Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

We both had to go into work on the Friday morning as I had meetings I couldn’t get out of and The Husband had a “dead cert sign up” which meant lots of lovely commission. We planned to set off by 3 pm at the latest so we could get to Devon for an early evening barbeque with Debbie and Paul. As it was, I was home and ready to go at 3.00, but The Husband texted to say he had been delayed. Ha ha! Not me holding things up for a change!

  I checked the weather forecast for the weekend and it didn’t look great, so I stuffed a couple of jumpers into my case. It was almost 4.00 before The Husband got home, stressed and crotchety. Apparently his “sign up”, a retired gentleman or “doddery old fart” as The Husband put it, had asked a million and one questions before he’d signed the paperwork to invest a substantial sum of money, and each time his pen hovered over the “sign here” dotted line, he thought of something else to ask. The cheek of it, I said, fancy wanting to ask lots of questions when you’re entrusting your life savings to someone. I got told off for being sarcastic. Then he couldn’t find his sunglasses, iPhone charger or memory cards for his camera. He got more and more irate, growling “Well don’t bloody help me will you” when he saw me stood at the front door, waiting. Somehow, he always managed to make everything feel like my fault. Why hadn’t he got his stuff ready last night like I had?

  We finally got on the road at 4.30 pm, which was disastrous as we hit all the rush hour traffic. The M5 was extremely busy, and it shuddered to a standstill at one stage. We heard on the radio that there had been an accident. Fearing for the Husband’s blood pressure, I suggested we swapped seats so I could take over the driving (or at least the sitting behind the wheel) whilst he texted Debbie to tell them we would be late. It had gone 9.00 pm by the time we drove into Croyde village and it was getting gloomy. We found the house at the end of a single-track, twisty country lane. It was a very impressive place, double fronted with a balcony, and what would be wonderful views across Croyde Bay if only the light was a little better. Debbie and Paul came out to greet us and helped us carry all our bags into the house.

  “What a shame, you’ve just missed Chloë,” said Debbie. “She so wanted to stay up and see you but she was so tired after being at the beach all day we thought we’d better put her to bed.” Result! I would have high-fived The Husband if she hadn’t been looking at us.

  “The weather’s going to change,” said Paul, sounding like Eeyore.

  “Oh dear,” I said feigning concern, “Will that mean we won’t be able to surf?”

  “No you should be alright,” said Debbie, “the surf school go out in most weathers.” Surf school?

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you,” said the Husband, not meeting my eye. “I asked Debs to book a surfing lesson for us tomorrow morning, and we’ve got to be down at the beach by 9.30. Thought it would be a good way to start us off.” Don’t you mean finish us off ? Oh well, at least it would be one hour less I had to spend with Paul.

  We went to say hello to Paul’s parents, Bob and Maggie, who seemed very pleasant and who were contentedly watching Taggart in the lounge. Maggie said I looked nice and brown. I liked her immediately. We sat with Debbie and Paul in the huge kitchen diner, drinking wine and eating leftover barbeque bits.

  Predictably, I got stuck with Paul again, so I asked him to tell me about his week and how his surfing had been. He described every wave, every current, every grain of sodding sand in such tedious detail that my eyelids started to droop. I eventually excused myself, and Debbie showed me up to our room and pointed out where the bathroom was. One evening over, just two to go.

  I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. It took me a moment or two to work it out. The alarm clock said 7.15 am; I set it for an early time so I could get in the shower before anyone else. I looked over my shoulder, but the Husband wasn’t in bed next to me, he wasn’t there. Had he actually come to bed last night? I looked round the room for evidence, perhaps discarded clothes, shoes kicked off in the middle of the floor for me to trip over, but there was nothing. I opened the bedroom door and peered out. I couldn’t hear anyone up and about, so I risked nipping downstairs in my nightie. I could hear a noise like a gurgling plug-hole coming from the lounge. The Husband was sprawled on the sofa asleep, his mouth wide open, snoring like a drain. A half empty bottle of brandy and two glasses were on the coffee table. He’d probably been up half the night drinking brandy with Paul. What on earth had he found to talk to him about? I went to wake him up but stopped myself. Sod him. Let everyone find him like that. I went to bag the shower and put my waterproof mascara on.

