Young Wives' Tales (7 page)

‘Who is “we”?’

‘All of us. Your friends.’My ‘friends’still can’t bring themselves to look at me. My friends are cowards, it appears.

‘Not wasting it, exactly,’says Connie. ‘I wouldn’t say that. You’ve done such a fabulous job with the boys, you must be so proud, but we were just wondering what you are going to do next.’

‘Next?’I’m dumbfounded. ‘The boys are only seven, they’re not about to fly the nest.’

‘No, but they will, Rose, and they need you less and less,’said Luke. ‘Sebastian confided in me that he didn’t want you to pick him up from school any more.’

‘Since when have you known what is best for my sons? What right do you have to involve yourself to that extent?’

‘Well, I am their godfather,’says Luke.

‘I simply wanted you to buy them decent Christmas presents,’I snap.

Simon chips in. ‘We just wanted to talk to you about your future, Rose. Because we’re your friends and we care for you. We can’t sit back and watch you devote
yourself to the boys and completely neglect yourself. You don’t do anything other than play taxi driver to them.’

‘You have no friends or interests outside the school gates,’says Connie.

‘You never buy yourself a treat but plough endless time and money into finessing their already near-perfect life,’adds Daisy.

‘We just think it would be nice if you got out and met some new people,’Luke chips in.

‘Maybe even go on a couple of dates,’adds Simon.

I feel horror and shame as I realize that this conversation is the tip of the iceberg. Clearly, these four have sat around another dinner table and discussed me and pitied me, then decided that as my ‘friends’they have a right to confront me with their impertinent views. Could they have discussed this with Peter and Lucy too? Canvassed their opinion on my sad little life? Oh God, the humiliation.

‘You are forty next birthday,’points out Daisy. ‘What do you think about that?’

‘The alternative to ageing is considerably more horrific,’I point out.

‘It’s not right that you think the release of the next Disney DVD is something to look forward to,’continues Daisy. ‘You don’t even visit the library unless one of the boys wants a book. Rose, you’ve all but disappeared,’she says, finally.

‘That’s what being a mother involves, Daisy. But you don’t understand that,’I reply angrily. I don’t even
temper my sentence by adding ‘yet,’or ‘sadly’. I want to hurt her as she’s hurt me. I watch Daisy recoil. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time you all left. Sebastian and Henry have homework and they’ll need my help.’

I stand up from the table and fold my arms across my chest.

‘Don’t take it like that,’says Connie. ‘We’re worried about you.’

Daisy says nothing; she’s as white as Bold-washed linen. Simon has a protective arm around her; he’s leading her towards the door. Luke is keeping his head down but he has started to gather up the children’s toys, cups and books.

‘Thank you for your concern, Connie. When I need someone to tell me my life is trivial and pointless I’ll know who to call.’

‘We’re not saying that,’Connie stands her ground. More sensitive women would have caved in by now and begged forgiveness. ‘You said that,’she clarifies and then heads for the door.

Oh hell, we have to have sex soon. When did it happen that I started to note the frequency, or rather the lack of frequency, that we have sex? We congratulate ourselves now if we manage once a week. Saturday night usually, but even that’s not guaranteed. Nothing happening last night, for example, because there was a decent movie on TV. What’s gone wrong? I remember when we used to frantically fuck one another in the boardroom at work and then still find a way to slip in a more luxurious session in a hotel before he had to get home. I can’t believe
all
the excitement was provided by the fact that he was married to someone else. No, that can’t possibly be right. We had sex often enough when we first got married. Bugger, does this date back to Auriol’s birth? Everything uncomfortable or inconvenient in my life tends to.

For the record, I do not have a floppy vagina. I’ve kept mine taut. And I’m sure Pete has no reason to complain about my physical appearance; I know he must still want me in that way. So many women let
themselves go but I still manage to visit the hairdresser once a week, the gym three times a week, and I’m still a regular at the spa. Of course, we both have hectic schedules and we seem to be so much wearier nowadays, but it’s horrifying to admit that Peter might value his sleep more than a good session with me. I’ve tried taking advantage of his morning glory, but there’s rarely so much as a morning glimmer, let alone glory. I’ve tried meeting him for lunch, in the hope of squeezing in a quickie, but we just grab a sandwich and a coffee, not one another’s bodies. I’ve tried the late-night massage and moody music – that was a disaster. He was asleep within minutes and had the cheek to thank me the next morning, assuring me it was the best night’s sleep he’d had in months. Do I care about his sleep patterns? No, I don’t. I care about my neglected sexuality and his waning libido.

