Bearing in mind that the most excitement Shneck has in her life is the yellow discounted stickers on muffin packs in the bakery aisle and sex scandals in Heat magazine, I feel obliged to fake my eagerness in sympathy. ‘You’ve seen it on the staff calendar? Yes, it’ll be nice.’
Shneck’s wistful expression prompts me to backtrack and play down the trip. ‘Well, guess what, I heard the hotel is a dive. And it will be a major pain cos I’ll have loads to catch up with afterwards. Talking about work, I’d better get back to it. I need a head start considering I’ll be away for a couple of days.’
I make to get up but Shneck puts a hand on my arm.
‘Wait! I’ll finish my drink and we can walk back together. I’m planning on cooking a batch of my special goodies for next week. I’m thinking beetroot chocolate and red velvet. How many do I sign you up for?’
Shneck considers herself a talented baker. I blame it on the popularisation of TV shows like GBBO. The problem is, she is not. Her cakes are dry, stodgy and overly sweet. Once a month, she brings boxes of cupcakes to the office, sells them in the break room a pound each, and gives the proceeds to Cancer Research. She always tells whoever wants to hear the terrible story of her grandmother, who passed away from womb cancer in horrific uterus pains, and consequently bullies her workmates into making a purchase. The sight of Shneck reading her usual erotica at lunch time next to her display of unappetizing cupcakes never fails to turn my stomach.
‘Maybe just one?’ I know I will have to pay the cupcake tax whatever happens and dump the evil creation as soon as Shneck has her back turned. I still remember last month’s chocolate icing, which reminded me of swirls of cat poo.
‘Fab, I’ll make sure to save four for you. I’m positive Scott and the girls will enjoy them.’ She winks and smiles broadly, displaying her protruding gums and horsey teeth.
‘Sure! I need to get back now.’ I pick my purse up and rise.
‘Wait! I’ll come with you!’ Shneck rushes after me. ‘What time is your flight next week?’
She most likely only wants to know Albert’s schedule. I would happily trade places but Lucy, who’s effectively management, unofficially removed Shneck from any customer-facing events because of her appalling unattractiveness.
‘Hi Arthur! Hi Jon! Hi Christine!’ Shneck interjects as we return to our desks. She loves nothing more than getting attention from people in the office.
Shneck will certainly endeavour to hang out with me as much as possible until I set off to the exhibition in the hope of seeing more of Albert. I finally sit down at my desk with a sigh of relief and start my favourite recent pastime: trying to break into Scott’s email.
Jess
There’s a funny feeling in my stomach sometimes. Scott and I argue, not too often, but a lot more than we used to pre-children. He’s been moodier and has accused me of being moody myself. We fight over who’s not doing his or her share of the housework and looking after the kids.
Scott has endless opportunities to go out – poker nights with his mates, drinks with the guys from the office – on top of the time he spends at the gym, kickboxing and cycling.
Scott’s social life irks me. His life has barely changed since the babies have arrived, whereas I’m stuck in a work/brats/sleep rut, only ever interrupted by a drink with my sisters once in a blue moon.
Of course, he’s not cheating. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. There’s no way. But it wouldn’t hurt to have a sneaky peek at his bank account just to keep up to date.
We do have a joint account for the mortgage, food shopping and some household bills but the rest of our salaries – money for takeaways, leisure expenses and the like – go out of our personal accounts.
A few months ago, I realized that I don’t have a clue what Scott spends his money on since he’s gone paperless. I don’t know any of his passwords either – to his work email, his Hotmail email, his iCloud email, his PayPal, to his online Barclays bank account or Barclaycard. I can’t access his Vodafone account to check his phone bills either. Not that there would be anything dodgy to find. Just to stay on top of things. It’s always good to keep track of men’s spending; everybody knows they’re not the best at managing their own money.
