He has incredibly high standards, and, I feel, somewhat unrealistic expectations. He expects to live in this perfect world which I am obliged to provide and maintain for him. If he’s not satisfied, then it must be me who has failed in some way.
One evening I see him run a finger over the window-sill.
‘It’s the building work that’s going on next door,’ I say, jumping to my own defence, nervous he might get angry again. ‘There’s dust everywhere.’
‘Don’t blame other people for your own failings, Carly,’ he says, scolding me gently. ‘Look, I can write my name in it.’
Not strictly true but I don’t argue. I run and fetch a damp cloth and wipe over every surface. I’m aware this is a weak and feeble thing to do, not something I could imagine Emma doing for instance, but I’m tired and really can’t face another row. Besides, if I object, or say there’s only so many hours in a day, that I’ve been busy cleaning the cottages and thought my own house could wait till my day off, he simply tells me it isn’t good enough, that I must try harder. He’s clearly used to being waited on.
‘My own mother seems to manage,’ he sternly reminds me, as if reading my thoughts.
Oliver’s mother has never worked outside the home so doesn’t have my problems. This doesn’t seem the moment to remind him of that fact.
In any case, I can never succeed as the rules change, the goalposts are constantly moved. Sometimes it’s good that I put flowers on the table, as his own mother does. At other times he insists I remove them as they only encourage insects and create mess. I generally go shopping on a Friday, but if I change my mind and go on a Thursday instead, he objects to this change in routine. Yet if I find I’ve run out of rice, as I did the other day, he tells me off for not having realised and gone shopping earlier. He would not then have been obliged to eat potatoes with his chilli, which he so hates to do.
Sometimes, there seems to be no way of pleasing him.
‘So how’s married life, old chap? Is the back holding up to the extra workload? Not to mention the libido?’ Tony Clarke asked with a wry grin.
Oliver gave a small self-satisfied smile. ‘I spend every waking hour shagging the life out of my lovely new wife, if you’re interested. But there’s more to marriage than that,’ he added, somewhat sanctimoniously. ‘Carly and I are a good team. We’re friends as well as lovers.’
Tony smirked. ‘Course you are, especially in the sack. Speaking as an old married man myself, marriage is great.’ Both men watch as a new young assistant gets up from her desk, sashays over to the filing cabinet and, pushing back her long blonde hair with one careless hand, busies herself with the files. Tony lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Puts a curb on the wandering eye bit, though, doesn’t it?’
The blonde was now leaning over her own desk, and the low neck of her top fell open to reveal a delectable view of her breasts. ‘Not necessarily. What’s her name?’ Oliver casually enquired.
Both men swing back in their chairs to get a better view of the girl’s legs as she moves over to the photo-copier.
‘Poppy.’
‘Hmm! Nice. I don’t see marriage as some sort of straitjacket. No reason why a wife should deprive a chap of his little pleasures, is there?’
‘Very true. You can look, even if you can’t touch, eh?’ Tony agreed, giving a nostalgic little sigh.
‘Women are good for two things, and we both know what those are.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Tony laughed. ‘Try telling that to my wife.’
‘Ah, but you’ve got to train them right from the start. Women need to be kept in line otherwise they turn into useless, emotional wrecks, or nagging harpies. Give them too much rope and they’ll hang you, ever ready to take advantage of a man’s good nature. I fully expect to benefit from a few extra comforts in my life, now that I have Carly to care for me. I’ll give her plenty of loving attention in return, as it were, but that doesn’t mean she owns me. Women are only really happy when they’re organising you, telling you what to do, what to wear, and constantly insisting you’re tidy. Nurturing and caring they call it, which we call nagging.’
Tony snorted with suppressed laughter. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Women’s rights are all very well, but in their place, which is right behind the man’s. I’ve certainly no intention of allowing a ring on my finger to greatly curtail my freedom.’
