The SECRET TO NOT DROWNING

by Colette Snowden

  We have been shopping for the ingredients today. We followed the full ritual. I made the list. He drove. I got the trolley while He parked the car. I pushed the trolley while He ticked things off the list one by one. I looked briefly at the special offers but didn’t get any – going off list is not in the rule book. But He did okay the box of mint chocolates to go with after-dinner coffee: they were £1.50 off and there was only one box left on the shelf, so it would have been silly not to.

  And now He’s leaving me to it. That’s what He said when He left the house.

  “I’ll leave you to it, love. I’m just going to meet Jimmy for a pint.”

  I turn round expecting Him to say something else but apparently He wasn’t planning to.

  “What?” He says, “It’s only a pint. It’s not like I’m going to be much use here, am I? I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  And for a minute I let myself think that maybe He won’t be back in time for Julie to arrive and perhaps Julie and I will have a lovely meal together and talk about her mum some more and talk about any old thing.

  I wash the herbs. My hands sting in the cold, cold water and I wish I didn’t have to wash them because it takes away the lovely smell. But the flavour will still be there and the smell will come back as they cook.

  And sure enough the cooking smells fill the kitchen and the hall and the living room. I wonder if people can smell the food I’m making as they walk past the house. I wonder whether it will make their mouths water. I wonder if the whole of Morocco smells like this or whether the genuine article smells nothing like it. I hope Julie likes it. I hold on to hope of a pleasant evening with nice food and my friend and my husband.

  I leave the lamb in the oven and the Tiramisu in the fridge. It’s only five and everything is all but ready in the kitchen. The table cloth is ironed and the wine is open and breathing, for whatever difference that makes. I have time for a shower and time to dry my hair and put on some make up and get dressed and set the table and put the rice on the stove before Julie gets here (He doesn’t like the couscous that it says in the recipe book, He says it’s like eating sand).

  So I switch on the shower and brush my teeth while the water gets hot. I shake the bottle of shampoo that I took from the hospital. There’s still a little left. There’s still enough left for today and probably, just about, for the next time too. And the smell of it takes me back there again. Back to that curiously female place with its faint odour of boiled vegetables, and its disposable this and that, and its pastel decor. I watch the suds of expensive shampoo wash all the way down my body and rush to the plug hole and I think myself into tomorrow and imagine myself here again, still fine, still taking a shower, still friends with Julie, still this person with the lovely clean hair.

  I’m clean but I can’t quite bring myself to step out of the shower. The water is too warm, too lovely and I’m not ready to switch it off. From all warm and comforting to shivering with a towel wrapped round me, just like that. It doesn’t seem right. It must be how it feels for a baby when it’s just born. One minute all snuggled up and warm in the dark and the quiet and the next out in the world with the lights and the air con and everyone chattering away.

  But then He’s here. He’s knocking on the side of the shower cubicle and pointing to his watch. It’s quarter to six. He’ll be wanting a shower and He’ll want a walk round to check everything’s sorted before Julie gets here. I switch the water off and He watches me as I let the last of the water run off me and open the doors and step out into the draughts and the steam.

  He stands there while I get dry and I can’t ask Him to leave me to it. So instead I just chat like it’s fine that He’s there, like it’s a good thing I’ve got this five minutes with Him so that I can finalise plans for tonight.

  “Nice drink?”

  “Yeah. Jimmy’s got some new girl on the go. Says he’d like you to meet her and see what you think.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, yeah. He seems to think that you’re a good judge of character. Goodness knows why!”

  Indeed!

  “So where’s he found her, this girl?”

  “Dunno. Picked her up in some pub or other, I think. Is everything ready for tonight?”

  “It is. The food’s all but done. The tablecloth’s on and the wine’s open. I just need to get dressed and everything and go and set the table and get the rice on.”

  “And I just need to get my shower,” He says. “If you’re finished.”

  “I am.”

  “Great. See you downstairs.”

  When I get into the bedroom the dress I’d put out has been swapped for something else. But that’s OK. That’s not the main thing. I put on the dress that He’s chosen for me instead. I like it. I bought it. It’s not as if there’s much in the wardrobe that I don’t like. Then I dig deep into the bottom of my jewellery box to find a necklace that my first boyfriend bought for me. It’s a piece of old tat. It’s the ‘Love is...’ couple holding hands in some kind of base metal that turns your neck green if you wear it too long. His name was Jason and I haven’t thought of him in years. We only went out for a couple of months. We never even did it. But he was lovely and he meant it when he gave me the necklace and it will sit on my collar bone all evening to remind me that I am a real person with years behind me and more years in front of me.

  I put my make-up on. I’ve always thought it’s a shame for boys that they don’t get to do this. Not your everyday average sort of bloke anyway. My mum always used to call it putting her face on and it was amazing what a bit of make-up could do for her. One minute she was super-banshee yelling at me, crying because she couldn’t find the lid for the Tupperware box she’d put my lunch in. The next minute she was supermum with the perfect eyebrows and the immaculate lipstick, with a face that said, ‘I am a perfectly calm rational human being’, even though the inside of her handbag with its three half-empty packets of cigarettes, indigestion tablets and Post-it note reminders told a different story.

