by Terry Tyler
It doesn’t even need much cleaning, because I keep on top of it. Robert says I ought to have a cleaner so I could forget about it, go out and enjoy myself, but I couldn’t let anyone else do it.
I’m not pregnant yet but I’m told there’s nothing to worry about until you’ve been trying for about a year. I can’t tell my parents, friends and doctor that it’s not my fertility that concerns me, but Robert’s lack of interest. We need to have sex on certain days in order to start a baby, I’ve told him that, but he’s obviously forgotten or wasn’t really listening in the first place. I don’t want to keep reminding him. He doesn’t seem bothered, though; even the sexy undies don’t work. The other night I was sitting there all tarted up in my Agent Provocateur kit, stockings and everything, and he just sat next to me reading a Stephen King book. I got a bit mad with him and said, ‘how are we supposed to have a baby if we don’t have sex?’ and he said he was sorry but he was too tired, and that he’d make it up to me, but then of course the next night was bloody Monday so he was gone again for the whole week, and by the time the weekend came it was too late again.
Now the days are shorter, darker and colder, I feel so alone. He leaves at six-thirty on Monday mornings, waking me up to kiss me goodbye. Then I go back to sleep, and when I wake up again there’s just silence. I put on my big, warm dressing gown and furry boot slippers, go down to make breakfast, and take it back up to bed. I read for a bit, a Sophie Kinsella or a Jill Mansell, usually, to cheer me up, then I wonder how on earth I’m going to fill up the hours until bed time. It was okay when Robbie was coming home every night because I could plan and shop for meals, but there’s no point just for me. He suggested I go to more of my cookery classes but I’ve got no one to cook for.
He said it would get me out of the house.
I don’t want to get out of the house, I spent so much time and energy making it all lovely, why would I want to find ways not to be in it?
The idea was house-marriage-babies. I don’t want a big social life. I know Robert wants me to have one, though, so I go to see Simone but she can never talk to me properly because of her kids demanding her attention. She says things like ‘you’d better get used to it, this’ll be you soon’, and that makes me scared but also a bit better, because I know that once it happens I’ll have something to centre my days around; we’ll be a normal family.
I’m longing to start on the nursery, but I can’t tempt fate until I’m actually pregnant. That’s the one room I left, when I was getting the place done up. It’s still bare, white and waiting for its tiny occupant.
Sometimes I meet Beth in Norwich for her lunch hour, but that won’t last much longer because she and Anthony are moving to Oxfordshire in the New Year. She says I should visit once they’ve moved, before she has the bad luck to land herself a job (ha ha), so I suppose I might.
Even though I just want to be here, in my house, with Robbie.
The worst time is early evening. I go to Mum and Dad’s one night a week but any more than that and they’ll guess how lonely I am; I pretend to them that I’m fine. That still leaves three evenings by myself, after I’ve spent most of the day alone too. It gets to half past six and I’ve watched the quiz shows on telly and eaten my dinner, and I just don’t know what to do next. It’s not like Robbie and I did much, but not doing anything in particular is okay if you’ve got someone to not do it with. He rings me every night around seven, but sometimes it’s just a quick one because he’s off out somewhere, or from the pub if he hasn’t managed to leave it yet, and that makes me feel depressed for the whole evening because I wonder if Erin is there. I have to force myself not to ask because I know it will annoy him. I remember Mum telling me that men hate jealous women, but it’s easy for her to give advice like that because Daddy never gives her anything to be jealous about.
Robbie being away all week affects the time he’s here, too. I wake up on Friday happy that another week is over, I spend all day making myself look gorgeous, shopping and cooking, but when he gets here it’s late because of the two-hour drive and weekend traffic, and he’s so tired he just wants to flop in front of the telly with dinner on his knees. He doesn’t even notice what he’s eating. I do understand, and I don’t moan, but what about him making a fuss of me? What about ME? I fantasise about a wonderful passionate reunion (because we all know how important passion is, don’t we, Robbie?) but I wonder if he even misses me. When we talk, he’s full of enthusiasm for what SHE is going to be doing with the company, all the plans they’ve got for the future, not plans for OUR future. It’s like I’m just there, something to come home to and that’s that. He hardly even asks me how I spend my time; not that I have much to tell him.
