by Meg Bignell
I must get the house in order. It’s markedly more disordered than usual on account of me not bothering for a while. Just shows that most of my cleaning is done for the sake of Hugh. I would analyse that further but the fridge smells funny, the fireplace is choked up with ash and Barky has eaten a balloon. Last time he did that I had to check his poos. I’m tempted to pretend I didn’t see him eating it. Dog poo surveillance was never a life goal. Also, when the heck do single parents find the time to change bedsheets?
And I haven’t seen Valda since Sunday. I’ll make her an egg sandwich and pop over for lunch. She loves an egg sandwich. With curry powder. I wonder if she’s read the lesbian book??
8.30 – He’s home!! He’s in seeing the children. They will never go to sleep now. Whipped into a frenzy; their squeals of delight are delightful. Might not be a bad thing if we don’t get around to sex tonight; I’ll have time to reopen the hornbag reawaken the old razzle dazzle. And I’m exhausted from razzle-dazzling the house. I got EVERYTHING done; the house is sparkling, even if I’m not. Valda came over, ate my egg sandwiches and barked orders from the couch. That woman should author a shiny-house-in-no-time book. She’d make a fortune. (I asked her whether she’d read the lesbian book and she said, ‘Yes, it was quite boring.’!!!!)
12.30 – No lovemaking. The children hooliganed around until almost ten and then Hugh showered and by the time I’d pottered about (that time between ten and really late goes so fast), Hugh was almost asleep. He patted my leg with his foot.
And now I’m sleepless and trying not to think about my Lavender Friend in the sock drawer.
I need to get myself out of this solo phase, for goodness sake. This must be the heralding of a new phase, with a team …
THURSDAY 3rd AUGUST
RIA IS HERE!!!! I collected her and her enormous suitcase from the airport this morning. She really does look tired. Her hair isn’t as buoyant as usual and her beautiful olive skin looks sort of tarnished – she’ll do well for a break. But her quicksilver wit isn’t at all tarnished. We’ve been talking and talking. There is always so much to tell her, even in my low-flying life. Hugh has just been pouring us wine, chuckling and getting his own dinner.
About Hugh. We haven’t yet had the romantic ‘how-lovely-to-have-you-home’ talk or any of my planned passionate kisses or anything remotely sexual. He went off to work this morning and I drove the children to school and everything is back to ho-hum normal on that front. There are trousers in the wash basket and I’ve remembered about the precision-timed dance that we do every morning to ensure our bathroom times don’t clash and we can avoid disturbing sights or smelly smells.
Men take up a lot of room …
But Hugh and Ria were so thrilled to see each other again; it was lovely to watch. The Best. They hugged for ages. It was far more moving than Hugh’s and my reunion.
Off I go. Must tend to poor exhausted Ria.
TUESDAY 8th AUGUST
I can’t describe how lovely it is to have Ria here. It’s a bit like having you, dear diary, come to life, insofar as nothing’s sacred. I’ve realised that while Hugh is my best friend in some ways, there are some things you can’t tell a husband. Such as most of my thoughts. ‘Sorry, Hugh darling, no sex tonight. I’ve had a long day with my vibrator and I’m actually a bit distracted because I have a crush on Danny the Champion of the World’s dad and really just want to lie quietly in bed and daydream about divorce.’ Honesty can be foolhardy.
Ria and I have imagined up a trip for me to go on my own to visit her in London for the premiere of I Capture the Castle. Nice to dream. I’ll never do it; we both know that. Ria said, ‘Ah, well. One day when the last of the children is married and living in a gated community with CCTV linked to your laptop.’ I wish I could prove her wrong.
It surprises me that Ria is so tolerant of my children given that she has none of her own. She’s lovely with them. They find her instantly disarming and hilarious. They want to be near her all the time, as opposed to behind their closed bedroom doors (Eloise).
‘Hello hello hello,’ she said when she came with me to collect them from school. ‘You all look old enough for me to say bloody, bugger, ballbag, bollocks and bum trumpets. But not old enough for arse bandit.’ They screamed with laughter, a sound that makes me smile right from my toes.
