No-One Ever Has Sex on a Tuesday

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘No, I can’t go on film looking like this,’ she decided. ‘Watch the babies,’ she yelled over her shoulder before she disappeared.

  A few short minutes and Alison was back in the room complete with an embroidered clip in her hair and a dab of lipstick. She had the grace to blush slightly at her vanity as she resumed her spot behind the counter and retied her pinny, not looking at Ben until everything was in place. Ben had no idea what was going on but decided to just go with it. If she needed to be wearing lipstick whilst being filmed cooking carrots, then so be it.

  ‘You may begin,’ she said, giving him a slight nod.

  Luckily Ben realised she meant filming and he picked up his phone from the counter, flicked the screen a couple of times and then held it up and shouted, ‘Action.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Alison with a slight nod and a smile. ‘I am about to demonstrate the most efficient way to steam and purée carrots for your newborn once you start to wean them.’

  Ben fought very hard to prevent himself from cracking up. Alison was doing an unbelievably professional job; it just seemed ridiculously over the top.

  ‘The equipment you will need for this is a peeler, a knife, a chopping board, a steamer like the one we have here, a food processor or hand-held blender if you have one, and finally an ice-cube tray.’

  ‘Carrots?’ shouted out Ben.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said a flustered Alison.

  ‘Carrots,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t you need carrots?’

  Alison smiled sweetly, directly into the phone.

  ‘Very funny, Ben,’ she said sarcastically. ‘So, I have chosen only to feed my children organic vegetables, as these are not grown using any harmful pesticides or fertilisers.’

  ‘And they grow their own penises, which improves any vegetable, in my eyes.’

  ‘Now, as you can see, I have chopped the penis off this particular carrot in order to be able to use the vegetable peeler and to prove a point that penises are always easily removed. Once you have peeled two or three large carrots then you can slice them so they steam quicker.’

  ‘Do you cut circles, Alison, or sticks when you are slicing carrots?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Batons, Ben,’ replied Alison, and she swiftly dealt with the carrots. ‘They are called batons. No-one cuts circles any more.’

  ‘But does it matter?’ asked Ben. ‘You’re going to bash them to a pulp any minute, aren’t you?’

  ‘Standards, Ben,’ Alison replied. ‘So, once you have sliced all your carrots you half-fill the bottom pan of the steamer with water, place the carrots in the top section then put a lid on and bring to the boil. You can then leave the pan for approximately fifteen minutes to make sure the carrots are totally soft. I recommend you use a timer so that if you get distracted by another task you don’t forget your carrots and allow the pan to boil dry. This, of course, would cause a potential hazard in the home as well as ruining your steamer. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Totally.’ Ben turned the camera off and put it down. ‘I’ll start filming again when they’ve finished steaming.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Alison said. ‘I think I got all the essential points in. If I’d known you were going to be filming it I would have been better prepared.’

  ‘Alison,’ said Ben. ‘You are the most well-prepared person I have ever met. How could you be more prepared?’

  ‘I would have laid the equipment out differently,’ she replied, furrowing her brow and casting her eyes down towards the surface. ‘So it was all visible.’

  ‘Alison, that was perfect. Seriously. You explain stuff really well, like any idiot could do it. That’s a real gift. I know, I’m a teacher.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alison, flashing him a grateful smile. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘We’ve just got time for a bit of a play with the babies before we purée,’ she announced. She strode over to Rebecca and scooped her up then sat down on the sofa bouncing her up and down on her knee.

  ‘Er, can I get you a drink or something?’ asked Ben as he copied her and picked Millie up to have a gander over his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Alison, looking up.

  ‘Coffee? If you tell me where everything is I’ll make you one.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, looking taken aback. ‘Yes, thank you. Erm, I’ll have an orange juice. There’s some in the door of the fridge and the glasses are in the cupboard over the sink.’

