The Wife Who Got a Life, page 6
She’d be sulking now. Suggesting buying a sports car and driving to Paris has kept my sister thinking that she was the daughter of the century for some time. And I’d just poured low-fat yogurt all over her parade.
Lizzy: I don’t know what you expect me to do.
Me: I think you need to talk to her. She listens to you. Tell her something that will convince her to go to the doc’s.
Lizzy: Like what?
Me: I don’t know!
Nicola: Sorry, guys. Only just got in. I had a sleepover at Laurence’s.
She added a winking emoji face. To the MUM’S KNEE chat. Really!
Lizzy: Oooh – who’s Laurence?
Nicola: This guy I’ve been seeing. He’s a doctor.
Lizzy: Wow – way to go Nic – do spill, have you got a picture?
Nicola: No – but he has a hint of the McDreamy’s about him.
Lizzy: What, him off Grey’s Anatomy? Double wow!
She added a hands clapping and champagne bottle emoji. I had to admit I have a bit of a thing for Patrick Dempsey. He was my celebrity crush. I wanted to ask more questions, just out of casual interest, but felt that if I asked now, the purpose of the WhatsApp group was doomed.
Me: Can we get back to Mum’s knee and then Nicola can give us the lowdown on her latest shag.
Nothing for a good ten minutes.
Nicola: He’s not just my latest shag, Cathy. He could be the one.
Me: I really hope so, Nic, and I really look forward to meeting the sexy doctor, as I’m sure Mum will be … if she can still walk. So any ideas?
Nothing for half an hour.
Lizzy: I feel so helpless all this way away.
Nicola: It’s not your fault.
Lizzy: If I could do something, I would.
Me: Will you call her, Lizzy? She likes you. Just try and talk some sense into her.
Lizzy: She likes you two too.
Me: I know, but you send her presents and stuff. She talks about that all the time.
Nicola: It’s true, she does. A lot!
Lizzy: Okay, then. I’ll give it a go. I’ll call tomorrow.
Me: Thanks, Lizzy.
Nicola: Yeah – thanks Lizzy.
Lizzy: Got to go. I have a class in ten minutes. Give my best regards to Doctor Dreamy, Nic.
Nicola: Will do.
Me: Yeah – me too. Looking forward to meeting him.
I wanted to add ‘if it lasts that long’, but thought that might not promote sisterly love.
12 February
Mike FaceTimed me from some restaurant in Liverpool tonight. It was just as I was trying to scrape the burnt bits off some sausages. I have no idea how you cook sausages without cremating them and then still find them raw in the middle. Sausages are stupid. Anyway, just as I was cursing the pork, Mike popped up on my phone to show me the dessert he was eating. I mean, it looked nice and all that, but I did not need to see a high-end, restaurant-quality pudding while I was feeding charcoal to my kids. It was incredibly loud and I could barely hear him, so he got up out of his chair and turned his back on the view of his excellently cooked food and raucous company.
‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked
‘Well, the usual. Just the usual. Erm … oh, I went to the doc’s the other day,’ I said.
‘What! Shit. Why?’ His face distorted in horror. ‘It’s not … is it, you haven’t have you …?’
‘No, no, nothing to worry about,’ I said. Christ, was this where we were at? Any mention of the medical profession and it was bound to be because we were at death’s door.
‘I just asked to go on the pill.’
I have never, ever seen him look more confused. He looked over his shoulder and then pushed his face closer to the screen.
‘Do … do you want to have more sex?’ he whispered.
I laughed. It was the only response I could think of.
‘No!’ I said eventually. He looked crestfallen. ‘Why is contraception always about sex? I just want to stop my periods and there is a pill that can do that.’
He drew back. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s good. Why didn’t you do that before? I mean, it’s not like we were planning any more kids. Think of all the money we could have saved on condoms.’
‘And tampons,’ I added.
The table behind suddenly roared with laughter, making hearing anything he was saying to me impossible. This was not the right time for a decent conversation. Perhaps that’s why he called me while out with his colleagues. So we couldn’t have a decent conversation. Since I’d stormed off in a huff and slammed some kitchen cupboard doors, there had been no mention of Helen, or his plans to change both his work and mine. I very strongly suspected, however, that this just meant he was taking his time putting together a strategy of how to get his own way. He would pounce when I least expected it and I needed to be ready.
