Going Up and Going Down (8 page)

Other than my
concerns about Anthony’s new found love of gambling, the first eight months of
our marriage were almost perfect. Anthony continued to be loving and attentive
and our new house had been beautifully furnished throughout that time. We
laughed a lot. We went out two or three times a week together. I continued with
the badminton and Anthony went to golf, sometimes with my Dad and other times
with his friends. I started taking more of an interest in cooking and
discovered that I quite enjoyed experimenting.

Anthony was
always enthusiastic about the meals I prepared, so I bought more cookery books.
Dad started a herb garden for me as Anthony was hopeless at anything that
involved DIY or gardening. Once every two or three months we held small dinner
parties. I quite enjoyed being hostess and considering that I had done very
little cooking before getting married (university life had been mainly takeaways
or nothing more adventurous than beans on toast and pot noodles) I was proud at
some of the culinary delights that I managed to serve up.

The moment I
had been dreading arrived soon enough. It was mid week and we had finished our
evening meal. Anthony had just complimented me on one of my Indian concoctions.
He had been too enthusiastic, too nice about a meal that I had thought to be
mediocre and I sensed I was being softened up. First - the suggestion.

“Darling,
should we have another dinner party on Saturday night?” he asked. I was surprised
at his suggestion as we’d only had one recently. Much as I enjoyed them, it
usually involved me spending the whole day in the kitchen. I found them quite
wearing so I didn’t relish the thought of another so soon.

“Oh, Anthony,
do we have to? I’ve just recovered from the last one.” His smile faded slightly,
so I caved in a little.

“Who were you
thinking of inviting?” I knew it was coming, it had to!

“My parents!” I
felt my face drop…and he saw it.

“What’s the
matter, Helen? Darling, they haven’t even seen our house yet. And you haven’t
seen them since the wedding – it’s nearly eight months!”

I felt cross
with him. It was like an accusation he’d thrown at me. I wanted to ask him what
I’d done wrong to them. It wasn’t my fault they hadn’t been to visit, I’d asked
them to. Didn’t he understand that? He was waiting for me to say something…so I
told him.

“Well…it’s just
that I have invited them to visit us on quite a few occasions now. When your
Mum has rang you here…and you’ve not been in. I honestly don’t think they’ll
come for dinner, Anthony. To be honest with you, I don’t think they like me.” His
eyes widened in surprise…and then he looked stung. I instantly regretted my
words.

“Don’t be
ridiculous, darling, of course they like you. You’re imagining things. What on
earth makes you think that? I’ll call them tomorrow and ask.”

I felt a
sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I gave him a nod to say ‘okay then.’
Crap! Not only did his parents not like me, I didn’t like them. I was going to
be mortified if they accepted Anthony’s invitation.

I had been home
from work half an hour and had our evening meal well under way when I heard
Anthony’s car pull into the drive. I could see him from the kitchen window as
he opened the rear passenger door to get his laptop. He turned around and
waved, big smile on his face and I hoped the reason for that was that he’d had
a good day at work.

“Sweetheart,
you’d better get your menu sorted out, they’re coming, Mum and Dad - I told you
they would.” he blurted as he came into the kitchen.

“Oh! Okay,
that’s not a problem.” I managed, trying to put what I really wanted to say to
the back of my mind…and wishing I was half way around the world. I finished
preparing the vegetables but my enthusiasm for that evening’s meal had gone.
All I could think about was how much I was dreading seeing his parents again.

When we finally
sat down to eat, Anthony had sensed my mood change,

“Darling,
you’ve gone very quiet, what’s bothering you? Don’t you want to make an effort
for my parents?” Me? Again! I was fighting to stay calm and wondering why he
couldn’t see what was staring him in the face and had been since he’d first
introduced us.

“No, no, it’s
not that.” I lied, “I just don’t have a clue what sort of things your parents
eat. You know - their likes and dislikes?”

“Right, well
then, you should have said. Let’s see – no fish, no pasta, nothing too spicy.
You’ll be fine. I’ll trust your judgement on the food. I’ll buy the wine
tomorrow.”

No getting out
of this one then. My worst nightmare was about to happen. I felt as if I had
been backed into a corner. I searched my mind for a way out and couldn’t see
one. Anthony was looking at me expectantly – for what? I didn’t know!

“You had better
cast your eyes over the menu when I get it planned then. I’d hate to serve up
something that they don’t like. Maybe there’s something they dislike that you
have forgotten to mention?” He appeared deep in thought, eyes looking to the
ceiling for an answer, finally

“No, I don’t
think so.”

