by Jo Edwards
Whilst watching a repeat of Lewis in bed last night, The Husband had asked me, during an advert break, if I could make it home at a reasonable hour tomorrow. I panicked: what event had I forgotten? We weren’t going to Debbie and Paul’s again were we, did I need to think up an excuse? I hedged my bets:
“Should be ok now that things have calmed down a bit, but I will have to check my diary...”
“Well, if you could try,” The Husband said, a touch sarcastically. “I thought I would cook us a romantic Valentine’s meal, you know, to try and get this relationship back on track.”
What should have happened next was me saying: “Oh no, do you feel that our relationship is off track? I’m so concerned that you have said that, we must talk about it,” and I should have got up, made us a cup of tea and we would have talked it through. But no, I was tired, Lewis was about to start again (and it was the last bit when all is revealed, after all, and I’d been following the story for one hour and forty five minutes already). So instead I said:
“Ooh how nice! What are you going to cook?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he replied, after a pause, obviously not getting the response he had expected. “I’ve been looking at lots of recipes online, I felt quite inspired by the meal we had at Debbie and Paul’s,” Inspired? It was basically just cream for Christ’s sake, “and I thought we should really make more of an effort to try different things...” but that takes time, and thought and planning... “instead of some of the crap that we do eat.” Well, perhaps you could do the shopping for a change mate, instead of me doing it all the time, and perhaps you could find some inspiration amongst the rude, trolley-barging chavs and their screeching, screaming chavlings....
He was obviously in the mood to start an argument, but I wasn’t, so I remained silent and tried to focus on the end of the program. He didn’t give up.
“Well, you’re always watching cookery programs aren’t you? Why do you bother watching so many if all you want to do is warm up ready meals?”
“I don’t watch that many,” I retorted, getting sucked in.
“You never miss Saturday Kitchen!” he shot back. Yes, that’s because I’m drooling over James Martin not the recipes, you fool.
Inward sigh. Give it up, or Lewis will be over.
“Yes, you’re right,” I said in a soothing voice. “It would be nice to try something different for a change. I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night, can’t wait.” That seemed to appease him. He put in his ear plugs and picked up his book, My Shit Life so Far by Frankie Boyle.
I couldn’t concentrate on the end of Lewis, nor could I fall asleep. Did he really feel that our marriage was in trouble, or was he just in a bad mood? At Christmas, he had asked me if I was happy, but he’d not said how he was feeling. Mind you, I hadn’t asked him. He hadn’t actually said those four little words that strike dread into the heart of anyone in a relationship: “we need to talk”, so I had assumed we were ok. What do I always say to my guys at work? Never assume. Was I trying to duck having a serious conversation? Perhaps. I just felt too - what was the word - sedated to deal with it. Was that because I didn’t care? My head was so full of work I didn’t feel it could accommodate anything else - it could only cope with watching the telly because it didn’t have to think. God, I must take control of my life; I mustn’t sleep-walk towards whatever fate had in store for me. I must make an effort tomorrow evening. I would dress nicely, be very attentive and praise his cooking. I would get to M&S at lunchtime to buy some new undies; I must transform into a sex goddess. Those grey pants wouldn’t do at all.
Valentine’s Day was a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I walked into the office to find systems crashing and forty customers already queuing on the phones. I spent almost the entire day in teleconferences with IT, who didn’t seem to have a clue how to put things right. It got so frustrating that at one stage, I had to put down the phone, go into the Ladies, scream at the wall and then walk calmly back to the phone. My poor teams finished the day shell-shocked and exhausted. Never ones to deal positively with adversity, I heard someone say: “I’d jump out of the window, but knowing my luck, I’d survive,” and someone else: “If the world ended today it wouldn’t really be a big loss.”
Thank God The Drain was off sick, his bowels would never have coped with all this. I didn’t receive a word of support from The Boss, although I had kept him updated on the issue via regular emails.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get a break at all, so couldn’t get to M&S and had to send The Rock out to get a Valentine’s card for The Husband. Not really a fair task, but what could I do? She asked if he had a sense of humour, and I said yes. She came back with a card that had a picture of a man wearing glasses, down on his hands and knees licking a rug, whilst his frustrated wife is lying in bed saying “Brian, you really need to go to Specsavers.”
I was a bit shocked at The Rock’s choice of card and not sure what The Husband would make of it - it hardly set the tone for the romantic evening he seemed to have planned, but it would have to do now.
It really was difficult to get away from the office with the system problems still going on, but The Rock, sensing my anxiety, said she was happy to stay and carry on wrestling with IT. She promised to text me regular updates. I drove home like a loon and when I got in, found The Husband already bustling cheerfully around the kitchen, working his way through a bottle of white wine. I offered to help, but he shooed me out so I went upstairs to “freshen up”, although I actually wanted to call The Rock to see how things were.
The mood in the kitchen began to change over the next hour. The chirpy humming stopped, and was replaced by noises of frustration, “Why won’t you boil you little shit!”, ill-tempered clashing of saucepan lids and eventually some seriously blue language. I kept well out of the way, except when I was asked to fetch a plaster.
