“I’m really sorry again,” she says when Robbie and Hector have settled down to their coloring books at the table next to ours. “It did kind of slip my mind, I’m afraid. But I’ve been so busy, with job-hunting, and trying to find a flat I can move to permanently … plus it seems like every time I pick up my phone there’s a message from one of my cousins, or one of my aunties, or one of Mum’s friends, and I have to be polite and return their call and spend an hour convincing them that I haven’t gone mental, I’ve only canceled a wedding.”
“You can’t blame people for being concerned, Poll.”
“No, but there’s no need for any of them to be concerned! How many more times do I have to say it?” She gives a brisk, brittle laugh that sounds nothing at all like her usual chirpy giggle. “So, what’s news with you?” she asks, deftly deferring the subject to me instead of her. “I’ve been dying to ask you more about your lunch with this sexy St. Martin’s dad bloke.”
“More? You want more details of my hideous embarrassment?”
“Oh, come on, Gracie, I’m sure it wasn’t half as embarrassing as you made it sound.”
“So you don’t think it’s embarrassing that I thought he was about to declare his desire to make …” I lower my voice, conscious that Robbie and Hector are within earshot. “… violent love to me? And then that I told him so?”
Or that I showed up at his office four days later with a lovingly hand-drawn thank-you card? Something I’m still too utterly humiliated to mention even to Polly. I mean, I can barely bring myself to acknowledge that I did it myself.
“Not embarrassing at all! I bet he loved it! Come on, Grace, there’s no need to go so red!”
I don’t tell Polly that the reason I’m turning roughly the color of a freshly boiled beetroot is not because I’m reliving the embarrassment again. It’s because I’m thinking, for about the hundredth time already today, about what might have happened if he had declared his desire to make violent love to me.
And what might have happened if I’d been foolish enough to agree …
“So you do fancy him,” says Polly, with the satisfaction of someone who can read me like an open book.
“Polly!” I jerk my head toward the boys. Though thankfully they’re more engrossed in their search for the perfect shade of red pencil for Rudolph’s nose than their mother’s crush on a man who isn’t their father. “Look, I never said I didn’t fancy him!” I hiss. “Whether or not I fancy him is hardly the point. And anyway, why are you playing matchmaker all of a sudden? Isn’t that the kind of interference you usually leave to Bella?”
“I’m not playing matchmaker.”
“You’re trying to! And if you don’t want people poking their noses into your love life, I don’t think you’ve got any right to go around sticking your nose into anybody else’s.”
“I’m not poking my nose!” Her own face is flooding with color now, and she looks so genuinely upset that I regret what I’ve just said. “It’s just … Look, your face lights up, Grace, when you talk about this guy …”
“It doesn’t light up. It flares up. It’s a biological indicator of total mortification.”
“… and it never does when you talk about Charlie.”
I take a deep breath. “Polly, I’ve been married to Charlie for seven and a half years. We have two children and a very large mortgage. We have neither the time nor the funds to go for impromptu lunches at Locanda Locatelli, or swish around town in an Aston Martin. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t light up when I talk about him.”
“I’m not sure you ever lit up when you talked about him,” she mutters.
“Hey! I lit up! When we were first together, I lit up all the time!”
She pulls off another morsel of cupcake and doesn’t say anything.
“It’s just marriage, Polly.”
“Which old runaway bride here would know nothing about, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She pushes back her chair, and I think she’s about to stalk off, but actually she’s getting up to go and look at the boys’ coloring, back in Manic Godmother mode again. “You know, I may not have actually been married, Gracie,” she adds, before she turns to crouch down at their table. “And I know it’s not all about cozy lunches and Aston Martins. But surely there’s room for the occasional bit of romance? The odd hint of passion? Oh, Hector, your Christmas tree looks beautiful! How clever of you to color it in that lovely purple color …”
Charlie is out at a client dinner—is Saad with him, I can’t help wondering?—so it’s a more relaxed evening routine than usual, with my knowing I don’t have to get the boys fast asleep before he walks through the door. After supper we watch Fireman Sams for almost an hour before I finally persuade them into the bath, tuck them up in bed, and read You’re a Bad Man, Mr Gum (once) for Robbie, and The Smartest Giant in Town (three times) for Hector. It’s almost nine by the time they’re both asleep.