Tony was rolling about with laughter by the end of this little speech. He’d known Oliver Sheldon for only a short time in comparison to the long years he’d been friendly with Carly, and couldn’t help wondering how she would view such a comment. ‘Spoken like a true newby. You’ll soon change your tune after a year or two. Look at me, it took Jane only six months to bring me to heel and have me washing up and everything. I’ve even been known to drive the vacuum cleaner. Although admittedly I do still leave my socks on the floor, which drives her mad.’ He grinned, looking pleased with this small rebellion.
Oliver made a dismissive sound in his throat. ‘Okay, you have to jolly women along a bit, play the good husband card, exercise the charm offensive to keep them happy and nicely on the boil, as it were. The ladies love that sort of crap. They lap it up. Make no mistake, I love Carly. Absolutely adore her, and I’m proud of what she’s achieved. She’s my wife, after all! But it’s all about respect, isn’t it? You can’t have them turn you into a Mummy’s boy.’
‘Too right,’ Tony agreed. The telephone rang at that moment and Tony snatched it up. ‘Harrison Accounts – Oh, hi love.’ A pause while he listened. ‘Yeah right, a tub of sour cream or what – right, plain yoghurt. Yep, got that. Fresh bread . . . wholemeal, yeah, and . . . wait, I’ll make a list.’
The new assistant cast Oliver a sly glance from across the room, then slowly crossed her legs, deliberately rubbing her Italian glossy tights one against the other so that the sound brought Oliver’s head swivelling round, and his languid gaze to settle on her. Poppy felt goose bumps run up and down her spine. Oliver Sheldon was gorgeous, and mega-powerful. She didn’t see little wifey as any sort of encumbrance, since he was quite obviously the kind of man who made up his own rules. And Poppy would be quite happy to play by them, given half a chance.
She rather hoped he might be regretting rushing into matrimony quite so quickly. Men often did. Probably it had sounded wonderful, in theory, having a woman to take care of you, regular sex on tap, as it were, but as everyone knew, putting a ring on a girl’s finger was far more complicated than that. Some women could turn frigid, start nagging, or be demanding attention all the time. From what she’d overheard Oliver saying just now, it sounded very much as if Carly was like that. Serve the silly little housefrau right if her man looked elsewhere.
Really, Poppy thought, some women were their own worst enemies.
Oliver shook his head sadly at his friend as Tony put down the phone, still scribbling madly. ‘See what I mean? They’ll have you running all over the damn show. What women find to do all day, I really can’t think. Their nails, presumably. Look, keep an eye out for old Harrison, will you? I’m going to take a quick coffee break.’
‘Okay,’ Tony agreed, looking faintly sheepish as he tried to hide the long shopping list his wife had given him, then watched in astonishment as his friend moved over to the new girl. Oliver whispered something in her ear which made her giggle, and then left the office. Barely two seconds later, she followed him. Now what was that all about?
I stand in the shower and see that my legs and arms are a mass of bruises. The sight shocks me. It’s true that there have been one or two more incidents recently, but I hadn’t realised that Oliver’s black moods, as I call them, were leaving such brutal evidence. Fortunately they aren’t obvious, so long as I keep them covered up. Some are already fading and turning yellow but I find the sight of them quite disturbing. They look as if I’ve been beaten up by some thug. I touch the marks gently with my fingers, feeling the soreness. Tears gather at the back of my throat. I hadn’t realised how strong and powerful
he is, or that I looked such a mess. But why hadn’t I?
Because of a sense of disbelief, I realise, that this is happening to me. I feel so guilty for allowing it to happen at all. I’m not sleeping well, and I feel this creeping sense of depression deep in the pit of my stomach. I can’t seem to think straight, or concentrate on anything. I have a terrible fear that our marriage is already falling apart.
Too often I find myself flinching in anticipation of an impatient hand reaching out to slap me, which he always insists is for my own good. Or he’ll grab me by my arms and shake me like some recalcitrant child while he instructs me in a cold, calm voice the extent of my supposed transgression. I remember my sister telling me about the letter, insisting that Oliver was already cheating me. What satisfaction it would give her if my marriage were to fail. But he isn’t cheating on me, I tell myself firmly. He just loses it occasionally. I examine the imprint of his fingers on the soft upper flesh of my arms and quietly weep.