  Ben heaved open the enormous American-style fridge and pulled out a carton of fresh juice. He poured a glass for Alison and one for himself before returning the carton to the fridge, taking unusual care not to spill anything inside the door of the gleaming fridge.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, taking it over to Alison and sitting himself down next to her after he’d grabbed his.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he replied, taking a long gulp. ‘Not after all this help you’re giving me.’ He felt overcome with shame. Alison in her own, very anal way was being incredibly generous to him, and he had the audacity to accept that generosity despite knowing a secret that could devastate her.

  ‘Matthew’s a very lucky man,’ he finally said. For all her faults, Alison was without doubt an amazing mother, and Matthew was lucky not to have lost her as part of the one-night stand fallout.

  Alison ignored him, making gurgling sounds at Rebecca.

  ‘You must make his life so easy, having total control over all this stuff,’ he continued, sweeping his arm around the picture-perfect scene of domesticity. ‘It must be great for him to know that he doesn’t have to worry about the kids or anything.’

  ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ she replied, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sure he’s delighted he can toddle off to that tax office place and not give a second thought to what’s happening here.’

  ‘If only,’ sighed Alison, laying Rebecca down and picking George up.

  She began blowing raspberries on his tummy. Ben didn’t like to probe any further.

  ‘He comes home and . . . and . . . well, he just does everything wrong,’ she said finally when she came up for air the third time. ‘I spend all of my time working out exactly what the best thing is for my babies then he breezes in at the end of the day and throws everything out, messes with the routine, or worse, suggests what he thinks would be a better way of doing something.’

  ‘He’s probably just trying to help,’ offered Ben, having been on the receiving end of Katy flying off the handle when he dared suggest something he thought might make life easier for everyone.

  ‘But how can he know?’ Alison turned to glare at Ben. ‘I spend every waking hour with them. I’ve read everything, watched everything, and done everything I possibly can do to make sure I’m doing what’s best for them.’

  ‘Perhaps he just wants to be involved,’ said Ben. ‘They are his kids too.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know what’s best for them,’ said Alison, shaking her head. ‘How can he? You have no idea what I put my body through for five years to get here, to get to hold my very own babies in my arms. Does he honestly think that I would put myself through all that and then not be taking the absolute best care of them?’

  She pulled George into her chest and held him tight.

  ‘I would never let anything happen to them,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m their mother. If anything ever happened to them . . .’ She bit her lip and Ben could see that there were possible tears on the horizon. She was scared. No wonder she looked after her children like a military operation. It was the only way she could deal with the terrifying thought of not being the perfect mother she’d set out to be. He did the only thing he could in the face of Robo-Mum shedding tears and put a rather awkward arm around her as he tried to summon up words of empathy.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Alison, don’t you realise you’re bloody brilliant at this?’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Look at you. I mean really. You have twins, for Christ’s sake, and you still not only have time to cut carr
ots in the right shape but also to show a fuckwit like me how to get my shit together. Seriously, Alison, you’re like some crazy mother guru type person.’

  Alison had taken a handkerchief out of her pocket and was dabbing her eyes as she clutched George to her chest. She shrugged.

  Ben thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, then reached his arm around Millie so Alison could view her carrot puréeing skills for herself.

  ‘Look at you,’ he urged. ‘You are the perfect mother. You know how to do all this stuff. You care about it.’

  Alison stared at the screen, sniffing gently.

  ‘I told you I should have laid the equipment out so you can see it at the beginning,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ cried Ben. ‘This is brilliant. You do it so an idiot can understand. You should do more of this. We stay-at-home dads could really do with someone like you in our lives.’

  Alison blinked up at him.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Ben, seizing on the fact that she’d stopped crying. ‘You’re way better than that other bird on YouTube demonstrating the steriliser.’

  ‘Melissa from Minnesota?’ said Alison with half a smile.

  ‘She was a dog,’ Ben declared. ‘Look at you in your lipstick and your pinny. Bit of eye candy for the dads wouldn’t go amiss either.’

