Confessions of a Demented Housewife

by Niamh Greene

  ‘Well, all right, then,’ she said, ‘but only because the bingo leagues aren’t on today.’

  Ten minutes later the doorbell went.

  ‘Have you spoken to David?’ I asked, making a large pot of tea and wondering if I should discreetly slip in some sort of sedative in case things turned ugly.

  ‘I most certainly have not,’ she replied icily, holding her cup to the light and rubbing the rim with her handkerchief. ‘He’s made a complete fool of me – if the bingo crowd ever gets to hear about it I’ll be the laughing-stock of the city.’

  ‘Being gay really is no big deal, Mrs H,’ I said, wondering if I should break the news to her that most of her favourite singers and quite a few of her favourite movie stars were batting for the other team.

  ‘No big deal?’ she exclaimed. ‘No big deal? You may have no morality, Susan, but I most certainly have. I no longer wish to discuss it.’ She took a large bite of a muffin.

  ‘These are quite good,’ she admitted. ‘Did you say Joe made them?’

  ‘Yes, he’s started a cookery course. He thinks it’ll fulfil him.’ I nibbled my third muffin of the morning and let the chocolate chips melt on my tongue.

  ‘A cookery course?’ Mrs H sprayed muffin crumbs across the table.

  ‘Yes, “Cooking with Passion”,’ I said. ‘He’s really enjoying it.’

  ‘Stop right there, Susie,’ Mrs H said. ‘I’ve heard quite enough for one day.’ Then she quickly bundled three muffins into her bag and left. Thought better of asking her to look after Katie and Jack before she went – I’ll have to pick my moment more carefully.

  13 January

  Phone rang at eleven fifteen a.m., at critical moment when Dr. Phil was about to tell another deadbeat dad to shape up or ship out.

  ‘Hi there,’ the voice said. ‘My name is Mike and I’m calling—’

  ‘You can save it, Mike,’ I said, furious that another double-glazing call had interrupted a crucial psychological breakthrough. ‘We already have lots of insulation, thank you, so you’re wasting your time.’

  I slammed down the phone, thrilled to have put my foot down and spoken my mind for once.

  It rang again.

  ‘Hi, em, this is Mike again.’

  I was so outraged he’d rung back that I proceeded to inform him I would be calling the consumers’ watchdog authority, or whatever it is, as well as his employer and possibly The Gerry Ryan Show hotline to inform them of his ruthless and aggressive cold-calling tactics.

  ‘Em, I’m not a double-glazing salesperson,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m the producer of Chat with Dee and Fran. Angelica Law gave me your number.’

  It dawned on me then that Mike had never mentioned anything about double-glazing.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I heard myself babble. ‘It’s just that we get a lot of cold calls…’ It was hopeless. I’d already scuppered my chances of a prime-time career. I was never going to be on camera with glossy hair and perfect makeup now.

  ‘OK. When can you come in?’ He cut across my histrionics, sounding a teeny bit bored.

  ‘Any time!’ I shrieked, probably a bit over-enthusiastically, but it was hard to contain my excitement. This was a real live TV producer, who knew real live famous people.

  ‘Right. How about next week? I’ll get my PA to set it up.’

  Then he hung up before I had a chance to ask what the role involved and whether they’d be throwing in a company car and an enormous wardrobe allowance.

  Spent morning fantasizing about huge wage packet and public exposure soon to befall me. I’ll be driving a posh 4x4 and wearing designer sunglasses on my head at all times very soon.

  PS Just thought – maybe I should get an agent.

  14 January

  Went to fourth counselling session with Rita.

  ‘So, today we’re going to talk about how we can bring joy back into our lives,’ Rita said. ‘Joe, let’s start with you.’

  ‘Well, I’m doing a cookery course – I’m really enjoying it.’ He beamed at her.

  ‘Great.’ Rita made a note on her jotter. ‘What about you, Susie?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’m happy for him,’ I said, ‘and the muffins he made weren’t half bad either.’

