Still, that first date couldn’t have come fast enough as far as I’d been concerned. We’d talked on the phone though, bonding over telly programmes we watched – as far as I can remember we were both addicted to an amazing new American forensics show, CSI. Ha, that programme’s ancient now, but at the time it seemed so ground-breaking. But then, everything that’s exhilarating at first feels ordinary eventually. Maybe that’s what has happened to me and Daryl too…
I’d had such a time deciding what to wear for that first date though because, typical Daryl, he’d been really vague about what we would be doing; maybe eating, maybe go to a pub, maybe even the cinema, he hadn’t decided at that point. My entire wardrobe had been tried on, discarded onto the bed, then dug out from the bottom of the ever-growing pile, tried on again with different shoes, different jewellery, different attitude…discarded again. After all that, I think I ended up playing it safe and wearing jeans and a spangly top, plus a leather jacket, reckoning that would cover every sartorial eventuality a date could throw at me.
When I’d heard the beep of his car horn I’d almost jumped out of my skin. I can still vividly remember peering through the net curtains of the small side window in my old bedroom at my parent’s house, and seeing him standing there. He’d got out of the car and was leaning on the open door, waiting for me, watching me as I walked towards him, a big smile on his face as he took me in. His look had set my heart racing. I’d been a gonner from then, really.
Then, as we’d set off, I’d ask him if we could have some music on. He’d pulled a face, looked like he’d been put on the spot. ‘I’ve got a CD stuck in the player,’ he’d grimaced. ‘It’s the only thing that’ll play and, err, it’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘What is it?’ I’d asked, immediately curious.
He’d sighed the sigh of someone who was resigned to his fate; he’d known there was no getting out of confessing now. ‘It’s Barry White…’
‘The Lurve Walrus?’ I’d burst out, smile widening to a grin.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I bought it for a laugh the other day and it’s stuck. I’ve tried thumping it but it doesn’t make any difference, so what can I do?’ he’d shrugged.
‘Go on…play it,’ I’d coaxed, teasing. And he had. You’re My First, My Last, My Everything had started up, and we’d ended up singing along to it as it played over and over again until Daryl had pulled into a gastro pub where we ate.
I can’t tell you what we talked about for the rest of the night, although clearly the date went well because here we are all these years on and still together. But I will always, always remember singing along to Barry White, and the sheer joy of that moment, the connection I felt with this man as we messed around.
And now, in the cab of his truck, I felt that same connection with him as we bombed along the motorway. Yes, this trip away had been a good idea.
As we drove Daryl told me about the rig and motorways and life on the road as a ‘tramper’ (I find the slang name for truck drivers hilarious, but there you go. Sounds like he puts it about a bit, and I do love the expression on people’s faces when they ask what my husband does for a living and I reply ‘Oh, he’s a tramper.’ Then I have to explain that it’s the name for a lorry driver who lives in his truck all week, which is actually quite dull). He was telling me stuff I’d heard a million times before but for once I didn’t just shut him out and daydream, I tried to listen. Well, if he’s making an effort then I have to. Although sometimes it was hard work…
‘When you’ve 44 tonne on the back of the truck you don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s a killing machine; you brake too hard or go into a bend too quick and…game over,’ he said. ‘It takes a real man to drive one of these, to control it.’
He looked so serious. He really thinks driving a big truck is the manliest thing in the world. Wow, if a Porche or a Ferrari is a penis extension, what the hell is a truck? Still, I nodded, wide-eyed. He didn’t look in the mood for a laugh, he looked like he was desperate to impress me and have me in awe of him the way I had been when we first started dating. It made me sad, to be honest, because I can’t be that young woman again, so in love that just the thought of seeing Daryl would make me feel the biggest rush that I swear he should have been made illegal, like a drug.