We agreed this was not the right time to talk, and so I left him to his good food and good company. I put burnt sausages on plates and then stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up to Freddie and Kirsty. They came down, grabbed a plate and then disappeared back upstairs without a word.
Faced with another night in front of the TV on my own, I decided I would pop to Tania’s and see what they were up to. Last minute I photocopied my list of ‘sort of goals’, thinking that she would be very impressed with my progress.
I interrupted their dinner. Of course I did.
Tania and Hazel were at the dining-room table, talking to each other, sharing their day. They even had a candle lit. On a weekday! It was a picture of total marital harmony. Tania, of course, invited me to join them. I thought of the burnt sausages that were now in the bin and gratefully took a seat.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’ asked Hazel. If I was honest, Hazel terrified me. She was a lecturer in an ‘ology’ and she was so frighteningly clever that everything that came out of my mouth in her presence seemed to sound like something an imbecile would say.
‘Well, er, I wanted to show Tania this list and ask her if she would, er, keep a copy of this list I’ve written and help make me stick to it.’
Utter gobbledygook!
‘Did you write your Motivational Goals?’ asked Tania, placing a bowl of delicious-smelling food in front of me. ‘Really? That’s wonderful news. I really think that’s a good idea, Cathy. Definitely worth a shot.’
‘Tania mentioned you were feeling a bit low,’ said Hazel kindly.
Jesus, I thought. Tania had told her I was a pathetic mess again.
‘It’s a bit rough, isn’t it, this time of life?’ she continued. ‘Having something to aim at can really help. When I started the menopause, I decided to undertake a research project in my faculty, investigating feminism and psychoanalytical theory. It really took my mind off it.’
I swallowed. I knew what was coming next.
‘Where have you decided to put your talents?’ she asked. She smiled at me warmly.
‘Er, well, nothing so impressive,’ I spluttered. Perhaps I should just go home now, taking my list with me.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Hazel. ‘Let’s take a look. I’m sure you can achieve whatever you want to if you put your mind to it.’
I handed it over to her as if I was a student handing in what I knew was a substandard essay.
She read it, her brow furrowing the further down she went. Then she smiled. Smiled at my work. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. She then handed it over to Tania, who smiled the whole way through as she read my list of stuff I really needed to do before I got any older.
Then a surprising thing happened. Hazel asked me if she could have my list to include in her study of feminism and psychoanalytical theory.
‘Of course,’ I beamed.
She got up and hugged me.
‘Good luck,’ she whispered in my ear.
15 February
Day 26 of Fish-Finger-Gate.
I tried to let it go, I really did. And I sort of did. But not quite.
The fish finger disappeared two days after it had been used as a missile, so I assumed misguidedly that the issue had been dealt with and someone had finally cracked and cleaned it up. Happy days. However, unbeknownst to me, Barbra Streisand, our Boston terrier, had finally tracked it down and gobbled it up. Unfortunately, Barbra had then thrown it up on the utility room floor, along with mangled-up Pedigree Chum and dog slobber. I cleared it up, putting the sticky mess in a poo bag, and informed the rest of the family of the new location of the fish finger and that someone needed to dispose of the poo bag that was sitting on the wall outside the back door.
That had been over three weeks ago.
Today I’d decided that enough was enough so, as I left to take Barbra out for a walk, I tackled Freddie.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘the fish finger that Barbra threw up is still on the back wall. I want it in the bin by the time I get back.’
He looked at me puzzled for a moment.
‘Why moi?’ he asked.
‘You bought the fish fingers and Barbra is your dog.’
‘Not guilty on both counts.’
‘What!’ I exploded.
He thought for a moment. ‘I bought the fish fingers out of the five pounds you gave me for food when I went on that psychology field trip, only I didn’t need it because Jacko gave me his ham sandwich because his mum had put mustard on it. Therefore you funded the purchase and your constant insistence that Barbra is my dog just because I named her after Madame Streisand is just a convenient false construct to encourage me to be wracked with guilt because I never walk her. Am I correct?’