As I go to the fridge and pour myself a large glass of wine, which will constitute tonight’s dinner, I finally have time to think about what Polly was saying this afternoon.
The thing is that, even though I think she’s incredibly unrealistic about marriage (and I’m starting to think that maybe it’s a good thing she’s called off her own marriage), she does have a minor point. It is wrong that things have got so … stale, I suppose, between me and Charlie. Though I seriously doubt that there’s a married-couple-with-kids in the whole of London—OK, the whole of Britain … OK, the whole world—who are finding new and exotic ways to pleasure each other … to light each other up … I do agree that it’s important to put in a bit of effort.
Even when you don’t feel like it in the slightest.
It’s the grown-up thing to do, isn’t it?
Not that I haven’t tried at all, by the way. Even though things have been rocky between us for a long time, his being made redundant did seem to make everything much worse. So I made repeated attempts, throughout his redundancy, to make him Feel Like a Man. (I read an article on Redundancy and Your Sex Life in You magazine. All right, I obsessively Googled the subject until I found an old article on Redundancy and Your Sex Life in You magazine.) You can probably imagine the kind of thing it recommended: flimsy nighties, come-hither glances, casual comments about how hunky/manly/powerful he still looks. But when none of that worked, I didn’t search around for an alternative. I suppose I just thought things would magically improve one day, somehow.
Well, maybe it’s time not to be so passive anymore. Come to think of it, I’m bored rigid with being passive. Let’s face it, probably that’s the only reason I developed that teeny-tiny little crush on Saad Amar. That was just the subconscious of a grown woman, in what’s supposed to be the prime of her sexual life, gently reminding herself that she has needs, too. I mean, it’s all very well trying (and failing) to get Charlie to Feel Like a Man, but what about me Feeling Like a Woman?
And I might never stop thinking about violent lovemaking with Saad Amar if I don’t make an effort to do a bit of violent lovemaking with my own husband.
Charlie will be back from dinner pretty soon, so I take my glass of wine upstairs. I double-, then triple-check the boys are asleep before going into my own bedroom. Wait—our bedroom. Maybe I’ve been thinking about it as my bedroom for too long. A place to make idle sketches of the boys that no one will ever see. A place to watch reruns of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. A place to drop off to sleep while Charlie sits over paperwork and his emails in the living room before dozing off in front of the Ten O’Clock News. Well, no more! I’m going to banish all thoughts of sleep, paperwork, the entire Kardashian clan, and Saad Amar by welcoming Charlie home to the best sex of his life.
And as for that sex, I’m suddenly pondering the idea of indulging in a little bit of dressing up. Partly because I haven’t quite been able to shake this fantasy of … well, a sheikh fantasy—me in ivory chiffon and dangly gold jewelry, summoned to the c
hamber of a cruel but tender Arabian prince—and partly because role-play is precisely what all the magazines tell you to do when you’re trying to rediscover the … what did Polly say? … oh yes, the romance. And the passion. I mean, I’m not the most experienced lover in the world—even thinking the word lover makes me cringe, to be honest with you—so perhaps this could be the start of a whole new chapter for me. A bit of cheeky role-play—putting on a totally different character from boring old Grace Costello, Parsons Green mother-of-two—might just prove the ideal way for me to shake off some of my usual inhibitions.
OK, then. Let’s get this show on the road.
The sticking point, I realize pretty swiftly, is going to be Wardrobe. As far as ivory chiffon and dangly gold jewelry go, the very best I think I’d be able to come up with is the floaty Whistles dress I wore for our registry office wedding and some hoop earrings I ill-advisedly bought after seeing Eva Mendes looking smoldering in a pair in the Fashion Jury pages of Grazia. So the sheikh fantasy is out, I think. Besides, this is supposed to be an evening that brings me closer to Charlie, which is hardly likely to happen if I keep accidentally substituting him with an image of Saad. Who, naturally, has a big advantage in the whole sexy sheikh department, one that I don’t think pale, Dutch-Irish, native Chicagoan Charlie is going to be able to compete with.