  The morning was grey and cold with a stiff breeze. The others decided they would stay at the house for a bit, and then come down to the beach to see how we were getting on with our surf lesson. Chloë had already had two screaming tantrums: once when I accidentally stood on her favourite doll’s head and one of its eyes popped out (clearly a safety hazard, so actually I did her a favour, but she didn’t see it that way and my Popeye joke fell very flat) and once when the Husband pushed back his chair when she was stood right behind it and it had whacked her in the face. Paul’s parents were beginning to look at us like we were some kind of child-monsters.

  The Husband and I set off down the narrow lane towards the beach clutching our towels. We had to flatten ourselves against the hedgerow when a car came past us. I was wearing jeans and both the jumpers I’d packed at the last minute and one of my new bandos to keep my hair out of my face. The Husband had said “What the bloody hell have you got on your head? You look like a washer woman.” I knew he was grumpy because he was hungover - he smelt strongly of brandy and looked extremely rough - serve him bloody well right.

  We reached the bottom of the lane, crossed over the main road which ran through the village and headed towards the beach. We came to a large hut which had surf boards lined up in racks outside and long vertical Quicksilver flags flapping in the wind. Inside, there was a small group people, already in their Quicksilver wetsuits, stood around chatting. There was a couple who looked like they were still in their teens, another couple who looked slightly younger than us and two guys who were probably in their early thirties. We went up the man at the counter. He didn’t look at all like my idea of a typical surfie-type, he was tall and groomed and looked like an accountant. He ticked us off his list and went to get wetsuits for us. He said it was important to get the right size as they should fit you “like a glove”. He looked me up and down and handed me a “Medium” and then looked at the Husband and shouted to an assistant, “Where are the XLs?”

  The Husband, mortified, said “No, no I’ll be fine with a Large.” The accountant handed him a Large, looking doubtful. We went behind some curtains to get into them. What a nightmare, you needed to be a bloody contortionist! Feet in first, struggle and flap like a penguin to get arms in, and then straining to reach behind to get the zip up. They were so unforgiving, showing every lump and bump and goose pimple. I sucked my stomach in, and went to see how the Husband had got on. As he appeared from behind the curtain, the accountant called out “Wrong way round mate!” He’d put it on with the zip at the front. It was also far too small, as he hadn’t been able to get the zip done up and lots of flesh was escaping. He did look like he’d put on a few pounds, which I found remarkable given the amount of time he spent at the gym.

  Embarrassed, he went back behind the curtain to take it off whilst I asked for an XL. I could hear much grunting and cursing from the curtain. He couldn’t get the suit off, and he was sweating from the effort, which made it even more difficult. I had to ask for help from the group, and it took three of us to prize him out of his rubber casing. He was not at all happy and his face was purple from the humiliation. He got into the XL suit, but the legs were too long, so we had to roll them up for him.

  We were introduced to our instructors, Dave and Tim. Unlike the guy at the counter, they exactly fitted my idea of typical surfie-types. Both were in their very early twenties, Dave was tall and thin and looked like Shaggy from Scooby
Doo, and Tim was tanned, with long, bleach-blonde scruffy surf hair. They both had face paint on, Adam Ant style, even though there was thick cloud. Everything was “Dude this” and “Man that” as in: “Is this your first time surfing, dudes? That’s cool man, you’re gonna love it.” I immediately named them Wayne and Garth.

  They said they had a 100% track record of getting everyone stood up on their boards at their first lesson. I asked if that had to be in the sea. They laughed and said they weren’t going to lose their 100% record today. Wanna bet? We all trooped outside so we could be fitted up with our boards. They said the learner boards had to be suitable for your size and weight. My God, I’d thought Paul had described his surf board as a “short” board last night when he was talking to me at me about surfing? These boards were massive; it was like looking up at a row of sky scrapers. Mine was really long and thick, I reckoned I could get at least five people sat on it. It wasn’t a board, it was a boat. The accountant said “Have fun everyone! See you in four hours.”