A couple of weeks ago I asked Emily if she knew any techie who could jailbreak Scott’s phone. You can’t just download spy software onto an iPhone; you need to jailbreak it, which is super-complicated, and not even possible if the phone has the latest IOS. Emily couldn’t help. What a major pain in the butt. The program I found advertised online looks amazing: you can read all WhatsApp messages and texts, see where the other party physically is at any point in time, and – hallelujah – intercept and listen to phone calls. Not that there is any specific reason to shadow Scott, but today’s technology is so revolutionary that it would really be a pity not to make use of it. Besides, it would come handy if Scott ever had a cycling accident and was wandering around with amnesia. I would be able to track him down in a flash.
The only thing I can do is log in to his Facebook account, to which I know the password. I check it at least once a day but there’s never anything interesting on there. He has about 500 friends, including every Tom, Dick and Harry from the office. I plan on having another in-depth check tonight, just to make sure there’s nothing I missed that was staring at me all along. A tagged photo, a comment, a like might mean more than they seem.
Something is off. I don’t want to admit it to anybody, not even to myself, but I can sense it. Scott is distant, still always cuddly with the girls, but not with me. He’s been working harder – which, fair enough, is expected after his change of position. It might just be the stress of having kids. Maybe relationships are never the same again afterwards.
‘I’m going to get a sarnie from Waitrose – want anything? You’re looking at car trackers?’
Shneck has the unnerving habit of creeping up on me when I’m absorbed by non-work-related surfing. She will comment out loud with no qualms about shaming me for faffing during work time ‘You’re looking at baby clothes, are you? Oh, that’s nice, I like the pink one with the flower’ or ‘You’re checking out thrush treatments, Jess? Canesten all the way. The gel is really good. You just squirt it in before bed, and Bob’s your uncle.’
I’ve been caught red-handed browsing a spy equipment website. Car trackers do seem the way to go. Although there is insane stuff out there now. Flask camera? Air freshener recorder? Spy pen? I’ve just stumbled upon a whole world of information-fetching devices, all a click of a mouse away. I feel like a kid in a sweet shop.
Damn nosy Shneck.
I ALT+TAB quickly from the spy shop website and end up on the ‘Reviving passion in your marriage’ page.
Defeated, I jump up and sit on my desk, blocking my iMac from Shneck’s searching eyes.
‘Thanks, Shn— Pat. I’ll have a BLT. Or plain cheese and ham. Cheers!’
‘Were you looking at car trackers? What for?’
‘Actually, come to think of it, you’d better just get me the meal deal. Walkers or Quavers, whatever, with a bottle of something.’
‘Is it to spy?’ Shneck whispers, still loud enough for everyone in all the cubicles around me to hear every word.
‘Diet Coke will be fine. Thanks, Pat!’ I reach behind me, turn off my screen and briskly walk away to cut short the ignominious exchange.
I sneak to the courtyard and crouch behind a planter. I pull out a cigarette from my emergency pack which I save for drinking nights. I could do with a drink. Surely, it’s not normal to fancy a fag after a drink and a drink after a fag? I must go back to being healthy. And I also have to go back to being a trustful wife in order to ‘revive the passion in my marriage’.
My mind is churning full speed as if I was on Crystal Maze. I can’t jailbreak his iPhone. How can I get to the information? I could bash his phone and pretend Mia dropped it and crushed it with her small foot. Or drop it in the toilet and blame Eszter. Although that bloody thing must be waterproof.
If his phone somehow broke down, I could buy a jailbroken replacement without looking suspicious. See?
Careful though. I don’t want to appear suspicious. Scott needs to believe everything is normal. I want him to put his guard down, not up. Besides, there’s nothing more off-putting than a jealous wife. That would be a new-found source of arguments.
The only option is a car tracker coupled with other surveillance gadgets.
I go back to my desk, my head swarming with ideas. A plan must be put together.
Shneck hovers by my desk. ‘I was waiting for you. Here, ham and cheese, Quavers and a diet Coke.’
I give her a fiver. ‘Keep the change, Pat. Thanks.’
Shneck fumbles with her coin purse. ‘No, let me get your change. About the stuff you were looking at…’
For fuck’s sake. She won’t let go, will she? I wish I could distract her with a box of raisins like I do to Mia. Instead, I must content myself with staring murderously at the busybody and pray she accepts my fib.