  Rita smiled. ‘No, I mean what are you doing to fulfil yourself?’

  I paused. Maybe now was the right time to tell Joe I was on track for a dazzling TV career and that our lives would never be the same again. ‘I’m thinking about going back to work,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’ Joe said. His mouth fell open.

  ‘Yes. Angelica says she might be able to hook me up with a TV producer. She says I have real star potential.’

  ‘That sounds very interesting, Susie,’ Rita said. ‘And you think this would be helpful?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said, looking at Joe. ‘I think I need to grow a bit as a person – you know, use my unique talents.’

  ‘That’s great, Susie,’ Joe said slowly.

  ‘It is?’ I was astonished.

  ‘Yes. Now we can both live our dreams! I’ll support you a hundred per cent.’ He took my hand and squeezed it tightly so I knew he meant it.

  ‘You’re not annoyed?’ I asked, a little shocked that he had absolutely no objection whatsoever.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said softly. ‘Life’s too short – that’s why I want to pursue my cooking now before it’s too late. If going back to work is right for you, you should do it. It’s all about self-fulfilment, after all.’

  Rita was nodding approvingly and my heart soared. Maybe I could be a TV celebrity. I could do tell-all interviews with celeb mags about my loving, supportive husband. It’d be brilliant.

  PS Went home and made a list of all my unique talents. Have decided that being able to name all of Jennifer Aniston’s exes counts.

  15 January

  Mum is not convinced I should talk to the Chat with Dee and Fran people. ‘Maybe you’re being a bit over-ambitious, Susie,’ she said, when I told her I was going to be like Barbara Walters, the American entertainment legend. ‘Maybe you should set up a nice little work-from-home business if you want outside interests.’

  Poor Mum doesn’t realize that most of those work-from-home businesses are elaborate scams where you get paid fifty cents a day to stamp and seal five thousand envelopes. Which just goes to show that she really needs to keep up with current affairs and do less hobnobbing on yachts with property developers.

  Then Dad came on the line. ‘Susie, you’d better get walking,’ he laughed, ‘the camera adds at least ten pounds, you know.’

  Hung up, furious. Also, a little panicky. Maybe I should hire a personal trainer to get me into peak physical condition ASAP. Or I could buy one of those all-in-one sweat-it-out boiler-suit things you get in spas. It would probably be much more cost efficient.

  16 January

  Met Angelica at the school gate. Was thrilled. Now I could fill her in on recent developments and she could offer to lend me any number of expensive tailored suits that would be perfect for the interview with Mike the producer.

  ‘I’m going in next week!’ I called, as she gazed into space, twisting her silky hair round her ring finger.

  She looked at me blankly. ‘Going in where?’ she said.

  ‘To meet the producer, of course!’ I threw myself at her. ‘Thank you sooo much for organizing it.’

  ‘Oh, that… Right… fabulous. Let me know how it goes,’ she muttered. Then she disentangled herself from me and darted across the road.

  Felt so sorry for her. Obviously things are still not going well with her cad of a husband. Which just goes to show that being rich and famous doesn’t guarantee success in your private life. I wonder if the Range Rover Sport makes up for it in some small way.

  Spent ages hanging around at the school gate, feeling superior. Little do the other mothers know that I may be on the brink of a brand new career that will catapult me to fame, fortune and air-brushed publicity shots in the very near future. />
  PS Had very vivid dream in which I was sitting on a cream-leather couch in a designer grey cashmere turtle-neck, just like Oprah’s, interviewing Jennifer Aniston and showing the audience photos of the two of us laughing together in my summer retreat.

  Feel I may have found my true calling at last. As soon as the producer’s PA rings, I can finally start realizing my potential.

  17 January

  Mrs H called round again. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, Susie,’ she remarked, as she dipped a chocolate finger into her tea. ‘Maybe I should have known that David was, you know…’

  ‘Batting for the other team?’ I ventured, wondering when I could get round to talking about the childcare arrangements that urgently need to be put in place.