  ‘Ben! Do you have to be so . . . so . . .’

  ‘Right,’ offered Ben.

  ‘So . . . juvenile,’ Alison concluded.

  Ben raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It was you who insisted on lipstick once you knew you were going on camera.’

  ‘Well, as I said earlier, it’s all about standards,’ Alison said quickly.

  ‘Anyway, I’m just saying that you’re good at this, and I bet there are other dads out there who would appreciate your help . . . and your lipstick,’ he said with a wink and another squeeze of her shoulders.

  Alison looked away, and if Ben wasn’t mistaken she was blushing slightly, but she still looked sad.

  ‘We’re all terrified of doing it wrong,’ he told her. ‘You’re not alone.’

  She turned and gave him a weak smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She sniffed. ‘I don’t know how Katy does it.’

  ‘Does what?’

  ‘Walk out the door and leave her baby.’

  It was Ben’s turn to fall silent, then he shrugged.

  ‘She doesn’t have a choice, does she?’

  ‘Maybe not, but it must be so hard for her.’

  ‘She would have a choice, of course, if she’d got together with someone who could afford to let her stay at home, but she didn’t, did she?’‘ She lumbered herself with me, a poxy PE teacher, and the best I can do is tell her to go back to work and earn the big bucks whilst I make a hash of staying at home and trying to be Mum. And I can’t even do that right.’

  ‘A lot of men wouldn’t even contemplate what you’re doing. She’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘Lucky!’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I don’t think she would describe our situation as lucky. Having a partner who can support you whilst you care for the family, that’s lucky. Even having a partner who when he offers to take care of the baby can do that without screwing it up . . . that’s lucky. If Katy knew I was here, that I couldn’t even take care of my own daughter for five minutes without needing help . . . well, she’d think I was such a loser.’

  ‘We’ll soon get you up to speed,’ said Alison. ‘Just see how Millie gets on with the routine I’ve set out on the spreadsheet. Hopefully you’ll soon start to see a difference. Then perhaps we should just do a bit more on weaning next time, then you’re good to go. Katy need never know.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Ben. This situation wasn’t ideal, but boy did he need it just to get him on the right track.

  ‘You didn’t tell Matthew, did you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ she lied.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s just, well—’

  ‘No need to explain,’ she interrupted. ‘I understand perfectly.’

  ‘Good,’ Ben nodded, thinking he might just get away with this. Make Katy think he was handling the baby caring thing brilliantly, make her proud, even. He’d just get himself to the point where he knew what he was doing then extract himself from the situation. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Hiya,’ shouted Matthew as he entered the house that evening, trying to sound as breezy as possible. As he’d driven home through the dark, rain-soaked streets of Leeds he could sense himself feeling more and more on edge as his windscreen wipers thumped the sides of his windscreen. Usually it was the hideous amount of traffic that irritated the hell out of him at this time of night, but for once the endless lines of moving headlights were way down his list of immediate concerns. All he could think about was whether Alison and Ben had got together that morning and what might be the fallout from the high-stakes encounter. He’d been attempting some kind of amateur analysis of Ben’s character: his motivation for implementing such a stupid meeting, how he would handle it, how Alison would handle it. Would he walk through the door to a state of carnage in his marriage because Ben had used the opportunity to wreak his revenge on Matthew for sleeping with his girlfriend?

  He took his shoes off in the hall, half expecting to see a line of suitcases heralding the departure of his family from his life. The hallway was as spotless as always, his slippers waiting for him exactly where he’d put them that morning, as regularly instructed by Alison.

  There had been no answer when he’d shouted his greeting. Perhaps she was already gone, a Dear Matthew (you bastard), letter waiting for him on the mantelpiece. He peered round the door of the living room. No stiff white envelope obscured the newborn baby photographs of Rebecca and George displayed above the fireplace.