  “Four hours?” I hissed at The Husband, “four bloody hours? I thought the lesson was an hour.”

  “Don’t be daft, you can’t learn to surf in an hour,” he hissed back. “It’ll go really quickly, you’ll see.”

  “But what if I need the loo? My bladder will never hold out for four hours.”

  “You’ll just have to go in your wetsuit,” he said. “That’s what surfers do. And it will probably warm you up a bit.”

  “So I’m wearing a wetsuit that people have peed in? So gross.”

  “They wash them,” he said, but he didn’t sound too sure of himself.

  We started to take our boards down to the beach. That wasn’t easy. We had to go in pairs, one behind the other, holding a surf board under each arm. My arms weren’t quite long enough to reach the bottom of the wide boards, so I ended up holding onto the fins, which were really sharp. The ground was uneven in places and we were barefoot. The Husband, who was behind me, stood on a pine cone, yelped and dropped one of the boards. I was looking ahead at the beach, and swung round to see what had happened. I caught him with the other board and knocked him over. He was absolutely fine, but made a huge girly fuss because his hands and wetsuit were covered in sand.

  It felt like a very long walk to the beach, and my arms were ready to drop off when we got to the shore. The sky was a solid grey above us and big green waves reared up ahead of us before smashing down in an angry white froth. It was completely uninviting. Wayne and Garth stood and looked at the sea, discussing the best place to go for the “right sort of waves”. We waited and waited, getting cold. A good ten minutes passed. They were still thinking about it when a group from another surf school ran onto the beach, picked a spot dead ahead and immediately went into the water. Wayne said “Yup, that’s where we should have gone.” They then walked us about 500 yards further down the beach. I was already knackered.

  On the beach, Wayne and Garth went through the concept of how you stand up on the board. It’s a four step process:

  1. You lie on the board. Sounds good.

  2. You push up with your forearms onto all fours. I’m used to that concept.

  3. Bring one leg forwards through your arms. Sounds easy, but it’s not when your stomach is in the way.

  4. Push with your arms to stand up and then stick your arse out. Not attractive.

  Then we were ready to get into the water. Great. The plan was that Wayne and Garth would stand waist-deep in water as you lie on your board. When the wave breaks, they push you off so that you “catch the foam” and then you try and stand up.

  The Husband said: “So they just push you off and all you’ve got to do is stand up, how hard can that be?” Hmmm. We headed into the water. It was very cold. We waded in up to our waists and I scanned the surface for dorsal fins. I struggled onto my board and lay ready for my first attempt with Wayne holding the end. A wave rose and broke, and Wayne pushed me off shouting “Go go go!” I was off. Wayne shouted “Get up get up!” and I got onto all fours, tried to bring one leg forwards but lost my balance and toppled into the sea. I came up under my board, banged my head and surfaced coughing and spluttering, my leg tangled up in the rope, only to be caught by the wave behind that thundered into my face. What a waste of Clinique Dewey Youth foundation; why had I bothered? My bando had been ripped off, and was probably half way up the Bristol Channel by now. That was £7.50 I’d never see again.

  “Oh man.” Wayne came to help and unwind me from the rope, telling me that I’d strapped my board to the wrong leg, which is why I came up under the board. He said “You’re gonna end up in the hack sack if you carry on like that.” I’d no idea what that meant, but assumed it wasn’t a good thing.

  I then had to go round in a circle to await another go. The Husband was next. Lying on his board, concentrating hard, Garth pushed him off with the breaking wave. Before Garth could even shout “get up”, he slid straight off his board and disappeared beneath the frothy surf. Still confident of your 100% record boys? I checked to see if the Husband was ok. He spat out a mouthful of salt water and said “He pushed me too hard!” I had another go. Same result. We all kept trying, but it was so frustrating, just when you thought you had your balance and could get up, you just flew off. It could be quite painful too if you caught the board when you fell or hit the water too hard. Then the girl from the young teen couple did it - she caught a wave and stood up, keeping her balance as she was swept in towards the shore. We all cheered and clapped.

