn't want to wait at home while other people are playing golf or in the pub. She doesn't want to do all the grocery shopping and all the present buying and all the noticing when people need new shoes and socks and shirts and football boots.
She doesn't want to go to one more dinner where she's just a wife, and she has to pretend to be interested in all the other wives and their cars and their children while they pretend to be interested in hers.
She doesn't want to have an affair. Not the one she has, anyway. She doesn't want ten minutes of mumbled half-conversation and a guilty fumble and weeks of worry and a lurch in her stomach when she sees him around, after.
Sometimes she thinks she's getting closer, though.
She doesn't want to be an athlete, but when the wind whips her netball skirt around her cold legs, and she bounces on the balls of her feet, waiting, and the ball comes towards her and she catches it and spins and throws it as hard as she can, she feels good about who she is in that moment.
She doesn't want to be an actor, but when she puts on the clothes of someone else, someone powerful, someone desirable, she feels a little of that power flow into her and it helps her to walk a little taller, speak a little louder.
She doesn't want to be Caroline, but when she looks after the dogs for the weekend or waters the plants, she feels important. And when she talks with Caroline – whispering in the back at the Guild, or chatting when she drops the kids off from school – she feels at ease. And when she catches Caroline in the corner of her eye, watches her from afar, notices the way she sits, they way she moves her hands when she talks, the way she flips her hair back...
She doesn't know what she feels.
But she knows it's something like what she wants.