We’re all having a lovely time together. It’s like the old days when I was trying not to tell Hugh that I loved him and we were all wonderful, platonic-ish friends. This morning Hugh said, ‘I love seeing you laugh so much.’ Do I not laugh enough? Must add laughing to my list of Things to Do.
SATURDAY 12th AUGUST
Today we went for a bushwalk … and herein begins a Very Long Story. I could just sigh, say, ‘It’s a very long story,’ and move on for the sake of my dignity but it’s somehow pertinent to issues of passion.
When I took Ria her tea this morning, she said, ‘I would kill for some proper Australian air. You know, the fresh kind, not the kind with people in it.’ I suppose London air is full of people’s judgements and sorrows and burps and wishes. Here we have unprocessed, wildflower air. ‘We’re so lucky to be Tasmanian,’ she said, and sighed a very sentimental sigh. So unlike gritty old Ria.
So we decided on a bushwalk. Hugh made us a hearty breakfast of eggs and mushrooms and toast while Ria and I bossed the children about rucksacks and laughed about vibrators (I told her about my brave new frontier, bzz bzz). I also mentioned the little balls that came free with the vibrator, which I’d shoved in the sock drawer in my haste to get to the business. Ben Wa balls. Ria insisted I fetch them out.
‘They’re love eggs,’ she said gleefully. ‘You pop them up your muff as you go about your day. The ultimate multi-tasking tool.’
‘You mean, I can fold washing and get horny at the same time?’
‘Well, you won’t be tearing your clothes off but it’s a mild sort of stimulant. Coffee for the cunt.’ She knows I hate that word with a passion. I can’t believe I just smote my diary with it. I gave her a little shove and said, ‘End of conversation.’
But she was on a roll. ‘It’d certainly spice up a family bushwalk.’
‘Ria, you’re a disgrace.’
‘I thought you wanted to be braver.’
‘God, did I tell you that too? Must step away from the gin when we talk.’
‘Calm waters don’t put wind in your sails, Susannah – just ask the ancient mariner.’
‘I’m leaving. Can you please bag up the scroggin?’
‘Bag up the scroggin!’ She snorted through the wall. ‘Make some waves, Helen Fanny Burns. Life’s far too short.’
We all went to Collins Bonnet in the end, where there was a tiny bit of snow for extra refreshment. To distract trudgy old Raff and Mary-Lou’s little legs from the hills, we pretended to be the Secret Seven. Ria said there was orangeade in the drink bottles and said ‘jolly’ in a perfect English accent. Even Eloise was laughing and asking what kippers are. She didn’t laugh when I tried on the English accent, though. I’ll never be cool like Ria. If we really were the Secret Seven, I’d be Pam, the pathetic one who cries a lot, trips on the tree roots and wishes she was more knowing like Janet and Peter.
I never know anything about anything, I thought. I know how to cut ribbons so they don’t fray and to keep the stems of cut hydrangeas very long and that’s about it. Ria must have noticed a slight downcast in my demeanour because she sidled up alongside me and said, ‘I brought the Ben Wa balls; just saying.’
Which is how, somewhere in the transformative air and amid the myrtle trees, I moved from Pathetic Pam to Daring Desiree. It’s a wonder there wasn’t a spontaneous daylight aurora.
The fact that I had two metal balls on a string in my vagina while in the company of my children and best friend in the wholesome scrogginey setting of a mountainside does leave me feeling a bit uncomfortable. But I must emphasise that the insertion was done discreetly, behind a tree. And the actual wearing of them is subtle. Ish.
‘You’re glowing, Zannah. I knew the fresh air would do us all good,’ said Ria pointedly. I glared at her and said, ‘Would you like some cake to put in that cake hole?’
And then things got weird(er). From nowhere, an emu appeared. ‘Look, Mum, an ostrich!’ yelled Mary-Lou (which just goes to show she’s been watching too much American telly) and we all oohed and ahhed and then we didn’t because the emu was making an ominous thumping sound from somewhere deep in its throat and then it ran, straight for us!