I hear a car draw up and my heart starts to race before I recognise the engine as being not Oliver’s, but Jo-Jo’s.
‘Heavens,’ I murmur, as I quickly rub myself dry and pull on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, ‘Have I come to this? Does my heart skip with fear every time I think my husband has arrived home early?’
I rush down the stairs to open the door and Jo-Jo breezes in, Ryan clutched tightly in her arms. ‘God, I’d kill for a coffee. Put the kettle on, sis. Our Stacey is turning into a right little madam, threw a real tantrum just now outside the school gates when she discovered I’d forgotten her PE kit. For goodness sake, I told her, I’m only human, I can’t remember everything.’
Plonking Ryan down on the kitchen floor she gives him a rusk to eat as he starts to grizzle, then collapses into a chair. She rakes her fingers through her tousled hair, looking more like the wild witch of the north than the drama queen she usually is. ‘Truth is, I’m a useless mother. Utter crap.’
I smile as I hand her a coffee, with hot milk and loads of sugar, just as she likes it. ‘You’re a wonderful mum and your kids adore you. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, why don’t you pop back home, pick up Stacey’s PE bag and take it into school for her. Much more productive than self-flagellation, don’t you think?’
She gives me one of her dark looks. ‘Why is it you always have the answer to everything? What makes you so bloody perfect? Perfect home, perfect husband. Even your business is called Perfect Cottages.’ There’s the usual sharp edge to her tone but I don’t rise to the bait, determined not to take offence.
I sit opposite her, cradling a black coffee as I avoid her gaze. ‘Maybe the cottages are perfect, or at least we try to make them appear so, but I certainly am not, nor is Oliver.’
She casts me a quizzical look of disbelief. ‘Good heavens, don’t tell me the gloss has worn off Mr Wonderful already?’
I frown, embarrassed now, and instinctively go on the defensive, smoothing down the sleeves of my shirt. ‘I’m not saying that. I’m simply pointing out that nobody is perfect, there’s always a flaw somewhere.’
‘So what is dear Oliver’s flaw? Have you discovered it yet?’
I meet her amused gaze and hold it for a second longer than normal, wondering how she would react if I told her the truth, that my beloved new husband was a wife-beater. Shame washes over me, and I know I simply can’t do it. Admitting the truth to myself is difficult enough, even in the privacy of my own head.
There are five years between the two of us so perhaps that’s why we’ve never been exactly close. As girls we had different friends, were always at different stages in our education, different schools for much of the time, and different hobbies. Jo-Jo was into Guiding and outdoor sports, whereas I was the quiet, stay-at-home, head-in-a-book sort. Then she took up boys and clubbing and I became what she termed a bit of a swot. Not true, but a bookworm certainly. She was always gorgeous and out-going, and I was plump and rather shy. Our relationship is getting easier as we grow older but Jo-Jo does tend to use words rather like a blunt instrument, as she is doing today. Before I can decide how best to answer she jumps up to catch Ryan who has vanished into the lounge. She carries the toddler, squirming and squealing in her arms, back into the kitchen and closes the door, barring his escape. ‘Better not let him loose in your perfect house.’
‘Stop it, Jo-Jo. It isn’t funny.
She sips her coffee in silence for a while, then launches into a familiar complaint that she hasn’t been out of the house for weeks, that her life consists entirely of Huggies and Bob the Builder, PE kits and chauffeuring children about to school, nursery, Brownies, Rainbows, ballet, you name it. ‘They have a better social life than me. I’ve ceased to be a person in my own right, and it’s going to get worse. You’re so lucky, our kid. Look at me, knocked up yet again. Can you believe it?’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Yeah, great huh?’
I look at her round, cosy figure, never having quite lost the weight she put on after Ryan, her tired face with the dark rings under her eyes. ‘How far gone are you?’
‘Three and a half months.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was waiting for the scan, just to be certain, but it’s true enough. I’ve been sick and everything.’ Tears form in her lovely brown eyes and I’m filled with remorse for thinking so badly of her. No wonder she’s been in a foul mood lately, snapping at me the whole time.