All right, then, what would play to Charlie’s strengths, as it were? Could he pull off a stern-but-tender headmaster? Well, he’d certainly do a sterling job of the stern part. Even if he has one or two issues with the tender. But that begs the question—can I pull off a naughty schoolgirl? Dig out that flippy tartan skirt I wore last winter, when they were all the rage with the Mirandas, roll it up until it’s eye-wateringly mini, knot a shirt Britney-style at the navel, put my hair into bunches …
No. I can’t do it. I’ll die. Women, as far as I can tell, pretty much divide into those who can pull off Sexy Schoolgirl and those who have more chance of pulling off a million-dollar diamond heist. I don’t think I need to risk trying it out to know that I’m one of the latter.
So. What does that leave us with? Naughty Nurse? Again, I’m not sure how to cobble together an outfit. Slutty Secretary? Well, the get-up is easy enough—pencil skirt, possibly my new Elle Macpherson lingerie, sinfully high heels—but I don’t know. It feels a bit bogus, for someone like myself who’s never joined the world of office work. Besides, the script possibilities make my toes curl. I suppose I’d have to say things like I think the team meeting went well, sir, but you might want to debrief me, and Charlie would have to say Maybe later, but first I want you to take some dictation, and I’d have to say Absolutely, sir, I’ll bend over backwards to help …
No. Oh, God, no. Slutty Secretary is out, too. Very, very out.
I’m just starting to think that maybe I just don’t have a romantic or passionate bone in my body when it occurs to me. Cheerleader! It’s the one and only fancy-dress costume I ever enjoyed, for a Fourth of July barbecue at Charlie’s parents’ several years ago. All right, it was before the boys came along, not that long after Charlie and I first got together, in fact, and when we still had something resembling a sex life. But I can remember what a huge hit it was with him. It’s an American thing, I imagine: all to do with those frustrating high-school years, when you’re all bubbling testosterone and oozing pimples, and the perky, popular cheerleaders won’t even look at you.
And back then I wasn’t even doing it slutty cheerleader-style, like I could do it tonight, the cute shorts rolled up as high as they’ll go on my thighs and the letterman sweater slipping sexily off one naked shoulder rather than layered over a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt. And Charlie can be the gruff-but-tender sports coach! Yes! This could just about work. Now, if I can just dig out the costume, from where I suspect it still is, languishing in a packing case at the very back of the wardrobe …
Fifteen minutes and quite a lot of dust later, and I’m ready to roll. The red-and-white cheerleader uniform still fits perfectly—no mean feat after seven years and two children—and I think I can get away with a bouncy, shiny ponytail instead of the dreaded bunches. I’m just putting the finishing touches to the ponytail, in fact, when I hear Charlie opening and then locking the front door downstairs.
Now, how do I kick-start this whole role-play thing so as to get Charlie on board the moment he walks into the bedroom? Should I be bending over saucily to tie up my sneakers? Performing a cheeky X-rated cheer? Something to do with … with getting balls over the line … or scoring in the penalty area …?
There’s no time to decide, because the bedroom door is opening and Charlie is walking in.
He looks tired, and his suit is crumpled. Great. He’ll want me to press the trousers for him before work tomorrow. Though I banish this thought as soon as I remember that now is not the time to be thinking about ironing.
“Grace!” he says, his eyebrows shooting up. “Honey! Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Really? It looks OK?” No, that’s not right. Desperate attempts to fish for compliments are not conducive to convincing role-play. “Well,” I carry on, in a sultrier tone, “I’ve been waiting for you to get back all evening. Because I was hoping you could … help me get some exercise?”