I’m terrified he’s losing interest in me.
I think I’m actually depressed. I looked up websites about it, and I read about Prozac. People call them ‘happy pills’, don’t they? I wonder if the doctor would give me some.
If Robbie loved me more, I wouldn’t feel so depressed.
If I didn’t feel so depressed, Robbie might love me more.
Robert
Winter 2013—2014
Of course, a hundred and one potential suitors seeped out of the woodwork the moment Erin became Queen of Lanchester Estates. They were so blatant about it that I didn’t know whether to stand outside her office and challenge them to duels, laugh in their faces or pity them. One of the worst was this tosser she put in charge of IT called David Arundel. Always on the phone talking about hot topics like delays in file downloading time and alarming amounts of megabytes; Erin said she didn’t even know what he was talking about half the time. Arundel was a cocky gym enthusiast with a spray tan and blond highlights. The sort who ‘does lunch’ and describes himself as a ‘self-confessed gym bunny’—I followed him on Twitter to keep an eye on him. She actually went out with him (did lunch) (and dinner) a couple of times, which vexed me slightly; what if she fancied him? I was worried this liaison might be her equivalent of me thinking ‘yeah, I know she’s a thick chav but I still would’ about sundry slappers in the FHM Top One Hundred. I was safe, though; she said she knew it would never be a meeting of either mind or body when they went for a Chinese and he ate it with chopsticks. It’s something she and I laugh about: how much of a dick do you have to be to eat messy food with two long thin sticks? Just because the Chinese aren’t sharp enough to use forks it doesn’t mean we have to follow suit.
Arundel was followed by the Swedish architect. Erik something. Another blond Viking type, except that this one didn’t need highlights, and was super serious and poetic. Wrote blank verse about mountains and soaring eagles. Yawn. Actually he was a pretty good-looking bastard and I have a feeling she had a little fling with him because I saw her talking to him a couple of times and—well, you can just tell when people are screwing, can’t you? But it didn’t last long; soon he was back to looking glum at his drawing board, never to be seen on the fourth floor again. I know, because I checked on him twice a day.
As well as these two chancers, there were countless other invitations to lunch and dinner, from within the company and without.
Perhaps they’d all read Lusty Lady Boss, too.
All were wary of me, though, her newest director, head of Transport and chief courtier.
I was the person Erin went to for everything. No doubt David Arundel referred to me as her ‘go-to guy’.
Of course, now we were both at Head Office our closeness was apparent to everyone, and I knew many thought we were having an affair. One spurned suitor (I can’t even remember which one) suggested to Erin’s new secretary, Blanche, that she was just playing with other men’s attention to bolster her ego while she waited for me to divorce my wife.
“Which demonstrates why he never stood a chance,” I said, once I’d stopped laughing. “He doesn’t know her at all; Erin doesn’t need anyone to bolster her ego.”
I didn’t want people to think that we were having an affair behind my wife’s back because I had to pro
tect the reputation of one and the feelings of the other, so I was quick to deny it if anyone made such an insinuation. With a secret smile on my face so they still thought we might be, of course. It’s a guy thing.
Oh, but it was great to see the place being run as it should be, at last. I loved the Monday meetings when we’d all bring our ideas to the table, and I liked the informal get-togethers afterwards even more, in which Erin, Cecilia, Will and I discussed what was a goer and what was a turkey; the directions in which we wanted to go were so up in the air, and it was new and exciting, almost like being in at the beginning of a new company—for it felt like a new company with Erin in charge.