After a few hours we pulled into a café and had a cuppa, then while Daryl tinkered with the engine I had a lie down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfy and I closed my eyes, tired from the early start and all that travelling – honestly, how Daryl manages to do so much driving without falling asleep is beyond me. I seem to get shattered just from the motion of a vehicle, be it a car, train or lorry, and the constant hum of the engine acts as instant lullaby. Well, it works on babies, doesn’t it, that’s why so many parents drive round for hours with their kids in a car seat, and I must be the same.
The truck door opening toppled me over the edge from dozing to wakefulness. Daryl had clambered into the cab and was just pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves, like surgeons wear.
‘Something wrong?’ I murmured, shading my eyes from the low, bright sun that was slanting through the windscreen and half blinding me.
‘No, no, just going to clean off one of the spark plugs a bit, that’s all, ‘ he said, holding the wrist end of the glove with one hand and opening and closing the other to pull it down until it was entirely encased. He let go and it made an audible snap against his skin.
Clean freak that he is, he always wears these gloves if he has to mess with the engine. The oil gets everywhere and he hates the way it ingrains itself into the skin around and under his fingernails, making him look like he hasn’t washed in months. Says it makes him feel like he looks homeless because they are so blackened and dirty. It doesn’t look great, I have to admit, and it’s virtually impossible to get off – and as for clothes…! It’s a real pain, has ruined many a decent shirt of his. That’s why he’s started wearing a kind of boiler suit when he is driving, that way he can whip it off in a flash if needs be to reveal a smart shirt and trousers beneath. Then all he has to do is pop on a tie and voila, he is ready in seconds to have a meeting with clients even at short notice. He still chucks shirts away every so often though; he’ll go out with one then come home without one, saying it’s been ruined. Wish he’d just bring them home so I could at least try to get the oil out, but never mind.
Normally I think he looks quite sexy in his overalls, in a rough kind of way. But those gloves… Yuck! Enough to put anyone off. ‘You look like a gynaecologist when you’re wearing them,’ I said, wrinkling my nose. ‘Like you’re ready to give some poor unfortunate woman an internal.’
He wriggled his eyebrows up and down suggestively, posing with his hands in the air like some kind of magician’s assistant. ‘Oh yeah?’ His eyebrows were working overtime. ‘Hmmm, I’ll give you an internal right now, if you want.’
‘Eurgh!’ I blurted. Then he wriggled onto the bed, pinning me down with his weight and almost knocking the breath out of me. He is 14 stone of solid muscle, so I didn’t stand a chance as I giggled and bucked beneath him, pretending to try to kick him off.
‘Now then, keep still, this won’t hurt a bit,’ he promised, kissing me, latex-clad fingers exploring my body….
Bloody hell, was the sex HOT. Bit weird that he kept the gloves on the whole time, but there was no time to rip them off, he was like a man possessed. We did everything, and I mean everything. It was sweaty, crazy stuff that was enough to make the watching nodding dogs on the dashboard blush; it hasn’t felt like that in a while, umm, if ever, actually! It certainly wasn’t making love, but we both just…exploded. Sometimes, just his kisses turn me on, and his hands were all over me, those massive, massive hands that are so strong but so gentle.
Afterwards we hit the road for another couple of hours then went to bed early. Snuggled down and popped on the night heater for a little while to make things extra cosy. And lay in total silence. We’d got nothing to say to each other at all. For a few h
ours I’d been fooled into thinking things were improving already, just because our sex life is looking up. What an idiot I am to think it was going to be that easy to fix things.
I’m ashamed to say it, but I pretended I was asleep. Well it had to be better than us blatantly lying side by side in awkward, hideous silence. At least this way, it seemed like we weren’t speaking for a reason, and that has to be an improvement. Right?
Saturday dawned bright and early, and we got on the road again. ‘Can’t hang around, can’t be late. Come on, hurry up,’ Daryl romantically told me as soon as I woke.
Maybe he’d guessed I hadn’t been asleep, but the good mood he’d been in the day before had disappeared. Conversation was stilted and hard work, and I found myself wracking my brains for things to say. And as soon as I do that it always has the opposite effect, because it seems to make my mind freeze completely so that all I can think is, ‘think of something!’ which isn’t very helpful really.