“Absolutely!” He starts pulling off his tie and unbuttons the top button on his shirt. “Now, what were you thinking of, honey? Because I tell you, the elliptical machine has really worked wonders for me. Twenty minutes on that and you’ll feel it in your thighs tomorrow morning, I promise you!” He crosses to the elliptical machine and starts pressing buttons with enthusiasm.
Wait a minute. Those aren’t the buttons he’s meant to be pressing with enthusiasm.
“Charlie, this isn’t what I meant …”
“Oh, come on, honey, I know it looks a little scary, but it’s pretty easy once you’re up on it.” He ushers me up onto the treads, not taking no for an answer. “Now, you can just do a manual program to begin with, but maybe if you like it we could try starting you on one of the more targeted programs. Fat loss, I figure, is what you’re after? … Honey, there’s no need to look so offended! I didn’t say you were in bad shape! Just that you could stand to lose a couple of pounds.”
“I weigh exactly the same,” I tell him stiffly, “as I did when you first met me.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Still, it doesn’t hurt to do some regular exercise. And you’ve taken the first step. Now, tell you what, why don’t I head downstairs and leave you to do your workout in peace? I have a ton of emails and paperwork to catch up on—”
“Charlie!” I hold up my hands. All right, my pride is massively dented, but I’ve come this far. I’m not going to just let this go. “Look, can’t you just forget about the emails? And I’ll just forget about the … workout. I thought we might get into bed together for a change. You know—have a cuddle, dim the lights. Do something romantic and passionate for once?”
He steps about a foot back from me, such an expression of dismay crossing his face that you’d think I’d just suggested playing Hungry Hippo with his dangly bits.
“Oh, Christ, honey, no. I mean, not tonight. I’m exhausted, for one thing. And I have emails to catch up on, for another.”
“Yes. You mentioned that.”
“And I really don’t want to interrupt your workout.”
Quite suddenly, I feel as if all resistance has deserted me. I can’t fight the tide of Charlie’s disinterest any longer. I suppose, in true All-American style, the only thing to do is to work my frustrations off on the sports field. Or in this case, on the elliptical machine.
I start pedaling, moving my arms in synchronicity with my feet. “There’s wine open in the fridge if you want a nightcap. Don’t forget to turn the lights off when you come up.”
When I glance over my shoulder a moment or so later, he’s already gone.
Grace
Wednesday, December 2
Next morning, and I realize Charli
e was right about one thing. I really can feel the elliptical machine workout in my thighs. And then some.
It’s all I need, quite frankly, as today I’m due to meet Vanessa, Charlie’s ex-wife, for what she calls “diary coordination” and I call “the seventh circle of hell.”
We do this three times a year, always in advance of the school holidays, so that we can agree on where Percy, her and Charlie’s son, will be spending what proportion of his time. Well, I say we agree—mostly it’s Vanessa telling me what arrangement she will find acceptable, and me agreeing. You’d think today’s meeting, in early December, would be to discuss the Christmas holidays. But no. Vanessa’s far more organized than that. We sorted out the Christmas holidays back in early September. Today it’s the turn of the Easter holidays, three full months from now.
My whole body usually aches with dread about these occasions, and now I’ve got properly aching legs to add to the misery. So it’s a slow and wincing walk to take the boys to school (not improved by the sight of Louboutin Lexie springing into her cab like a particularly sprightly young deer, her own still-mobile legs encased in knee-high tan suede Louboutin boots) followed by a bandy-legged hobble around the supermarket, and finally a reluctant shuffle to Vanessa’s.
Vanessa lives in the really posh part of Fulham with her second husband, Alasdair, her baby twin girls, Esme and Freya, and a constantly changing cast of ill-treated foreign nannies, most of whom stick it out for less than two months before fleeing the country. Charlie once joked that if they weren’t asylum seekers before they arrived to work for Vanessa, they certainly would be when they left. But when I tried to repeat the joke back to him, after a Bosnian nanny left Vanessa’s employ a few months ago, Charlie just frowned and said, “That’s not funny, Grace. There really was a terrible war in the former Yugoslavia, you know. You should brush up on your general knowledge before you start making jokes about that kind of thing.”
There Goes the Bride Page 16