The meal was eventually served at 9.10 pm (he had been planning for 7.30). I wasn’t entirely sure what the dish was, but guessed it had probably started its life as a sea bass. The poor thing had been suffocated by a thick-cut rasher of bacon (apparently the recipe called for Parma ham, but he couldn’t find any) and then, to end its suffering, it had been drowned in a dark sticky sauce (blackcurrant coulis). Of course, after all his efforts, I did all the right things - making sex noises at every mouthful I took, showing an interest in the making of the sauce, praising his splendid choice of wine. He wasn’t very communicative, and I figured that the effort, or possibly the bottle and a half of wine he had consumed, seemed to have taken its toll. I’d thought tonight was about us having a good old talk about things, but he didn’t show any inclination to start a conversation. It was like sitting opposite a stranger.
Somehow I managed to clear my plate, although my stomach was already beginning to protest even before I’d finished. The Husband retired to the study almost as soon as we had finished eating, saying he had things to do before bedtime. I assumed that meant he was eager to get to bed, so I needed to “vamp” myself up a bit. The kitchen looked like a bomb site so I started to load the dishwasher, but the bending over was too much for my stomach and it began to lurch.
I nipped up to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t hear and just made it onto the loo in time. Oh dear God, this wasn’t pleasant. And I was supposed to be all sexy tonight! Trust me to foul things up - literally. When it was over, I dug out some Immodium, took two, and then another two for good measure. I’d probably never go again. I also found some Rennie, so chewed on a couple of those as well. My stomach was churning again. Oh God, please give me a break. Just wind this time, but it was difficult to trust. How could I have sex in this condition? It could be disastrous.
Hoping things would calm down, I had a look through my underwear drawer to find something suitable to wear. A nappy perhaps? I found a pink and black basque-type thing at the back of the drawer. I could just about squeeze into it, as long as I didn’t attempt to breathe. I couldn’t find the matching knickers, but had some other black
ones so that was ok. The basque had suspenders to attach stockings to. When had I last worn stockings? I could only find hold ups. Pulled them on and attempted to attach them to the straps. Bloody impossible. The elastic at the top was too thick and I couldn’t do them up, the straps kept pinging off. I cricked my neck in the process. Bugger it. Could I remove the suspenders? No. Well, would just have to leave them dangling; he might not notice in the throes of passion.
I got into bed. My stomach was making a noise like a washing machine. It would probably be safer if I went on top - then I could always hop off and make a run for it if needs be. Should I put a towel down on the bed, just in case? No, that would look too gross. I still had the most awful wind. I couldn’t decide whether to keep the duvet clamped down to trap the smell underneath or to waft about to disperse it. I went for clamping. Right - I must get myself in the mood, I must think amorous thoughts.
I wonder if the systems are fixed yet? No, no, no, not work, try again, think sexy thoughts. Think about James Martin oiling up a chicken breast. Mmmm.
Wonder when I last dusted in here, I don’t think I have for a while. Must do that at the weekend. I ought to phone my brother at the weekend too, see how he is. Stop, stop. Why am I thinking about my brother when I’m trussed up in stockings and suspenders? That’s just plain wrong.
Why hadn’t The Husband come up to bed? I went to the top of the stairs. I could hear him talking to someone in the study. He must be on the phone. I strained my ears and heard him laughing, calling someone “buddy” and asking “how’s Andrea?” I realised, gloomily, that he was talking to his friend, Chatty Dave, who lived in the States. He would be on the phone for bloody hours. I went back to bed and lay down, my stomach feeling a little calmer. I remembered I hadn’t given him his Valentines card, but as he hadn’t given me one (or a card - ha ha!) I thought I wouldn’t bother now. I’d save it for next year. I tried to stay awake, but couldn’t fight off sleep. Dreamt I was in a swimming pool full of giant sea bass. They were trying to eat me.
I awoke the next morning feeling decidedly queasy. My digestion had probably been impeded by that bloody basque. The Husband was still sound asleep - I hadn’t heard him come to bed last night. I got ready for work very slowly, not sure whether to risk setting off or leaving it for an hour to see if I felt better. I couldn’t face breakfast but knew I would have to get going; I had so much to do following yesterday’s setbacks, I couldn’t lose any more time. I took another two Immodium, brushed an extra layer of bronzing powder onto my pasty face and set off.
Nausea was coming in waves. I decided that some fresh air would be a good idea, so when I got closer to work I parked at the back of Tesco’s and started to walk in - it was the best part of a mile to the business park.
It started to rain. Very light at first, but quickly becoming stair rods. I didn’t turn back as I was beginning to feel a little better, although the exercise was causing some movement in my stomach. There’s no way I could need the loo after all that Immodium! Surely everything must have turned to concrete by now. As I walked past a lay-by, I had to let some wind out. At that exact moment, The Drain pulled into the lay-by in his red Noddy car. He lent across and pushed the passenger door open.
“Kate! Jump in, you’re getting soaked.”
What could I do? It would just look too strange to continue walking in the pouring rain. I got in, moving the Asda carrier bag from the passenger seat onto the floor. The smell got in with me - it was clinging to my coat. We both tried to ignore it. I talked brightly, asking Martin how he was feeling and telling him about the system issues. I noticed he had pressed a handkerchief to his nose. He tried to leave it there for the remainder of the journey, changing gear and steering with one hand. Poor Martin. I have never, ever felt so embarrassed. With the exception, perhaps, of one other time, many years ago. I had just moved into my first house, a small new-build in a smart little close. I was in the front garden, bending down, putting some plants in. Several of my new neighbours were stood in the close chatting together. My boyfriend of the time was staying with me. He chose this moment to whip open the front door, break wind extremely loudly (it reverberated around the close) and quickly shut the front door again. The neighbours all turned to look at me. This felt very similar.
Chapter Eight