Perhaps the only reason why we work is because we never see each other. He’s away so much with his trucking job that he’s only home a few days a week at most. Perhaps, for all I complain about it, that’s actually what keeps us going. Because as our weekend together progressed, I had this horrible realisation. I feel disloyal even thinking it let alone writing it down, but here goes…
Sometimes when we spend a lot of time together I realise I don’t actually like Daryl.
There, I’ve said it. I am a horrible, horrible person.
I do love him, most definitely, but I don’t like him that much. I wouldn’t want to be his friend. We’d never just hang out together. Thing is, I feel on edge so much of the time when he’s around. I’ll be trying to guess what kind of mood he’ll be in. And if he’s in a bad mood I’ll bend over backwards to change it; if he’s in a good mood then even when we’re having fun there is a bit of me holding back, analysing, making sure I don’t do anything to ruin the atmosphere.
Oh, and he’s always telling me the ‘right way’ of doing things, but what he really means is his way. Making a cup of tea, washing the car, filling up the car with petrol (you must always, always, always, give the pump a little wiggle before pulling it out of your car because there are a couple of drops of petrol that will fall from it. The logic is that as you’ve paid for them so you’re entitled to them, and if you don’t take them, think of how much petrol you’re wasting over a lifetime. ‘You’ve paid for it but never taken it? Then you’re stupid,’ he always says. I’m willing to bet that if I saved it all it would only be enough to turn the engine on and then for it to die, but the way Daryl talks it is probably enough to fly me to the moon and back, or possibly for me to become the next oil tycoon, a new JR Ewing). Apparently I wasn’t even capable of stacking washing up properly until he came into my life and set me on the path of enlightenment.
Anyway, we went to Tilbury Docks. It wasn’t the same as Salzburg, funnily enough. Another day in the cab, making conversation about landmarks. I even went through the newspaper, reading bits out of The Sun to Daryl so that we could talk about them – that was quite nice actually. He loves the news, is fascinated by it, from politics to nasty crimes. I’m not bothered really, but I suppose that’s why he’s cleverer than me. I don’t know though, I just felt a bit…awkward and depressed. Even sleeping in the cab had lost a bit of its novelty value.
To be honest, it was a relief to get home yesterday at lunchtime. First thing I did was nip to the corner shop for some chocolate. Just hearing the cheery ting of the bell made me relax, grabbing a bar of something yummy made me feel even better. By the time Ric had grinned from behind the counter, ‘Have a lovely evening, lady, thank you so much’ the world was a better place.
Back at home, I had a bloody long soak in the bath and munched on my treat; it felt great to be alone again for a while. I could hear Daryl pacing up and down the hallway, talking on the phone. From the tension in his voice I guessed it was his mum. He really can’t stand Cynthia… I once found a birthday card she’d sent him, screwed up and chucked in the bin.
MARCH
Saturday 2
I’m so angry. Daryl is always in control, always in the driving seat. I can’t even phone him if he doesn’t feel like it; he’s always switching his sodding mobile off because he says the boss has a real thing about the possibility of him even talking on the phone while driving and does spot checks to see if they’ve been using them. Pah!
There are two things that make me not believe him. First, he’s freelance, so even though he pretty much constantly works for one company because they are always subcontracting to him, he is in fact his own boss; and Daryl is not a man who likes being told what to do by anyone, especially if he is meant to be the one in charge. And secondly, it’s amazing how he breaks the ‘no calls’ rule when he wants to talk to me, but suddenly when I talk to him it is a different story. And yes, it could be argued that he is sweet and wonderful for ever breaking the rules for me and that I should be grateful instead of narky, but I am really not currently in the mood for accepting that sort of thing. Grrrr!
We’ve just had an argument and the childish git put the phone down on me and has switched it off so I can’t call him back. It’s so typical of him – if in doubt run away, put your head in the sand and ignore the problem. Make the other person sweat so that then at least he feels he has control over the situation. It’s pathetic, infuriating, patronising, and has all the hallmarks of a control-freak who has to be in control because they’re too damn cowardly to trust anyone else. Manipulative bollocks!