‘Car sat-nav. GPS. Yes, I’m looking at splurging on a new one. Hesitating between a TomTom and a Garmin. I guess you’re no expert. I need to call Scott now.’ Firmly, I pull out my chair and sit down, turning my back to Shneck, who stands there, her mouth hanging open.
I ring Scott. As usual, it goes straight to voicemail. Since he has been promoted to middle management, he never picks up my calls during working hours.
‘Hi, it’s me.’ My voice shifts up a notch. ‘I’m choosing a new sat-nav. Let me know what you think. Bye!’
There.
That will quiet them minds about car trackers. If Shneck ever questions me again, I will repeat it as many times as necessary: I was looking at a car sat-nav, not a tracker.
Jess
My flat. 6 pm.
The house is unusually silent. I walk into the kitchen, which is even messier than usual.
Plates are piled up in the sink. The dishwasher’s full and Eszter obviously hasn’t been bothered to put the clean dishes away. Empty yogurt cartons and bags of crisps, old cups of tea, the remains of the shepherd’s pie left out since lunch lie on the counter. Molly’s high chair tray hasn’t been cleaned since breakfast. Alfie had a wee on the rug by the back door – looks like he hasn’t been let out in the garden all day. Eszter didn’t bother opening the finger paint, maybe because I requested the girls play with it under supervision.
In the lounge, the iron is turned on and left steaming hot next to Eszter’s crumpled shirt. I turn it off in a panic, thanking my guardian angel I got home before it started a fire. I stash the steam generator in the utility room, away from Mia and Molly’s inquisitive hands.
In my bedroom, Eszter is asleep on the rug. Mia is watching Family Guy on the iPad, clutching my MAC lipstick, which has been put to good use on the wall and her face. Molly is munching one of Alfie’s Dentastix – from the little that’s left of the dog treat, she’s thoroughly enjoying it. My first reaction is to be vexed. How could the little bugger turn down my meatballs yesterday and now chew on pet food like there’s no tomorrow?
The girls got hold of a pot of Sudocrem and the partners in crime have smeared most of the tub on their hair, clothes and the black suit I just picked up from the dry cleaners yesterday, ready for my Belgium trip.
I sigh and dial the nanny agency.
‘Lisa? It’s Jess Davies. Again. I know. You know you sent me Eszter? It’s not working out. At all. Please find me someone new. Before I commit nannycide.’
Chapter 7
Mudslide
Mudslide
Ingredients
30 ml vodka
30 ml Kahlua
30 ml Baileys Irish Cream
30 ml milk or cream
1 cup ice
Add all the ingredients to a blender and blend until smooth.
Jess
Friday. My flat. 6 pm.
I shove a hot potato waffle in my mouth. It burns my tongue and makes my eyes water. Scott just marched into the kitchen. I didn’t expect him back home so early on a Friday night – he’s normally out with colleagues. I don’t want him to see the kids are being fed carbs. Scott feels strongly about which protein, veg and carbs (only wholegrain and unrefined) should be on the children’s menu. The thing is, Mia and Molly love waffles. How can anything which is technically a veg be bad for you? Potato waffles are certainly just as nutritious as broccoli and carrots.
There’s a good system in place. I hide the McCain smiles and Mini-milk behind the veggie bags in the freezer, and the ketchup in the fridge bottom drawer, under my long-life milk. The girls are so picky that I’m just grateful when they eat anything apart from biscuits or crisps. If Scott was planning their meals, they would be pushing away plates of oily fish and Brussels sprouts every day.
‘You’re home early!’
‘I thought I’d look after the girls, so you can squeeze a run in.’
Shit. I had to have an excuse last Tuesday to go over to Emily to borrow her credit card to buy my spying equipment bits. I didn’t want to leave traces on my bank account from www.SpyOnMyHusbandScott.com. I therefore made up a story about taking up exercise again, which pleased Scott. Unfortunately, he took me at my word.
He is never keen on having the kids when I want to go out with my toots, but a hint at my getting back in shape and he’s willing to help. ‘Selective hearing, now selective babysitting,’ I mutter unappreciatively.