  ‘Yes.’ She glared at me. ‘He was always such a nice, affectionate boy, so artistic. Not a bit like Joe. I should have known something was up.’

  ‘Maybe you did, deep down,’ I said, ‘but you didn’t want to admit it to yourself.’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ she declared. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

  ‘OK.’ I backed off and offered her another chocolate finger. ‘Anyway, it’ll all be fine. Now you know and everyone can move on.’

  ‘Move on? What do you mean, Susie? I won’t rest until I turn him back to the natural course of things. And you must help me.’

  Then I somehow found myself agreeing to help Mrs H turn David into a straight, woman-loving Casanova.

  Joe is furious with me. ‘How could you agree to this?’ he choked, when I told him I’d promised to try to persuade David to date women. ‘David’s gay and that’s that. Mum will have to accept it.’

  Patiently explained to Joe that his mother is operating in a delusional state and that not even Elton John could get through to her now.

  Sent David an email.

  You wouldn’t consider pretending to be straight for a bit, would you? I don’t think it would take much – just pay some girl to come home with you next time to keep your mother happy. I really need to get her on-side if I’m going to persuade her to take care of the kids while I forge a TV career. Let me know what you think.

  Susie

  Got a reply:

  What’s in it for me? And a ride in your god-awful puke-mobile is not an option. BTW I think Max is having an affair – smelt Brut on him last night and he claims he’s lost the Kylie CD I gave him. Do you think that’s a bad sign?

  Hugs xoxo

  18 January

  Still no call. Have decided to turn to religion for help. Rang Mum to see who is the patron saint of hopeless cases.

  ‘Em, St Jude, I think, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m not altogether sure. Now that we’re non-religious, I’ve forgotten all that superstitious mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, your dad and I have decided to ignore Church doctrine. It’s been very freeing. Worrying about what some decrepit old men think about your life choices can be very damaging.’

  ‘But what about the saints?’ I stuttered. ‘Heaven and hell? All that stuff?’

  ‘Yes, well, now we believe that you have one life and you must live it to the full. Of course, we’re still very spiritually aware, but that doesn’t mean we have to be dictated to by the Church’s limited views. You should think about it.’

  I listened in shocked silence as she babbled on and on about toxic energy, blah-blah-blah, and hung up feeling disoriented. Also, am a bit annoyed that she has refused to pray to St Jude for me. If I’m ever to establish a fascinating new career I need all the help I can get. Am quite worried that Mum and Dad are mixing in the wrong sort of circles in Portugal. They seem to be getting quite Bohemian and hippie. What next? Drugs and all-night orgies?

  PS Had terrifying dream – Mum and Dad were strolling down the beach, completely nude, as Mrs H raced after them waving a Bible about. Am very annoyed that my vital beauty sleep was interrupted by subconscious worrying about parents and their ridiculous notions. Vow never to embarrass or cause a moment’s worry to Katie and Jack when they’re older. I will simply continue to be a loving, supportive mother who always puts their needs first.

  19 January

  Louise has taken up running, and is now sprinting about, pushing Dargan along in a three-wheel jogging buggy. She arrived on the doorstep this morning, reeking of health and vitality, just as I was about to consider vacuuming the stairs.

  ‘Hi, Susie,’ she trilled, twisting off the top of her sports water to take a drink. ‘I’m converted to running! My energy’s up, I feel great, and Dargan loves being pushed about, don’t you, honey?’

  Dargan gurgled up at her, his chubby little cheeks aglow.

  ‘It’s a bit cold to have him out, don’t you think?’ I said, cross that she looked so good in skin-tight Lycra leggings so soon after giving birth.

  ‘His immunity system’s in fantastic shape, actually,’ Louise said, bending to stretch her calf muscles and show off her depressingly pert bum. ‘The breastfeeding takes care of that. Why don’t you come with us some morning? Running’s great for toning up – it’s so hard to get rid of that jelly belly, isn’t it?’