I picked up a
handful of recipe books and took them into the lounge so I could browse as I
drank my glass of wine. It wasn’t out of eagerness to plan the menu, but more
an excuse to avoid speaking to Anthony, who was seemingly deliriously happy
that his Mum and Dad were coming for dinner. I really didn’t trust myself to
speak lest I reveal my true feelings about his parents. Before we went up to
bed I presented my proposed menu to him for his approval. Glamorgan sausages
with red onion chutney and a small side salad for starters. For the main course
I had selected lamb shanks, vegetables and potato gratin and dessert would be
white chocolate cheesecake with fresh raspberries on the side. I also planned
to serve a blackberry and elderflower sorbet to freshen the palate between each
course.

“They’ve all
been tried and tested at some of our other dinner parties, darling.” I told
Anthony “Do you think the menu’s alright then? I don’t want to try anything new
in case I make a mess of things.”

 “This menu
will be fine – trust me. They’ll love it.” I wasn’t so bloody sure about that.

Anthony went
out to welcome them as their car pulled into the drive. I tried to peer out of
the kitchen window without being seen by them. (I had always been brought up to
believe that it is good manners when you get invited out to dinner, to take a
gift along – a bottle of wine, flowers or even some chocolates.) I noticed they
were both empty-handed.

I walked over
to the door to greet them as they entered the kitchen and held my hand out,

“Eileen, John,
nice to see you again.”

“Hello.” she
grunted, poker-faced as usual as she glanced at my proffered hand and walked
straight past. John put his hand out, fleetingly touched mine and quickly let
go again. Hell fire, did he think he was going to bloody catch something from
me if he held on too long? I looked over at Anthony to see if he had noticed
their reactions towards me – he had. He shrugged his shoulders at me and asked
them both if they wanted a glass of wine. Eileen said she’d have a glass but
quickly followed with,

“Your father
won’t want one, he’s driving.” (Like he had a choice in the matter!)

“Would you like
a tour of the house, Eileen?” I offered politely.

“I can show
myself around. You get back to heating the ready meal.” She walked off leaving
me totally flabbergasted. I heard her footsteps on the stairs seconds later.
Again I looked at Anthony for support and mouthed the words at him ‘get back to
heating the meal up?’ He mouthed back

‘Shhh!’ and
shook his head. I gave him one of my looks and stomped back to the kitchen. So
he was going to let his mother get away with everything. Maybe
he
would,
but I was definitely not going to!

They took their
seats in the dining room half an hour later and I served up the starter before
sitting down myself. Eileen stared at her plate a few seconds too long, looked
over at Anthony and asked,

“What on earth
is
this
?” I just couldn’t resist,

“Why don’t you
ask me, Eileen? Anthony doesn’t really remember, and it was me who did the
cooking.” She didn’t even look at me.

“They are
called Glamorgan sausages (I pointed), and that is red onion chutney” I said
(pointing again), indicating next the few lettuce leaves and cherry tomato,
“and that’s a bit of salad on the side.”

I could feel
Anthony’s eyes burning into the side of my face and I didn’t give a damn!

“Is it cheese?”

“Yes.
Caerphilly.”

“Cheese gives
me a headache.”

“Forgive me,
Eileen.” I said in my sickliest of voices, “I never realised.” I caught a
disapproving look in her direction from her husband. The main course also met
with disapproval,

“I do think
lamb is so terribly fatty. We hardly ever eat it.”

I chose to
ignore the comment, carried on eating, and listened to her continued, scathing
remarks to Anthony about the décor in our bedroom, our choice of leather suite
in the lounge, and how we rushed in to marriage far too soon. She pushed her
food around the plate as she talked and I noticed the intent on her face. She
had no desire to eat anything that I had cooked and furthermore, she was hell
bent on insulting me at every given opportunity.

I could see
that John was starting to feel very uncomfortable with her behaviour - and
perhaps a little sorry for me. He ate everything on his plate and complimented
me on the menu, despite the glower he got from Eileen. He was interested in,
and asked me intelligent questions about my work and badminton, which he
apparently, had been pretty good at in his younger days. The guy was actually
quite good company, pleasant to talk to. I was a genius at being able to hold a
conversation with one person and pick up on things being discussed in a second
conversation, and sure enough, Eileen carried on her cynicism.

As I served up
dessert and placed Eileen’s in front of her I couldn’t stop my sarcasm
surfacing,

“Eileen, if the
dessert is not to your liking I can get you some ice-cream from the freezer –
something that
I’ve
not prepared.” It was a waste of time, the woman was
so thick-skinned. I was by that point avoiding all eye contact with Anthony,
and John must have had some warning looks from Eileen while I had been in the
kitchen as he became very quiet again. I ate my cheesecake and decided I had
had enough tension for one night. Standing up, I announced,

“Do excuse me,
folks, I have a headache and I’m going to bed. It has been nice to see you
again, John.”

“Too much
wine
,
darling?” Anthony asked me sarcastically.

“No…it must be
the cheese in the Glamorgan sausages. Good night!” and feigning calmness and
serenity I walked out and left them.