‘Barbra is your dog,’ I seethed. ‘You cried for a week when you were nine because you were so desperate for her. You went on hunger strike for a day. You practically held us to ransom and now … now …’
‘I have no recollection of any of the evidence you are presenting to me,’ he said, wide-eyed. ‘Like I say, a convenient false construct in order to make me dispose of regurgitated fish finger.’ He got up and walked out of the kitchen.
‘If it’s still there when I get back, I will dry your merino wool boxers in the tumble dryer,’ I shouted after him. ‘Where they will shrink to nothing!’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he challenged, storming back in.
‘Try me,’ I said, holding his glare.
‘I’ll wash them myself,’ he countered.
‘We both know that’s a lie,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘You are holding me to ransom,’ he replied, poking his finger at my chest.
‘I learnt from the best,’ I stated. ‘Come on Barbra, I’ll take you for a walk, even though your owner is a gobby liar who doesn’t take his responsibilities seriously.’
Naturally, I have never admitted to Freddie how much I love walking Barbra Streisand, and what a bonus it has proved to my life having a dog. I figure Barbra has kept at bay at least one roll of fat, as walking her – my one and only form of exercise – has stopped me becoming the couch potato into which I could so easily have morphed. And, most importantly and unexpectedly, I have met some really interesting people and had some very entertaining conversations while our dogs sniffed each other’s bums.
And of course, recently, I got to see Toby.
Toby, the owner of a delightful greyhound, whose walk often coincided with my Saturday morning trek through the woods. We were on nodding terms for probably about a year as his unmistakable good looks threw me into teenage trauma and stopped me having my usual dog banter with him. Then one day I found him distressed, having lost Blizzard (his wife’s choice, apparently), and so of course I offered to help find him, which I eventually did, with his nose stuck down a foxhole. He was so grateful he offered his name and a smile and a recognition that he could no longer just pass me on the bridge over the stream. Conversation would need to be had.
I looked forward to seeing him, if I was honest. I was not really sure why. It wasn’t like I fancied him. I mean, fancying him would have been so utterly pointless. He was perhaps in his early thirties, he wore cool clothes like he was not really trying to be cool; he was well groomed, I was sure he used moisturizer, and he did some trendy job like graphic design or something. Oh, and sometimes he wore a flat cap, which should have looked ridiculous but somehow he carried it off. But no, I didn’t fancy him. I appreciated him. He was unmistakably very attractive and seemed like a lovely guy, but I was very aware that fancying him would be like me thinking that one day I might make a soufflé. Just a totally ridiculous aspiration.
Thankfully, I saw Toby out and about today. Not that I’d timed my walk to coincide with his or anything. I mean, I wouldn’t do that. That would be juvenile. But the fact that we both liked to watch Saturday Kitchen on the TV and then go out for a walk did mean that we often bumped into each other on a Saturday and would have a little review of our week, which was kind of special and not something I would have liked to miss.
‘Good week?’ he asked as he approached me.
‘Pretty crap, actually,’ I told him. ‘I am currently on a twenty-six-day-long battle with the entire family over who is going to clear up a fish finger. My daughter threw it, my husband touched it last and my son’s dog ate it then threw it up. If it’s not gone by the time I get back, I’m divorcing the entire family.’
Toby threw his head back and laughed. Proper laughed. He found me funny, I knew he did. And I liked that. It gave me a funny feeling.
‘How about you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, Phoebe went off on one at me again last night. I didn’t get home until after nine but I had told her I was going to the beer mixer. I hadn’t put it on the calendar so apparently it didn’t count that I’d told her.’
‘Beer mixer?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s a thing they do once a month in the building I work in. All the tenants get together and have a beer and talk and share ideas and stuff. It’s good, actually. I’ve got three clients through those mixers. In fact, someone told me to pop up and see them after last night.’
Fish fingers, I thought. I was falling out with my family over fish fingers and Toby was going to beer mixers to get new clients. I had never felt so old and out of it.