I’ve had Emily’s card for a few days but had to wait for her to clear her balance. Typical Em, having her MasterCard maxed out. I could use the time to place the order online on my phone, away from inquisitive eyes, now the card’s credit limit is ok.
My heart is set on a Shadow Tracker (£160), the Desktop Calculator with Hidden Voice Recorder (£130), and the Mains Socket Voice Recorder (£220). The counter surveillance Sweepmaster also really tickled my fancy, but it’s over £3000. I wish I could just microchip husbands and children alike. It would save so much worry, time and money.
All the spying gear is going to cost a bomb. I plan on taking the money out of the girls’ future wedding fund I secretly opened three years ago. I didn’t tell Scott about it as there is nothing more upsetting to a man than the thought that his little girls might date and get married one day. I feel terribly guilty about robbing Mia of her future dream wedding dress – she’ll probably end up in a charity shop cast-off rather than a Vera Wang number, as things stand. Yet, I stopped beating myself up by reasoning that knowing the truth about my marriage is requisite to my mental health, and therefore being a good mother.
In any case, never refuse a free babysitting offer from anyone (unless that person is stranger and has a fake passport with your child’s photo in it).
The big downside is I am going to have to run for at least twenty minutes before I return home, so I look appropriately sweaty.
‘Thanks! I’ll finish tidying up and I’ll go for a run.’
I dump the food the girls didn’t eat, resisting chomping on the leftover potatoes. I glance unobtrusively at Scott. What if he wants me out of the house? Quite generous of him to offer to watch the girls when just last Friday he was whinging about having to put them to bed when the boxing was on and I was meeting my toots. Perhaps he just wants me out of sight and earshot. To chat to someone online? To make a clandestine phone call? I wish I already had my spy gear.
Note to self: Ask Emily to take the parcels in for me. I can’t have them delivered at the house for fear of snooping nannies and husbands.
Mia pushes her Silver Cross doll’s pushchair with Annabelle and Winnie the Pooh squeezed in it across the lounge.
Scott looks up from his phone. ‘Babes, do you think we could interest Mia in those flash cards I bought last week?’
Scott decided his daughters should not be exposed to commercial mind-numbing girly toys such as dollies, prams or stuffed bears.
He hid at the back of the shed my last purchase from ToysRUs, a Sofia the First styling head, to which Mia specifically
pointed, her little eyes wide in anticipation. Jess, do you really want Mia to become a hairdresser?
The cupcake-making tutorials on the iPad have been banned in favour of DIY craft videos. Jess, do you really want Mia to become a prep cook?
He compromised on the ELC pretend play cash register – Jess, do you really want Mia to become a checkout operator? – based on the maths benefits I put forward. Scott, how is Mia supposed to learn about numbers without a toy cash register?
‘Or that alphabet puzzle my mother got her?’ he suggests eventually as I don’t reply.
Disgruntled, I scrub away at the new chocolate stain on the carpet. Since when does he care about his children’s future? He could be playing away and breaking up our family right this moment!
The lack of evidence is what annoys me deep down. What I know is nothing. I have a hunch, and an overactive imagination. That’s it.
‘Mia enjoys pushing her pram, Scott.’
Scott, eyebrows raised in alarm, interjects, ‘Jess, that is exactly the issue. If she enjoys pushing a pram so early on in life, she might just do whatever it takes to push one in twelve years’ time. Teenage pregnancy, anyone? She might at best settle for a career as a nursery nurse. We need to nip this in the bud now.’
‘Stop worrying.’ I sigh, miffed that my efforts to remove the carpet stain have just spread it wider, and the small chocolate smudge is now a large coffee blotch.’ I’ll just give the kids ginkgo biloba and omega 3s to make them smarter.’
Taking no notice of my sarcasm, Scott comments patronizingly, ‘By the way, I am glad you’re making some effort to look after yourself. Exercising is necessary for all ages. Loads of women, especially after they have kids, just let their appearance go downhill. I’m not talking about you. Some women, you know? They lose all sexiness and become all mumsy. Having children is no excuse. I’m still working out, harder than ever.’
#Toots Page 10