Jo-Jo and Ed had been happily living together for a couple of years or so when she’d found herself pregnant with Stacey. That was almost seven years ago. Samantha had followed two years later, then Ryan who is almost eighteen months now, I suppose. She swore he was a mistake and would be the last. Now there was to be a fourth child, and I know money is tight. Ed earns only a modest wage at the garage where he works as a mechanic.
‘I’d just got both girls into school, Ryan into a play group for a few hours each week, and I was loving my part-time job, even if it is only working for Mum and Dad in the shop. In any case, we desperately need the money. You’re so lucky, Carly, that everything is working out for you. I’m at my wits’ end.’ Whereupon my strong, feisty sister burst into tears.
I hold her close while she has a good cry, my own troubles paling into insignificance against this disaster. Ryan sits on the floor looking up at his mummy with a small frown of concern. I smile to reassure him.
‘It’s just as well you like babies then, isn’t it? Ed too,’ I joke, handing her a box of tissues.
She takes a handful and blows her nose. ‘Oh, he’s been great about it. Ed loves kids. He’d have a nursery full but I hate being pregnant, getting fat, seeping milk, feeling moody, all that stuff. Oh, I wish I was you.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I tell her, my voice barely above a whisper as I help her to mop up the tears. ‘You’ll cope, you and Ed. You always do. Look, what you need is a break. Why don’t I come over and babysit for the terrible trio tonight, while Ed takes you out somewhere intimate and romantic?’
She looks at me all red-eyed, hope bright behind the tears. ‘You’d do that for me?’
‘You’re my sister.’
‘But I was a real pig to you before the wedding, about that letter.’
I shrug. ‘All forgotten. Shall we say seven o’clock?’
‘Can lover-boy spare you for the evening?’ she asks, with a touch of her old sarcasm. ’Maybe you should ring and check.’
I give a little laugh. ‘I don’t need his permission. We’re not joined at the hip. It’ll be fine. I’ve been home every evening on time for weeks. Now go get Stacey’s PE kit or you’ll have her teacher on your tail, then you’ll really have problems.’
She gives me a quick hug, swoops Ryan up in her arms and dashes off, grinning from ear to ear. She practically bounces down the drive, already reaching for her mobile phone to tell Ed the good news, no doubt mentally planning what she’s going to wear that evening. I smile and wave, pleased that things are back on an even keel between the pair of
us, but I don’t envy her the task of coping with four small children.
I know I should ring Oliver with this change of plan yet I’m reluctant in case he tries to talk me out of it. I send a quick text instead, briefly stating there’s an emergency and I’m baby-sitting for Jo-Jo this evening. I’ll explain when I see him. He doesn’t reply but I don’t have time to worry about that as I get caught up in traffic and then face the usual raft of problems which crowd my own day. Perfect life indeed. Where does Jo-Jo get these ideas from?
Later than night as I slip beneath the covers and snuggle up beside my husband, he turns to me with a sigh of resignation and asks me what the crisis was this time. He’s well used to Jo-Jo’s histrionics, as he calls them, so I tell him about the unexpected pregnancy.
‘God, can’t those two use safe sex or something? They breed like rabbits.’
I giggle as he starts to kiss me, delighted there isn’t going to be any confrontation this evening. He’s relaxed and sleepy, the way I love him to be, his hands moving over my breasts and thighs, clearly in the mood for something other than a row. ‘Ed says he only needs to throw his trousers on the bed and she’s off.’
‘Then why doesn’t she go on the pill, for heavens sake?’
‘Some health issue or other. The pill isn’t a solution for every woman.’
‘Thank God you’re on it,’ he says, pushing up my nightdress as he moves on top of me, nudging my legs apart with his knee. We move together in a familiar rhythm, so entirely suited I think happily to myself, so why can’t this natural harmony spill over into other sections of our life? ‘Don’t let this baby-sitting lark become a habit,’ he murmurs, kissing my flat stomach, doing things to me that make me gasp and cry out. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t start getting broody. The last thing we need is for you to get pregnant.’ Once I can catch my breath, I promise that I won’t.
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