I heard their
car pull out of the drive fifteen minutes later, which was rapidly followed by
Anthony’s footsteps thundering up the stairs. He shoved the bedroom door wide
open, hitting the chest of drawers behind it and pointed at me accusingly,

“YOU” he
shouted loudly “have embarrassed me tonight, Helen. How dare you treat my
mother in that manner?” I had calmed down and was ready for his onslaught.

“So it is just
fine then – the way she has been trying to belittle me all evening? You did not
find anything wrong with the things that she said to insult your wife, Anthony?
That is acceptable is it – for her to speak to me the way that she did? Does my
father talk down to you? Does he insult you at every given opportunity? He
never
would do that though, he has better manners, and at least he
likes
you. But if he didn’t, I would still defend you, Anthony. That is what a husband
and wife should do after all – support each other.
She
hates me! I think
your dad likes me but he has to do
her
bidding. I feel sorry for him.” I’d
struck a nerve. The truth hurt! He was beyond furious. Unable to defend his
mother further he shouted,

“Fuck you,
Helen!” and with that, he slammed the bedroom door and was gone. For the first
time since we married, I woke up alone the next morning. Anthony had slept in
one of the guest bedrooms for the night.

We soon got
over the disastrous dinner party with Anthony’s parents and I resolved that
until Eileen started treating me with more respect there would be no more
dinner invitations to our house. I genuinely tried to make more of an effort
with them. I visited them in their home with Anthony a few times after that
night but there was no imminent thaw about to occur in the foreseeable future -
years with a bit of luck! Rather than insult me anymore she reverted back, as
she had done before we got married, punishing me by totally ignoring me. She
made no eye contact whatsoever or any attempt to include me in conversation.
Why put myself through it, I thought. I gradually started building a wide
selection of excuses to avoid the monthly visits.

Our life
carried on in pretty much the same vein as it had before. We still laughed a
lot and had fun but something
had
changed since that night – our
love-making. I don’t suppose it could be called love-making anymore. We were
having
sex
instead. Fucking! Sex with a vulgarity, a particular
crudeness to it – and strangely I loved it. We were both indulging in acts that
were for our individual sexual gratification only - rather than one mutual act
done in a loving, as one, sensual manner. It was as if we were taking out some
mutual anger on each other – wild! But no less enjoyable!

We had never
discussed having children. Anthony never gave the impression that he wanted to
be a father, and to me it wasn’t the be all and end all of a marriage. If it
happened it happened, but if it didn’t I was certainly not going to lose any
sleep over it. Mum and Dad would have quite enjoyed playing the doting
grandparents to, maybe a little boy, since they had not been blessed with a
son. They never asked me if we had plans for a family and I didn’t have the
heart to tell them that it might never happen if they ever did drop some hints.
I wasn’t the maternal type. Other people’s babies scared me…and the thought of
the overwhelming responsibility for the upbringing of a child absolutely
terrified me.

Within that
first year, as a result of the honeymoon in Vegas, Anthony had visited casinos
on three or four occasions with some friends of his and his luck had held up
well. His risk-taking soon ventured down a different route however, when he
started dabbling in the stock market. I was thankful that I had my own bank
account, despite his pushing for a joint account, and that was the way it was
going to stay. I didn’t trust his luck to hold out, or, unlike my father, his
judgement.

Over a four or
five month period I also became suspicious about Anthony’s drinking habits. He
was arriving home from work at his usual time but when he walked in the house
he occasionally seemed unsteady on his legs. I could often smell whisky on his
breath even though he’d had to drive five miles home from the office. Whether
he was leaving work early for a late afternoon session or secretly drinking in
the office, I didn’t have a clue and I didn’t fancy a confrontation. I’d had
enough of those already given the short length of time we had been married. It
didn’t even stop at the unknown amount of alcohol he’d consumed before coming
home. He downed a bottle of wine each night with our evening meal and as a
result he’d fall asleep on the settee and I would go up to bed alone. He very
rarely joined me on those nights, remaining semi-comatose in the same position
until morning came around again. I worried about him…and our marriage.

Our rude and
crude sex sessions were happening less and less due to his drinking, our
conversations with very brief - to the point and occurred at meal times only.
Weekends were only slightly better. It was an advantage that he didn’t work on
Saturdays and Sundays, so at least it enabled me to try to talk and find out what
was troubling him. He was evasive about what his problems were so I asked if it
was to do with me. He insisted that our marriage wasn’t causing him concern but
refused to say what it was. He denied drinking too much and said there wasn’t a
problem at work. (I resolved to speak to Dad and ask if the business was doing
alright.) He was adamant that I had done nothing to upset him. I just couldn’t
get to the bottom of things. All I knew was that our problems had started not
long after the disastrous dinner party with his parents and things were just
escalating. It was worrying me. I didn’t feel loved by him anymore. I felt more
like a possession than a wife and lover, and to me at least, it felt like our
marriage was over.