  I pulled my fleece even tighter round me, not wanting to admit that I wouldn’t run for the bus. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to get rid of my jelly belly – I’ve grown quite fond of it. And my boobs might not take to jogging – even an industrial-strength sports bra wouldn’t stop them swinging over my shoulders as I ran.

  Spent the rest of the morning watching Dargan eating his fingers while Louise hovered over him, capturing it all on her latest mobile phone. Was quite annoyed she outstayed her welcome – although it meant I didn’t have to do any vacuuming. (NB Some day soon must investigate how the complicated Hoover attachments actually work. Then I will finally be able to vacuum curtains and other hard-to-reach corners with minimal fuss and disruption. Also, if the attachments are long enough I may get the children to participate – it’s important to teach them how to do household chores at a young age to create socially responsible people who will not have ASBOs brought against them, etc. Also, if they’re doing household chores, it will free up some valuable me-time.)

  20 January

  Told Katie, Jack and Joe that we were going to Mass. None of them seemed altogether happy about the situation so I decided not to inform them that we had to pray specifically that I would impress the TV producer and snag a high-profile TV job.

  Katie immediately threw herself on the floor wailing. Had to promise to let her choose her own outfit, all by herself, before she would stop. Meanwhile, Jack crawled under the sofa and refused to come out until I gave him a chocolate biscuit and promised he could take his Roboraptor to show the priest.

  ‘Why the sudden devotion?’ Joe asked, after I’d informed him that his tatty jeans were not suitable for church and he would have to pull on a non-iron shirt quick smart.

  ‘I’ve always been spiritual,’ I answered haughtily, annoyed he was questioning my deep and abounding faith.

  ‘I never noticed before,’ he said, smirking in a very annoying way. ‘Has this something to do with Chat with Dee and Fran?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lied, trying to hold Jack under my arm to scrub chocolate and dust balls off his cheeks. ‘It’s only right we give the children some sort of religious instruction. They’re at a very impressionable age.’

  Screeched up outside the church gates in the nick of time and spent an hour trying to persuade Jack that it was not OK to attack the boy behind with his Roboraptor, and Katie that dancing up and down the aisle was not part of the deal and the priest would not be handing the mic to her to perform a quick musical number. Maybe I could just start listening to religious services on the radio like the elderly and infirm. It’s probably far better for the soul.

  21 January

  I finally told Mrs H that I will be meeting a top producer and snagging a sparkling new TV career.

  ‘I often thought about going
back to work when the boys were young,’ she said, looking wistfully into the distance when I broke the news. ‘Sometimes I think my life has been rather wasted. I could have been something big in the corporate world, like that nice Donald Trump.’ She slurped her tea sorrowfully.

  ‘But you devoted your life to your boys, Mrs H,’ I said, feeling a bit sorry for her. ‘You’ve done the best job of all – being a mother.’ I patted her hand fondly, just to show I really did care.

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right, dear,’ she said, brightening up. ‘You should probably take a leaf out of my book. There’s no point hankering after what you can never have.’

  Then, before I could ask if she would take care of Katie and Jack, she decided she wanted to ‘help’ me choose my interview outfit. ‘You should definitely consider getting your colours done, dear,’ she said. ‘You look rather drained in that mournful black you wear all the time.’

  Informed her that black was considered chic and stylish and perfect for almost every possible occasion.

  ‘That nice fashionable girl on TV7 said that women over a certain age should never wear black against their faces,’ she went on, ignoring me. ‘It’s so ageing. I think you’re more of an autumn.’

  She chewed one of the scones she’d brought with her while surveying me from head to toe.

  ‘What colours should I wear, Granny?’ Katie asked.

  ‘You, my darling, are most definitely a spring,’ Mrs H said, rooting in her handbag for a chocolate treat. ‘Which means you can wear nice bright colours and stand out in a crowd. Your mother couldn’t carry off pastels – browns are more her style. Maybe even a nice grey.’

  Katie marched off, happy that she could still wear neon pink with style, while I tried to hold my tongue.

  Later, I confided in Joe that his mother seems to regret some of her life choices.