  “Man she really rode that one!” shouted Wayne. “Come on dudes, you can all do this!” The blokes were suddenly much more determined - they didn’t want to be outdone by a girl.

  I took my turn, and Wayne pushed me off as a particularly large wave started to break on me. I tried to get up on the board, but the wave was so powerful that I lost my balance and plunged in. I went under and for a moment I was completely disorientated - I had no idea which way up I was and the sea was churning me around like I was in a washing machine. It was terrifying. I was so relieved when my head broke the surface that I almost burst into tears. “Gees, you got hell-munched by that one,” shouted Wayne. This time I knew exactly what he meant.

  The Husband was not fairing any better. He just couldn’t get his front leg through his arms to stand up on the board.

  He kept saying “I always have trouble with this leg, I think it’s that old muscle strain.” One by one, the group were managing to stand up. I was last but one, and when I managed it I felt on top of the world. It was a smallish wave that I caught, and I didn’t go far, but I got up and kept my balance.

  Garth yelled “Stick your arse out!” I punched the air with delight as my wave fizzled out. I had to admit it felt brilliant. All the pressure was now on The Husband as the only member of the group not to stand up. Wayne and Garth did their utmost to get him up, but he just couldn’t quite do it.

  I was feeling cold and exhausted, and desperate for a wee (I could not bring myself to go in my suit) so I told Wayne I was going to go in.

  “Oh no, man, you can’t, the photographer’s just arrived.” Someone had turned up to capture our humiliation on camera. Garth instructed us to smile as we surfed in towards the photographer, which was near-on impossible when you had to concentrate like mad to stay upright. They were determined to capture The Husband stood up so they could claim their 100% record, so every time he reached the crouched position, the photographer snapped away like mad.

  At last, the lesson was over; I was so, so happy to get out of the water.

  Wayne shouted “Did everyone have a good time?”

  We all shouted “Yes!”

  Garth shouted “Will everyone go surfing again?” He got a very feeble “Ye-es.”

  We carried our boards back towards the hut, the Husband telling me about his “muscle strain” which had led to his difficulties in standing up. I was more interested in listening to Wayne and Garth who were talking to each other about space cakes. Garth sai
d he’d taken six space cakes home last night. His girlfriend phoned him, and while they were talking, his dog ate four of the cakes. It had been unable to stand up, and had been stumbling about and falling over. Apparently, the dog was very “mellow” today.

  Back at the hut, getting the wet suits off was almost too much effort. Mine was glued to me, and as I peeled it off, I saw to my horror that my tan was coming off with it. I was left covered in patchy blotches of brown all over my body. It looked like I had some awful skin disease - I was the Singing Detective! Thirty five quid wasted. I pulled on my jeans and jumpers, which covered most of me up, thank goodness, apart from my neck. I’d have to buy a scarf.

  We had a look at the photos that had been downloaded to a laptop, which gave us all a good laugh. The Husband scanned the photos and found one that made him look like he was close to a standing position so he decided to buy a disc. We said goodbye to our group and went to get a coffee to warm us up. I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket and read a text from my brother which said “Sea Monster spotted off North Devon coast! Looking good Sis!” What on earth did that mean? Probably he was having a lunch time session in the pub. Another text arrived from Karen: “I don’t think Quicksilver will be renewing your modelling contract with them.” Eh? I texted her back “You what?” She replied “Facebook.” Oh no. I asked the Husband to have a look on his iPhone. On Facebook there was a picture of me. It was the worst picture of me I’d ever seen. Even the one of me taken when I was face down on a table in a nightclub, my hair trailing in my own vomit wasn’t a patch on this one. This was a picture of me tumbling off my surf board. My horrid wet sea-salty hair was sticking out from my head like snakes - I looked like Medusa. My face had this expression of gormless horror as I was about to hit the water, and my stomach was protruding from my wet suit, the angle I was at making it look even flabbier than it actually was.

  “How the hell did that get on there?” I cried.

  “Er, it looks like Paul and Deb posted it,” said The Husband, “I saw them on the beach watching us, and Paul’s got a really good camera you know, it’s...”