For a moment I stood between it and the children and did a silly sort of kung-fu stance but as it got closer, I decided that was a very bad idea and just as I was thinking that, Hugh yelled, ‘Get out of the way!’ and herded Ria and the children up onto a rocky outcrop. Meanwhile I panicked and ran the other way, with the emu in hot pursuit. I ran and ran, all the time hearing that horrible thumping sound and imagining that at any moment I would be opened up from neck to bottom by one of those horrible leathery talons. It was just like Jurassic Park, really. And then, when I couldn’t run any more, I scrambled up a she-oak tree, scraped my hand and tried not to expire from fear and unfitness. The emu stopped running (he didn’t even puff, the bastard) and just kind of waited.
‘I’m okay!’ I yelled out between tearing breaths, because I could hear Raffy screeching, ‘Mum!’
‘I’m okay!’ I yelled again. ‘But HEEEEEELLLLLLP!’ And with that, plop! My Ben Wa balls fell neatly into my knickers. I suppose ye olde pelvic floor doesn’t come into play amid the fight-or-flight response. I did what any besieged human would do. I plucked them out and threw them at the emu. And missed. The emu didn’t flinch.
Then Hugh arrived on the scene with a muesli bar, which proved to be the perfect weapon. He held it out to the emu, who sniffed the air and stepped closer. Hugh threw the muesli bar. The emu went after it, I climbed down from my perch and together Hugh and I beat a hasty retreat, hand in hand. It would have been really romantic had I not been all sweaty and puffed. And in a bit of a state about Hugh not seeing the shiny balls lying on the rocks.
And that, dear diary, is how, when we are far beyond the Anthropocene epoch and aliens are picking through plastic to analyse the geological history of the Earth, they will find my love eggs in the unlikeliest of places.
Later I said, ‘Does anyone buy the idea that I was acting as a very brave decoy and that me running saved all your lives?’
And Ria said, ‘No.’
Hugh rubbed my back.
On the way home I tripped on a lot of roots, but I also laughed. And laughed and laughed. Ria imitated my kung-fu pose.
None of us thought to question why there was a solitary emu poking about on Collins Bonnet. They’re not native to Tasmania, are they? I’ve worried about the poor thing since. A bird that can’t fly, alone up there with all the wallabies. It must watch the cockatoos and fret terribly about its identity. I hope there’s a native hen or two up there so there are at least a few other birds whose wings don’t work. They need to stick together.
I must add that when we got to the top, the view was INCREDIBLE. Once we’d stopped our puffing, there was that glorious silence that happens when something is so lovely that it takes away words as well as breath. They’re not needed because the picture before you is calmly painting the words. Silence. Like this:
Silence truly is golden when there are oft-grumbly children partaking in it, and when you can see all the way to the sea. When the silence was broken, it was by Raff remarking on the unusual call of a bird. And then Jimmy asked Ria to put the bird call in her music, to which Ria said, ‘That’s the best idea any seven-year-old bloke has ever had in the history of the world.’ And Jimmy beamed.
‘What are the birds saying?’ asked Jimmy and we all had a guess. Hugh’s was, ‘Who wants a bit of nookie?’ which was eerily significant, and Ria said, ‘I think they’re saying that everything’s all right.’ So we all shut up and listened again and Jimmy – my second-least snuggly child – snuggled into her and said, ‘I like that. We can just listen to the birds when we feel sad.’
It was the sort of moment you’d put on Instagram and everyone would feel a bit miffed that they hadn’t taken their children walking up a mountain and put them in a moment in which bird calls were a thing. Bird calls would rarely register with the youth of today. Unless they were tweets.
Once the children had got bored with the silence they built cairns while Hugh and I prepared lunch. Hugh said, ‘Well, this is nice.’ Ria had a little snooze. It was. So nice. When we got down we saw fit to stop at a corner shop and get a bag of mixed sweeties each. They were the ones with teeth and pineapples, racing cars and milk bottles, etc. Eighties treats. No one minded that they weren’t all that soft. I dropped mine and lost a couple to the gutter so Mary-Lou gave me a pat and one of her honey bears. I’ve never liked honey bears but I was so touched I cried. Happy tears. Really happy ones.
‘I love having you here,’ I said to Ria and she said, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ but she squeezed my hand and looked a bit watery in the eye department too. Hugh just smiled at us.