It’s rather a good thing that Rose said the boys couldn’t come to visit today. Now at least I only have to get Auriol out of the way in order to orchestrate an opportunity for me to have my wicked way. I settle her in front of the TV with a DVD and a bowl of dried apricots. I hesitate and then return to the kitchen to hunt out some Butterkist. The apricots would undoubtedly be better for her teeth and digestive system and provide all the right sort of energy but they are less likely to hold her interest long enough for me to get a decent shag.

I go to the bedroom and unearth some sexy underwear. Not that I have any grey items lurking in my
drawers. I don’t, there is no need for ugliness, but I do have some sets that are more feminine than sexy and we’ve gone past the point of hoping that subtle feminine underwear will do the trick. I don’t think I have to consider crotchless and a nurse’s outfit just yet, but black lace and a suspender belt is the order of the day. The classics become so for a reason. I put on a pair of knee-high Gucci boots with steel heels and plenty of buckles and grab my Burberry trenchcoat. It buttons up to the chin and has military overtones that I’m hoping Pete will find exciting. I find him in his study. He’s snoozing with an open paper resting on his chest.

‘Peek-a-boo,’I purr into his ear. ‘It’s pussy in boots.’

He jolts awake. ‘I wasn’t asleep, just resting my eyes.’

He sounds like someone’s grandfather. Pushing that thought out of my head, I straddle him and sit on his lap. I gently grind my ass into his groin in the hope of encouraging a tangible response.

‘Are you going out?’he asks, rubbing his eyes and nodding towards my coat.

I lean in and kiss him. ‘Just been out, baby. And it’s cold out there.’I say this in a silly, breathy, quasi Marilyn Monroe voice.

‘Did you buy any milk?’he asks.

I lean in and kiss him again. It’s a long lingering kiss and somewhere very deep inside me something stirs. It’s not an emotion, lust is not an emotion.

Peter gently pulls back from my kiss. ‘I’m not complaining about Eva, she seems very good, but we are short of a few groceries this weekend. Did she get a
chance to go to Waitrose, do you know? We do need milk.’

I grind a little harder in his lap and my trenchcoat falls open to reveal my thigh. Peter doesn’t seem to notice. ‘They do a good lunch at the Renaissance Restaurant, don’t they? Although I am a little too full now.’

We never eat in on a Sunday; in fact we rarely eat in at all if I can help it. Our tradition is to go to a restaurant and whenever possible to pick something from a menu which we’ve never tried before. It’s good for Auriol to learn how to behave in restaurants and to experience a number of cuisines; I can’t bear kids who will only eat chicken nuggets and then with their fingers.

I nibble Peter’s ear and try to remember what he ate. He had calves’liver and duck, not an ideal dish to have before a steamy sesh. I ought to have steered him towards something lighter, maybe chicken, or an aphrodisiac, maybe asparagus.

I snake my arms around his neck and start to run my fingers through his hair. He doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I’ve just been reading this fascinating article about a couple who bought their village pub and converted it into a family home. How weird is that? Can you imagine living in your local?’

‘I can’t imagine having a local, Peter. It’s not my thing, really, is it?’I mumble as I continue my concerted effort to find Peter’s erogenous zones. Lost treasure, I fear.

He responds, ‘No, not unless it was a champagne
bar. Still, it’s a clever investment. They stand to make a fair chunk on it. It’s already valued at 60 per cent more than they paid.’

He’s oblivious to me.

I am sat spreadeagled on his lap, I’m wearing little more than my birthday suit and I’m nibbling his ear. His hand has fallen on to my bare thigh, which he’s rubbing, but I get the impression he’s absentmindedly trying to warm me up rather than caressing me.

‘Lucy, love, if you’re going out could you get me some chocolate too. I fancy something sweet after that delicious lunch.’He leans back on his chair, pulling away from me, and slaps his belly. ‘Milk and chocolate – I don’t think we need anything else, do we?’He smiles at me, catapulting me somewhere between fury, frustration and fondness.