  “I don’t give a shit if it can photograph through walls!” I wailed. “Take the bloody thing off.” How dare they? I didn’t ask to have my picture displayed on a public forum for people to jeer at. Eleven people had already said they “liked it” and I didn’t even know some of them. I felt utterly humiliated, no worse than that, I felt violated. I don’t use Facebook for precisely this reason; my private life is private.

  The Husband was hesitant. “I can’t, it’s on Deb and Paul’s wall.” He looked at me. “You’re not going to make a fuss, are you? It could be really embarrassing and spoil the weekend.” Oh thanks for your loyalty, you utter git.

  “It already is embarrassing - for me, your wife. You know I hate Facebook, it’s not fair of them to post a picture of me without my permission, it’s not bloody well on. Get it off, it’s hideous.”

  I went to buy two coffees from a kiosk while The Husband made a phone call. I was furious. Bastards. They invite us away with them for the weekend then publicly humiliate me. How horrid of them.

  The Husband finished his call and said “It’s gone.” We took our coffees and trudged back to the house. It had started to spit with rain. My anger-bubble began to burst. Had I overreacted? It was a funny picture - to anyone who wasn’t me. Why had I had such a sense of humour failure - was it just my own dreadful vanity? I had to admit to myself that if it had been a picture of me looking fabulous and sexy sat astride a surf board, wind gently ruffling my hair, face full of make-up, pouting for the camera, I wouldn’t have minded quite so much.

  Debbie opened the door, looking full of remorse. “Oh, Kate,” she said, “I’m so sorry about the picture. We just thought it was so funny, we didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I managed to force a smile. “Well you know how difficult it is when you’re doing something for the first time,” I said, a touch sanctimoniously. “It’s not nice to be laughed at when you already feel so self-conscious.”

  “No, no of course not,” said Debbie, looking wretched. Good. I went upstairs to have a hot shower. It was so lovely to be in warm water for a change and to feel clean. I rubbed at my blotchy patches of tan, but they wouldn’t wash off. I tried to scrub them off with a towel, and although they faded a little, they stubbornly clung on. How did you get this stuff off, sandpaper? The lovely white towel looked disgusting when I’d finished; great rusty stains all over it. I took it back to the bedroom with me and hid it under my case. I Googled “How do you remove fake tan” on the iPad. The top answer was to use lemon juice. I’d have to go and buy some lemons, but that might take some explaining. I put my jeans and jumpers back on and wrapped another hair bando round my neck to hide the blotchy bits. It looked a bit odd, but then so does a skin disease.

  The rain had set in. Paul’s mother was entertaining Chloë, building a farm yard and doing all the farmyard noises, which got a bit irritating. Chloë shouted “Cock!” very loudly at one stage, which shocked me, but her grandmother quickly followed it up with “a doodle-doo”, much to my relief. The rest of us played Monopoly. Paul, of course, got Mayfair and Park Lane and fleeced us all.

  We went for an early evening pizza at a restaurant in the village. The Husband had asked me if I was going to get changed, but my only other options were dresses and skirts, which I couldn’t wear because of my hideous blotchy legs. I told him it was too cold and I was sticking to my jeans. Chloë was an utter pain in the restaurant, banging cutlery, making sudden high-pitched screeches and chucking her food everywhere. Her parents were totally nonchalant about the whole thing, saying “Well, it’s a place for families so they’ve got to expect a bit of mess and noise.”

  I felt like saying “Yes but it’s also a place for people who expect to be able to eat a meal without having their eardrums perforated.” Paul’s parents just smiled benignly. Proper conversation was impossible because all the attention was on Chloë. I could tell the Husband was getting irritated too; his knuckles were white as he clutched his Meaty Feast.

  Even though it was still early when we got back, I excused myself and went to bed. I was genuinely shattered. The Husband woke me sometime later when he stumbled into the room and crashed into bed, reeking of brandy. I guessed he and Paul had got through the other half of the bottle. Two nights down, one to go.