Then we came home and I could let the children watch telly without any qualms about them not being active enough, so Hugh and Ria and I could drink wine and eat French sticks and cheese.
It was a lovely day.
Everyone’s in bed now. I said I’d tidy up. I haven’t. I’ve clattered a few pots, written these words and finished the last of the wine. Must sleep. Ria’s doing her concert tomorrow night. I can’t be a complete wreck.
PS The ‘love eggs’ didn’t lead to passionate sex. And I know there is not much in the way of relevant sparky points lately, but there is contentment, lots of it. I think I look different next to Ria. Less blurry, perhaps? Less sick of myself. Anyway, contentment could spark romance, which sparks lust. Not tonight, though. Bit achy in the hip region.
PPS A few days ago I was fantasising about being without Hugh; that divorce would be freeing and spacey. Today, Hugh is an anchor and the thought of floating aimlessly away without him, with the likelihood of wreckage, is anything but freeing. Gosh, such mood swings. Are my hormones, since I passed forty, controlling my brain?
SUNDAY 13th AUGUST
It must be said that alcohol, in quantities that take you to the ‘love youse all’ level but not a drop beyond, is a powerful spark tool. The trick is to make sure you stay balanced on the level of high self-confidence and euphoria, without falling into staggery skankville. Last night, it appears that I nailed it.
Before I went to bed, I removed every stitch of clothing and sort of slunk about in front of the mirror, tried on some heels, took off heels (naked with heels is not my thing, especially because my only heels are Mary Janes with a thick heel – I looked like a librarian who’d forgotten to get dressed) and flipped my hair from its usual side parting to the other side, as though I was shedding an old self.
In the bedroom, I stood above Hugh and gently stroked his shoulder. He opened his eyes and squinted up at my silhouette. (I left the wardrobe light on for a bit of mild illumination.) I slipped in under the covers and on top of him. He gasped (possibly because of my raw sexuality but more likely because I’d been posing in front of the mirror for so long that I’d got a bit cold). I kissed his chest, his neck, his lips, then took his arms above his head and pinned them down. His groan was both a sound of pleasure and a
question: who are you? So I showed him who I could be. Daring Desiree. All the commanding, searching, touching, thrusting, knowing parts of her. He was powerless. He shuddered and gasped and tried to hold back but in the end succumbed to the wave of his climax. When it was over he lay washed up on the sheets and I stroked his hair until he fell back to sleep.
I didn’t mind that there wasn’t time for my own orgasm. I knew exactly how to manage that, with the minimum of fuss.
I actually woke up this morning feeling a little embarrassed, in case my memories of the liaison were distorted by alcohol, but Hugh tipped up on one elbow beside me and said, ‘Wow,’ and then again, with a sort of disbelieving laugh, ‘Wo-ow.’ So I’m thinking I was totally en pointe. Then he said, ‘But you didn’t get to …’ (Clears throat, eyebrow waggle – bit hard to say ‘come’ in the harsh light of day.) ‘Would you like me to sort that out for you now?’
Without thinking I told him that I’d sorted the problem out for myself, which made me blush because I’d forgotten that he knows nothing of my solo efforts while he was away. He looked surprised, then impressed and said, ‘I’d like to see that.’
‘If you’re very good,’ I said from under the covers where I was finishing my blush. When I emerged, I think he was looking at me differently.
WE HAVE PROGRESS! Must try to figure out how to do that without the bottle of wine.
Anyway, Hugh’s taken the boys to Jimmy’s end-of-footy-season sausage sizzle and left the girls here with me. His smile sparkled at me when he left. Ria’s had to go and get organised for her performance tonight. She’s previewing some of the Capture songs; I can’t wait.
The girls are bickering. None of the children argue with Ria. Because she plays with them, I suppose. I avoid playing because it disappoints me. Everything I like – books, puzzles, word games, card making – is too BO-RING for them. Not enough action. It’s a side effect of all those stupid devices and instant entertainment. Delayed gratification is a thing of the past. They have each other to play with anyway, and they’ll never know how to make their own fun if I’m constantly making it for them. Fun is like sandwiches. You have to learn to make your own or some bastard will add too much onion.