The bastard actually said he fancied Kim the other day (actually what he said was…and it is so un-PC I can barely make myself write it… ‘That chinky mate of yours is all right looking; I’d have her.’ His nickname for her used to be Thai Bride until I pointed out that she was born in Chelmsford and that her mum is originally from China. I’d foolishly thought it might make him remember her by her name, but instead he simply started calling her That Chinky Mate). I was annoyed by his comment, of course, but held it in. I shouldn’t have done that, should have let rip there and then but of course I didn’t because it’s not my way, for all he calls me a stroppy mare. So in a way it’s my fault. I let it fester. But he shouldn’t have said it in the first place! After all the talks we’ve had recently, the fragile state of our marriage, it’s hardly surprising I’m feeling a little insecure. The last thing I need to hear is that he’d ‘have her’. Flipping great! I can’t believe the insensitivity of the man. He really has no idea at all.
So I tried to talk to him about it last night. ‘Christ, I’ve just had a really stressful day; an accident happened right in front of me, virtually. I got stuck in a massive tailback because of it, and wound up delivering late. I’m so tired. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, promise,’ he sighed.
That got my goat a bit but I tried to understand. But when he called today he didn’t mention it, instead simply asked me what I was doing. ‘Cooking salmon,’ I told him tersely. Then he just went on about his bloody rota, which sounds more like a work of fiction the more he talks about it (am convinced he has more say in it than he makes out).
All I wanted him to say was: ‘Sorry about last night, let’s talk about it now.’ It should have been the first thing he said to me. It wasn’t. So I waited and waited, listening to him more and more impatiently and becoming increasingly furious and frustrated.
Finally he realised something was wrong and made some half-arsed attempt to find out what. ‘So what’s up with you? This about the other night?’ he grunted.
‘I don’t think I can be bothered to talk about it, seen as you attach so little importance to it,’ I huffed.
‘Fuck off,’ he said - and put the phone down. Wanker.
Bet he thinks it’s all my fault. Well, stuff him. I’m off out tonight and I’m going to look bloody glamorous and have lots of fun. I’m meeting Sophie, Amy, Hannah and Una tonight at a bar on Charing Cross Road. I’m really looking forward to it because I never tra
vel into London for a night out, really. I refuse to sit moping around in floods of tears because of Daryl, although it’s tempting.
2am - Before I went though I did spend quite some time obsessively dialling Daryl’s phone. And despite having an absolutely wonderful time with my friends (Hannah cried out at the last minute, but she wasn’t missed much!) every time I ducked to the loo I rang him too…and on the way home I hit redial until I actually got a sore finger… It’s ringing out and he’s not answering. Cunning, because now he can see the amount of calls he’s missed and will know I’ve been repeat dialling him.
He knows damn well the one thing guaranteed to drive me insane is for him to drop off the face of the earth. I get so that I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to him, even if I’ve nothing to say. It’s his little control device and the sad thing is, it works every time.
Tomorrow I must: tidy house, change bed sheets and towels, do washing up, exercise, sort present for Sarah (birthday in a week’s time, but got to allow time to post it to her house in Lincoln), bikini line, deep condition hair, shave legs, because Daryl is coming home tomorrow night. But for now I’m going to bed and forgetting about men!
Sunday 3
Well, I did the housework but that was about it. Deep conditioned hair then waxed bikini line - possibly the most painful experience of my life and it turns out I’ve done it for no reason at all. Just as I was about to shave my legs, Daryl called. He’s being sent direct to Sweden, won’t be home until 12th. Gutted.
But we had a good talk about him refusing to talk to me after rows, and he actually apologised, which is pretty much unheard of. And he was almost crying because I said: ‘When you tell me stuff like this, that we won’t be seeing each other for ages, you sound so business-like. I feel like you don’t care.’
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