After a long day at work (and I often stayed until six or seven), I’d go for a drink with Erin or some of the chaps, or for a game of squash, or to visit Mum and Dad, and then I’d go home to my nice little Lanchester Estates flat in Kew Court, in the smart, ponced up end of the town centre. My bachelor abode was brand spanking new, uncluttered and satisfyingly masculine, with sofas in black leather and low glass tables. Two bedrooms, a wet room, a single-man type kitchen area in an airy, square living room with a huge plasma screen TV on the wall, and a balcony looking out onto a courtyard. Each morning I drank my vitamins courtesy of the smoothie maker whilst keeping up with the world via Twitter and The Guardian app on my iPad, and eating toast at the breakfast bar. Or sometimes I’d eat muesli whilst lounging on the black sofa and watching CNN on the wall. I was very happy. Then Friday afternoon came and I was dragged away from my life, back to a house that wasn’t mine and a woman who hardly knew me. I didn’t want to be there, I wanted to be sitting in Hampton’s with Erin. I woke up on Saturday and Sunday mornings in the wrong bedroom next to the wrong woman.
I was terrified Amy would get pregnant. I tried not to fuck her at all, even when I wanted to, though obviously I had to sometimes. Christmas was the worst, no escape for nearly two weeks. We spent a couple of days with Mum and Dad, and when we got home I went down the pub with Toby Blount a few times, which had the added bonus of me coming home stinking of beer, something she detested. Couldn’t stand me near her; job done. And yes, I did feel absolutely bloody awful about it, I was behaving like a total wanker and I hated seeing her hurt, disappointed little face. I tried to alleviate my guilt by telling myself it wasn’t my fault we’d grown apart, was it? She wanted to mould me into her idea of a husband, she wasn’t interested in me, what I wanted, the sort of person I was. We’d got married for the wrong reasons, and it hadn’t worked out, which isn’t exactly uncommon, is it? How I wished I could talk to Dad about it; by the time Christmas came, though, I don’t think he was even sure who Amy was, half the time.
I tried not to resent her. I tried hard not to see her as the reason I wasn’t with Erin.
I wondered if (hoped) she might meet someone else during the week, someone who would give her the attention I couldn’t. A visiting celebrity chef, perhaps—oh, that she might ask me for a divorce!
My wish was not granted. Instead, she announced she would come to stay with me at Kew Court for a week.
“It’s time I stopped being so selfish and took more of an interest in your life!” she announced, brightly.
Too late, Amy. Too little, too late.
Amy’s Journal
March 2014
I just got back from a week in Eltham with Robbie.
It was Beth’s idea, because I was so depressed after Christmas when he went out getting drunk with Toby nearly every night.
I never used to like Toby because he’s a bit reckless and has a reputation for being involved with dodgy people, but he was really kind when I saw him over the holiday. A few times he’d had to ring the taxi and get in it with Robbie to make sure he got home safely.
I think he felt sorry for me.
Robbie and I spent two days at his parents’ house and that was pretty difficult too, because his dad is so weird now. Giles and Robbie’s mum act like he isn’t there when he says strange things. He asks them questions that he’s asked over and over again, like what time they’re having dinner, and they just ignore him. Robbie and Kirsty say, “bloody hell Dad, how many more times?” and make a joke of it, which I think is better; he gets angry with Giles and Jean, he says “will one of you just answer my bloody question?” and they answer him pointedly, like he’s an idiot. It’s an awful atmosphere. Then every time I look at Jim I think about his affair with that girl, and he makes me feel sick even though I feel sorry for him. And I hate Robbie for not being loyal to his mother.
When we were with my parents they kept talking about the patter of tiny feet. Some chance.
Then it was all over, he left me again, and it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get back.
I was miserable all through January, and hardly left the house. February wasn’t much better. He even forgot to get me a Valentine’s Day card. It was on a Friday and I cooked a special meal for him, with candles and soft music, but it wasn’t romantic at all. It felt forced, he sat down at the table awkwardly, as if he was in a restaurant with strangers. Then he drank far too much wine and left half his dinner. We didn’t have sex, either. I asked him if he could maybe not drink so much as it was a special day, but he said he’d had ‘a hell of a week’ at work and needed to relax. Why did ‘relaxing’ have to mean two bottles of wine? Why couldn’t it mean a lovely romantic evening with me? After dinner he just put the telly on and carried on drinking. I just don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.