  I have a rule of thumb with make-up. It needs to be obvious enough that I can tell I look better, but not so obvious that anyone would think I’m vain enough to have to wear make-up all the time. I smudge concealer all around my eyes and it’s like rubbing out the pencil shading that was there before so that my brown eyes look lost like two little buttons on my pale, pale face. Then I draw their outline with a grey pencil and hold my mouth open while I brush mascara on the top and bottom lashes. I have a pot of pink stuff that does to liven up my lips and my cheeks and then that’s it. I look just as I did before but like I’ve had some fresh air, or a drink or two, or a good, brisk walk in the country.

  Jesus. I’ve not walked the dog. It’s ten to seven and Julie could be here any minute and He’s still in the shower and I haven’t walked the dog. I could take it out now but she might get here while I’m out. I could just not take him out but he might crap on the floor while we’re eating... not the most appetising of starts to a meal.

  The door bell rings.

  “I’m so sorry,” says Julie. “I hate people who are early. It’s so rude. I was trying not to be late and I think I tried too hard. You look nice.”

  She hands me a bottle of wine with one hand and a box of chocolates with the other and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You look lovely. Where’s....” and she silently mouths his name.

  “He’s upstairs. I think He’s just got out of the shower. Everything’s set, but I’ve just remembered that I haven’t taken the dog for a walk.”

  And as though his little fluffy ears were burning Chips bundles through the kitchen door and scurries down the hall to greet Julie. Not exactly guard dog material, but very cute.

  “He’s so cute! What’s his name?”

  “Chips.”

  “Awww. That’s so cute. Hello Chips, hello little fella.” She bends down to fuss the dog and he runs
round her ankles in excitement.

  “I’d love a dog,” she says, “I always swore I’d have one when I was a grown-up but with work and everything I’ve never managed it.”

  “I should have got him out for a walk so that he can do his business.” I can feel the stress rising. I was so organised. I had everything under control and now it’s all going to be ruined by the dog’s bodily functions.

  “I can take him out for a walk, then we can pretend that I wasn’t early and I can arrive fashionably five minutes late.”

  “Are you sure? It’ll probably mean picking up his poo and carrying it home to the bin.”

  “Will there be a gin and tonic in it for me?”

  “For sure!”

  “It’s a deal!”

  So I give her the dog’s lead and off she goes with the dog, leaving me to put the rice on and set the table and pour her a double.

  He need never know that Julie was here and that I fobbed the dog off on her. He need never know, but of course He does.

  “Did I hear the door?” He asks. It’s a rhetorical question.

  “It was Julie, she was a bit early.”

  “So where is she?”

  “She’s gone for a wander with the dog.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He just gives me the Explain Yourself face.

  “It’s OK. She was early and the dog needed to go out for a walk and she wanted to take him out for a walk and that’s perfect ’cos now I’m making the rice.”

  I turn round and the pan with the rice in it is bubbling over, with thick white foam lifting the lid and white slime forming down the sides of the pan.

  “Oh, is that what you’re doing,” He says. And he takes the G and T I made for Julie and leaves the kitchen.

  I stick two fingers up at the door behind Him and turn the heat down on the rice.

  Just as the rice is ready, Julie arrives back with Chips and a little black bag full of triumph.

  “He did one,” she says gleefully and holds it up for me to admire.

  “How kind of you to bring it back for me. Put it in the bin outside, would you? Dinner’s ready.”

  “Is my gin ready too?”

  “Yeah, it was. It will be in a minute. You take the poo out and I’ll sort the G and T situation.”

  I drain the rice, I pour drinks for Julie and me, and I give the dog a little cuddle and I put a couple of chunks of lamb into his bowl. I’m not sure how his stomach will cope with coriander but it seems to go down OK.

  “You remember Julie, don’t you?” I’m carrying the pot of lamb; she’s carrying drinks for her and me. “I’ll just go and get the rice.”

  By the time I go back into the room He’s sitting next to her, pouring her some wine and thanking her for taking Chips out for a walk.

  “I bought her the dog because I thought it might help her get over losing the baby,” He says. “Looks like the baby had a lucky escape if she was going to be as eager to fob that off on someone else as she is that poor dog.”

  “Marion didn’t fob the dog off on me, I asked if I could take him for a walk,” says Julie. “I’ve always wanted a dog. In fact, one of my neighbours has a dog walking service to check on hers during the day, maybe I should just get one and hire someone to look after it.”

  “Like a childminder,” He says.

  “Exactly,” she replies. One nil to her.

  She loves the lamb and tells me so three or four times.

  “Yeah, I’m a lucky man,” He says. “She’s a great cook.” No irony. No crushing follow up. Just that.

  “It’s so good just to be out of the office and eating proper food,” says Julie. “I’ve just had such a full-on couple of weeks. I’ve been working ’til seven or eight, getting home, having a couple of pieces of toast and getting some more work done. We’ve had a couple of people off sick and work’s just been taking over my life.”