I clamber off his knee and make for the door. I suppose I could have dropped my coat on the floor and stood in all my glory, surely that would have been hint enough, even for Peter, but something stops me.

I am humiliated. I feel rejected; worse, I feel invisible. For the first time in my life I feel incapable of articulating what I want. Asking for a bloody good seeing to is a step too far.

I leave the house and dash to Cullen’s to buy chocolate and milk, grateful to escape the stuffy disappointing domesticity that has castrated my husband. It’s no consolation at all to me that the teenage boy who is serving appears to know that under my trenchcoat I am scantily clad. His eyes linger on my boots and then
lasciviously he drags his gaze up and down my body. He nearly traps his fingers in the till and he drops my change as he hands it over. But I find the whole episode seedy, not funny at all.

I rush home, get dressed and spend the rest of the afternoon at my PC. When I consult my ‘to do’list on Sunday evening I have a neat line of ticks next to all my work-related tasks. I hesitate over the line, ‘Quality time with Auriol’, and wonder if spending twenty minutes translating the menu for her and a further ten minutes helping her select a DVD from the cupboard can be classed as quality time. In the end I carry it over as a task that still needs more attention. I delete, ‘Have sex’and don’t even bother taking it forward to the next week.

Cracking weekend, although there were times when I felt a bit like Beelzebub inciting an innocent. What has Craig been doing all his life, I wonder? Last week, when we went for a drink to sort out Tom’s stag, Craig admitted he was in the market. I think he said he ‘wouldn’t mind meeting someone special, somebody absolutely wonderful’, or some bollocks like that. Jesus, who does he think he is? Even John Lennon couldn’t make it acceptable for a bloke to talk soft shit to his mates. I chose to interpret Craig’s words to mean he needs to get his leg over. Pronto. This interpretation was partially led by the fact that I’m looking for a new fall guy. What with Tom doing the journey and all, I’ll be in need of a bit of company when I’m out and about. So I promised to help Craig in his quest.

‘Really?’He looked genuinely excited and hope shone right past his quarter-inch-thick lenses.

‘Yup, you can learn from the Grand Master. I’ll share my expertise free of charge, just for the pleasure of your company.’

I wasn’t entirely joking. Craig is a good bloke to hang out with. Square and all that, but bright, very witty and with a thorough understanding of the rules of all games from chess to footie, which makes him good company.

‘You could start by ditching the glasses,’I suggested.

‘I wouldn’t be able to see anything.’

‘Hey mate, that’s sometimes an advantage when you’re on the pull. There are times when you don’t want to have to look at the fireplace while you are poking the fire, if you know what I mean.’From the look on Craig’s face, he didn’t know what I meant. ‘Maybe you could try contact lenses or have them lasered. That’s what I did. Can’t recommend it highly enough.’

‘Maybe’. He sounded doubtful.

‘Girls don’t make passes at guys who wear glasses,’I added. He shrugged. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t expect girls to make passes at him. Who knows? ‘Well, at least a different frame,’I encouraged.

Truth is, Craig could do with an entire style makeover. Sort of rebranding, that’s how I’d talk about him at work if he was one of my consulting projects. We need to shake off the old image (earnest old fogy, with no sense of style, fun or adventure) and reposition him as a reasonable catch. Luckily, women are very forgiving. They’ll look at him and think teddy bear, even as he stands. They’ll be thinking decent job, no criminal record, no previous wives, no kids and no body odour. Most women will be grateful.

Even so, he could do with some new clothes and a haircut.

On Saturday Craig met me and the lads at the park for a kickabout. I’ve been playing footie every Saturday morning since I was able to stand. I have to have a really good reason to miss the kickabout, something bigger than death or even a shag.

‘Come on Grandad, I’m clear, kick to me.’

‘Very fucking funny,’I call as I pass the ball. The cheeky bastard who calls me Grandad is a lad I work with. Good bloke. Wouldn’t call me Grandad if he thought I really was. It was only the other day he was saying how much he admired my stamina. I haven’t even dated his sister. Ha ha.

I’m pleasantly surprised by Craig’s performance on the pitch. He’s kept in good shape and doesn’t embarrass himself (or me) at all. Couple of decent passes. It’s just a friendly so I try not to get too competitive.