  He heard movement in the kitchen, a chair scraping. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open tentatively, then stepped in.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad it’s you,’ boomed a strange voice followed by a cackle. ‘I was all poised here ready with the iron in case you were a burglar.’ Matthew stared at the total stranger standing behind an ironing board in his kitchen accusing him of attempted burglary. Alison seemed to be hosting all manner of strange people in the house whilst he was at work. The woman cackled again then disappeared as she grappled with an enormous duvet cover, her waistline billowing almost as much as the mass of material. ‘My Jack came up behind me once when I was ironing,’ she continued when she reappeared. ‘Frightened the living daylights out of me. I spun round and clocked him right on the side of his head. Took weeks for the iron mark to disappear. He never spooked me whilst I was ironing again,’ she said, shaking with laughter.

  ‘You’re home early,’ declared Alison, bustling in behind him and putting a large wash basket of ironing on the kitchen table. ‘Ivy, this is my husband Matthew.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good job I recognised him. He was about to meet the hotplate, weren’t you, Matthew?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Matthew, ‘although I’m very sorry, but who are you exactly?’

  ‘Oh Matthew,’ huffed Alison. ‘Ivy does our ironing every Wednesday. You know she does.’

  Matthew felt slightly ashamed to realise that every day he took a clean, beautifully ironed work shirt out of the built-in wardrobe and never really gave a second thought to how it had got there.

  ‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ivy.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ said Ivy. ‘Your photographs don’t do you justice,’ she added with a wink.

  Alison and Matthew exchanged looks. Alison gave a barely perceptible shake of the head then left the room without further comment, clearly on a tight schedule.

  He looked over at Ivy, who was momentarily hidden behind a tablecloth. He needed to follow Alison but somehow it didn’t feel right, just walking out of the room on someone you’d just met. That would be rude, whether it was the h
ired help or not. He at least had to make some sort of conversation. Acknowledge that he didn’t just see her as someone they paid to do their dirty work. She had intimate knowledge of his work shirts. She knew that he was prone to sweating, which turned the underarms a bit yellow. This lady had to iron over his sweaty armpits. He felt terrible. She knew all that about him and he couldn’t even be bothered to make polite conversation. No, he had to exchange pleasantries and then he would go and ask Alison about her day.

  ‘So,’ said Matthew, rapidly wondering what you talked about to the person who ironed your sweaty armpits. ‘You been ironing a long time, have you, Ivy?’

  She glanced up at the kitchen clock.

  ‘Only about three quarters of an hour, love. Another good hour piled up here.’

  ‘Right. Actually, I meant have you ironed for a long time as, you know, part of your career?’

  Ivy threw her head back and roared.

  ‘Oh my days,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘You are brilliant,’ she continued, waving a finger at him. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve never done anything as part of a career. Nothing. And if I had, it certainly wouldn’t have been ironing.’

  ‘Yeah, I see what you’re saying,’ said Matthew. ‘But you enjoy it, yeah, the ironing?’

  Ivy had stopped laughing now and was staring at him with a look of amazement.

  ‘No,’ she said flatly and bent her head to concentrate on ironing a decorative frill on the tablecloth.

  The ironing lady had dismissed him in his own home. She would prefer him to leave the kitchen and let her do the ironing rather than attempt any more of his ridiculous small talk.

  ‘So nice to meet you,’ he said, stepping backwards and knocking into a chair. ‘Must go and er . . . speak to Alison about something.’ He was out the door and back in the hallway again, breathing heavily. He could hear the whimsical chime of baby toy music floating from above his head and deduced that his family must be upstairs. He took another deep breath and went up, pushing open the door to the twins’ bedroom very carefully, just in case they were sleeping.

  They were both lying on changing mats, nappies off and vests akimbo, having a right good kick as though they were in training for the next World Cup. Meanwhile Alison marched between a basket and a chest of drawers, carefully laying colour-coordinated and beautifully ironed Babygros and vests to rest. Matthew sank to his knees and stroked both their bellies, marvelling for the umpteenth time at how soft and smooth their skin was.