  The next morning, we awoke to grey skies but it wasn’t raining. We were supposed to be going surfing with Debbie and Paul but I couldn’t face it. I said I had a sore throat and thought I might have a cold coming. Such a lame excuse. I agreed to go down to the beach and keep an eye on their stuff while they were in the water. Chloë had a screaming fit when she realised her parents were going out without her, so it took almost half an hour for them to pacify her and for us to leave the house.

  We hired a wet suit and a board for The Husband and, heavily laden, traipsed down to the shore. Debbie looked fantastic in her wet suit - although she wasn’t exactly a slender woman she was very curvaceous and everything seemed to be in exactly the right proportion. She looked fit and athletic and both she and Paul were tanned (naturally, not spray-painted on) from the week of good weather they’d had before we got there.

  The tide was a long way out and the wind was whipping across the rippled sand. I was surprised at how many other surfers there were today - the dark green water was dotted with black spots. The three of them went into the water and I stood guard by the towels, bags and Paul’s flashy camera. I discovered that there is an activity that’s colder than surfing - that’s standing watching surfing. I jumped about, flapped my arms, jogged on the spot, but the chilly wind managed to invade all my layers of clothing and I felt frozen to the core. I couldn’t move and leave all their stuff; I could possibly have carried it all off the beach and gone for a coffee, but I wasn’t able to tell them where I was going, as they were too far out now, and actually, in amongst all the other surfers, I had no idea which was
them. Hopefully the Husband would think of me stood here and pop back to check if I was ok.

  He didn’t. None of them did.

  They were in the water for hours. When they finally emerged, Debbie cried “Oh Kate, you haven’t been stood there all that time have you? But you must be absolutely frozen, and with your sore throat and everything.” I smiled through chattering teeth and lied that I’d really enjoyed watching them. I joked that I could really use a brandy to warm me up.

  Paul said: “Yuk, I can’t bear the stuff. That’s Deb’s tipple.” I stared at him. So he hadn’t been up late-night drinking with the Husband then, it must have been Debbie. No doubt they’d talked about work until the early hours. How very dull.

  The Husband was quite cock-a-hoop, as he’d managed to stand up on his board. He kept saying “Did you see me?” and I lied and said yes. Debbie was laughing and calling him Goofy, which I thought was a bit rude, but apparently it’s a surfing term for someone who points their feet in the wrong direction or some bollocks like that. I went into the village whilst the others went back to the house to shower and change. I bought a big, steaming cappuccino and a hot tea cake and sat in the warm cafe. I was still shivering, even my bones felt cold. Middle of the English summer and I’d probably caught pneumonia.

  The weekend was almost over, thank God, one more evening to get through and we could go home tomorrow. If we left early enough I’d be able to catch up on some work emails when we got home. I told myself off. Why wasn’t I able to just live in the moment and enjoy myself like normal people do? I was either worrying about what I looked like or worrying about work. I couldn’t enjoy the surfing because I was worried about sharks, drowning, frostbite, typhoid, and I couldn’t enjoy the lovely house we were staying in because I’d ruined the towels and there was a devil child staring at me all the time. I guessed that a weekend just wasn’t a long enough time to be able to totally switch off and relax. I’d try and get the Husband to agree to going away somewhere sunny in September - on our own.

  We spent the evening at the house; Debbie made a creamy pasta dish for supper and we drank lots and lots of wine. Chloë wouldn’t go to bed, and howled every time she got taken back upstairs. They were so soft on her, no wonder she never did anything they told her to. I overheard Debbie in the kitchen asking the Husband if we could stay another night, but he very quickly replied “No, no we can’t, Kate’s got to get back for work.” Phew. His response was a sure sign that he’d had enough, too. We awoke the next morning and left Devon in the brilliant sunshine. Just typical. I asked The Husband if he’d enjoyed the weekend.

  “Yes, apart from the bloody kid.” We congratulated ourselves on being childless, and ripped Debbie and Paul’s parenting skills to shreds, like all childless, judgemental couples do. I felt we were at one for a change - united against a common enemy - a toddler.

  Chapter Seventeen