‘Where do you work?’ I asked.
‘The Mustard Factory,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’
Of course I knew it. It was an old building on the edge of town that had been recently renovated and converted into luxury apartments and some very cool office space. To me it looked like heaven. If I worked there I’d pretend I was some entrepreneur living in the Meatpacking District of New York, who lunched with clients every day on miso soup and crispy kale. I’d been dying to go and have a nose inside but I wasn’t its target market and I was afraid security would throw me out.
‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘I’d love to have a look round there.’
He didn’t take the bait. ‘Where do you work?’ he asked, instead of the ‘Oh, come and have a look round’ that I had been hoping for.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I do some freelance accountancy. So mainly at the IKEA table in our kitchen. We don’t have monthly beer mixers in our building, more wine Wednesdays, and Thursdays, and Fridays … and Saturdays. Helps with the creative juices when I’m cooking the books for the fish-and-chip shop on Ascot Drive.’
He threw his head back and laughed. As though he thought it was a joke or something.
‘Do you have a card,’ he said when he’d finally decided to stop laughing heartily. ‘You can never know too many accountants.’
Stupid question. Me have a card? I had numerous reward cards cluttering up my wallet that I always failed to make use of. But a card for myself? Really?
‘I haven’t got any on me at the moment I’m afraid,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘But you know where I am if you need me. Normally here with my arse in the air, picking up dog shit.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he replied. ‘Look. Got to go. Phoebe wants to go shopping. Apparently we need a new coffee table.’ He raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial fashion, as if I knew as well as he did that they didn’t need a new coffee table, and then he squeezed my arm. Yes, he actually touched me.
I could still feel where his fingers had brushed my skin when I ambled over the stile at the edge of the field. Mike hadn’t touched me like that in at least a decade.
With casual affection.
We didn’t hold hands, we didn’t spontaneously hug, and we didn’t even do encouraging rubs of the shoulder. We did distance or sex, nothing in between. What had happened to the in-between? I missed the in-between.
I touched my arm where Toby had gripped it.
Maybe I’ll go home and attempt a soufflé, I thought.
20 February
I should have smelt a rat before I even went, of course.
Mike had never organized a night away for us. Promised to. Even written it in a few birthday cards, I seemed to recall, but actually booking it himself, no never. And so, to avoid us having a marriage devoid of minibreaks, I had always booked them myself.
So when he called me out of the blue and invited me up to Liverpool for the night, it was a lovely little surprise that I was foolishly excited by. I even let my expectations rise a little. After all, the last time the two of us had gone out together alone was when we had dropped in to the pub on the way home from Freddie’s parents’ evening over twelve months ago. And that was not to spend time as a couple together, that was to get drunk to obliterate the fact that – according to his teachers – he was very, very bright, but on a road to nowhere as he didn’t seem to be willing to apply himself to anything. We drank two bottles of wine and then had a massive row because Mike claimed it was because I wasn’t disciplined enough with him at home. I said I would kick his (mostly) absent-parent arse if he ever said anything like that again. I also said he needed to sit Freddie down and have a motivational chat with him. Give him some guidance. Mike ignored Freddie all weekend then left a copy of Barack Obama’s autobiography outside his bedroom door.
I went up to Liverpool on the train at lunchtime, fully enjoying a cheese and onion sandwich, a gin and tonic in a can and HELLO! magazine. Mike had suggested I should go up early so that I could go to the spa in the hotel, then he would be back around 5.30 p.m. to take me out. But there was no way I would be wasting my time in the hotel spa. I had absolutely no wish to spend my afternoon gazing at some beautiful twenty-something as she tried to ignore the sorry state of my feet and made me green with envy describing the holiday she’d been on to the Caribbean for her birthday, paid for by her adoring boyfriend. I didn’t think so. Oh no. Instead I had an afternoon of sitting on the bed in a fluffy dressing gown while drinking tea, eating shortbread biscuits and pitting my wits against the contestants on some quality game shows. That’s true relaxation. I did contemplate getting my eyebrows waxed, but really – I wear glasses all the time, so my glasses surely render my eyebrows invisible.