I had a good moan to Beth about it before she moved away, and she said, “His work’s really important to him, isn’t it? If you show a bit of interest in it he might not be so eager to get back to his pretty boss every Monday morning.” I knew what she was hinting at.
So I told him I thought it would be good for our marriage if I saw a bit of his weekday life, and arranged to go down there for the first week in March.
By then I’d been taking the happy pills for a month. They make me feel a bit weird; sometimes I actually feel worse, but the doctor told me I should persevere with them and go back after three months for a review.
Well, they’re not making me happy.
The week with Robbie wasn’t a success.
I left with him at six on Monday morning, earlier than he usually leaves because I wanted to drop my things off at his flat before I took the Lanchester Estates tour. He was quiet during the journey, then on edge when we got to the flat, as if he was under inspection. I walked from room to room taking it in—not that it took long. There were five smallish rooms with nothing much to look at in any of them. Just bare white walls and expensive but functional furniture, all black and white. He laughed a bit nervously and said, “not really what you’re used to but I like it!”
That was when I realised why he was acting so oddly.
He was showing me his home.
His home, where he lived, not just somewhere he stayed during the week.
The flat suited him. He opened the French windows to the balcony and said how he was looking forward to sitting out there having a fag and a drink after a long day at work, once the weather got warmer. He really smiled when he said that. It was obviously something he would enjoy very much.
I thought that seeing where he lived in the week would make me feel closer to him, but it had the opposite effect.
I was seeing the half of his life in which I was irrelevant.
The half of his life he preferred, I was certain.
He’d told all his colleagues I’d be visiting. Can you believe it was only the second time I’d ever been to Head Office? I never have any reason to go there.
It’s nothing like you’d imagine. You’d think the office of somewhere that bought land and built houses would be plain and business-like, even though it’s a huge company, but it’s like walking into a smart hotel. It’s all plush carpets and fabulous lighting, silent lifts, a waiting area with sofas nicer than ours at home. My last visit had been in 2009, for the Christmas drinks do. Then, everyone had left for the ho
lidays but this time there were so many people walking about, tons of good-looking girls, not in office clothes but fashionable gear. The younger ones wore miniskirts and opaque tights. I could see why Robbie liked going to work so much. I was wearing a smart dogtooth checked suit, and although I’m pretty and slim, I felt like a country bumpkin, dressed up in her Sunday best to come to the city.
Up on the directors’ floor I felt as if I was in a millionaire’s penthouse. The corridors were lit so subtly, the carpets and walls this gorgeous shade of pale gold; it made me feel all warm and dreamy as soon as I got out of the lift. I remarked that I’d love to find exactly this colour for the upstairs of our house. I hadn’t noticed it so much the time before, because we were a bit late and I was all nervy about meeting Robbie’s colleagues and, I suppose, because I didn’t have my own house then.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Robbie said, with pride in his voice. “Erin’s father got it all done originally, getting colour experts and the best interior designers in, and it’s freshened up every year.”
He showed me into his office, and I gasped. It was huge, with one of those old oak desks and velvet curtains, nothing like I'd imagined. Last time he’d just been in a room at the end of a big open plan space allocated to the transport department, with charts and plans on the wall and a row of computers showing satellite images, where he kept track of everyone and everything—all very high tech, but at least it was like a proper office. This one was more like a smart living room.
“It’s a step up, isn’t it?” said my husband, which was when he showed me something I didn’t like at all—the door leading into Erin’s office. His own personal door. He knocked, didn’t wait for a reply, showed me in—and there she was.
The woman who kept my husband from me.
She smiled, stood up, and walked across to greet me. I shocked myself with the hatred and jealousy I felt towards her. I hadn’t expected to feel that way.