  And she delves into the pot for seconds without even asking and I just completely love her and He just stares at her and eats and stares.

  “You do look like you’ve lost weight,” I say.

  “That’ll be the stress,” she says, mouth full, fork poised for the next one.

  “Marion clearly has a stress-free existence,” He chips in.

  She shoots Him a look. Every woman He’s ever met has been sucked in by his super-confident alpha male routine. Including me. Especially me. But not Julie. Julie doesn’t give a shit. Her bracelet jangles with every mouthful she takes and I wonder about the charms and what made her choose each one.

  “So, you’re not married then, Julie?” He asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Ever come close?”

  “Close enough to know it’s not for me.”

  If ever there was a polite neon sign saying ‘that’s enough, change the subject’ Julie is flashing that sign now. But He takes no notice.

  “So why’s that?”

  “I think I’d be more of a husband than a wife,” she says, “and generally speaking that’s not really what your average man is looking for.”

  I laugh so suddenly and unexpectedly that wine spurts out of my nose and I have to fake a choking fit to try and cover it up.

  “Marion!” He says and suddenly I am my teenage self and my mother is standing there disapproving of me and telling me I’ll never find a husband if I can’t improve my manners.

  “I was very lucky,” Julie says. “My mum brought me up to be happy with who I was and to expect to make my own way in life. It must be much harder for girls who grow up waiting to be somebody’s wife. Let’s face it, whatever you dream of being as a kid always turns out to be not quite the fairytale you’d built it up to be, once it’s real. If it’s your job, at least you can console yourself that you’re being paid for it and you’ll get to retire one day, but if it’s being a wife and things are not quite the Disney ending, what d’ya do?”

  Obviously this is a rhetorical question but either He doesn’t get that or He just doesn’t want to let it go.

  “Presumably you count your blessings,” He says. “Presumably you stop being such a self-indulgent little miss and realise that it’s not all about you.”

  He’s talking to her but really He’s talking to me.

  “It’s like fox hunting,” He says. “You know,” He pauses for a sip of wine, “the fox might not have a great time of it and it might look a bit unfair to the outsider that such a lovely, delicate animal is being chased by all those dogs and people and horses. But the fox is the predator and it’s hard as nails. And there’s a natural order to the way things are. And who’s to say that the fox doesn’t have the time of its life running away from the pack? It probably dies in an orgasmic stupor.”

  Julie looks at me. I look at my plate.

  Silence.

  “Don’t you think?” He says.

  “I think I need a cigarette,” she answers. “D’you mind if I go outside for a minute? It’s a horrible habit, I know. I only smoke a couple a day.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “You have a cigarette while I get the afters.”

  “It’s fine to smoke at the table,” He says.

  “It’s OK,” she says. “Shivering in the dark in the garden is part of the punishment for the addiction. If you let me smoke indoors I’ll be on twenty a day by the end of next week!”

  Julie and I both get up from our seats and head into the kitchen, her with her own plate in her hand, me with mine and his. She puts her plate on the worktop and then just stands there.

  “The key’s in the blue pot on the shelf.” I gesture with my forehead while I open the bin with my foot and tip the remnants of my dinner in.

  “Fox hunting?”

  “He’s just looking for something that will get your back up, so he can cause an argument.”

  “I argue for a living.�
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  “But you’ve got a night off.”

  “Don’t you ever feel like killing him?”

  “Frequently!”

  She laughs. She gives me a hug in her awkward way with her bony arms and takes the key from the pot, unlocks the kitchen door and disappears into the darkness outside for her cigarette.

  “My mum used to call them cancer sticks,” He says as I put his dessert down in front of Him and Julie sits back down at the table.

  “Sticks and stones, I say to that,” she smiles at Him. “Something’s got to see you off at some point and if the gruesome pictures on the packet aren’t enough to put me off, I don’t think the odd heckler here or there is going to have much of an effect. I smoke two or three a day: frankly, I think I’m more at risk from the number of packets of crisps I eat and the distinct lack of anything green in my fridge than I am from the tar and nicotine in a packet and a half a week.”

  She plunges her spoon dramatically into her tiramisu, scoops out a massive blob of it and grins as she devours it in a devil-may-care-about-the-calories sort of way.

  I feel like giving her a round of applause. But He hasn’t finished.

  “So what does your mum think about your smoking?”

  “My mum? She thinks I’m a grown-up girl and she should probably not treat me like a teenager,” says Julie with another dismissive spoonful.

  “So was she bothered about it when you were a teenager?”

  “She probably would have been if I’d been smoking then, but I was a speccy-four-eyed swotty type back then; I wouldn’t have dreamt of smoking. It wasn’t until I started working fourteen-hour days that I succumbed to the nicotine and, frankly, it’s probably helped to keep me alive rather than killing me.”

  I daren’t put any tiramisu in my mouth in case I end up snorting food through my nose again. I wonder if she can train me to talk like her. I wonder if she could give me a phrase book of smart one-liners that I can pull out of the bag when He gets like this. I put some tiramisu on my spoon and scrape the extra off the top so that it’s perfectly flat. I sit with it ready in my hand and wait for Him to give up.