Husband Replacement Therapy

by Lette, Kathy

  As the Village People’s ‘Macho Man’ erupted from the speakers, the contestants turned the pool edge into a catwalk, sashaying, posing, dancing and prancing.

  One thing was clear – Emerald didn’t need to take a dip, as she was swimming through a pool of her own drool. ‘It’s so weird when the tables are turned and I’m the one begging and he’s not interested,’ she clarified, her eyes fixed on male flesh. ‘My vag has become the Greta Garbo of sexual organs. No sightings. She never comes out . . . Tell me the truth, how often do you girls have sex?’

  ‘You mean per day? On a bad day, three times. On a good day? Only once,’ Amber divulged. ‘Ruby?’

  ‘Well, Harry and I make love about twice a week. But for the past six months, he’s insisted on turning off the lights or closing his eyes. And I was suddenly not allowed to talk, either. Now I know why,’ I said, sadly. ‘I mean, obviously, in his head, he was having sex with her, whoever she is – and clearly she was getting many more orgasms than I was!’

  A chill descended despite the warm, tropical sun beating down onto the deck. Emerald turned a greener shade than her namesake. It was the first case I’d ever seen of pre-coital depression. Amber also noticed the drop in temperature and tried to placate us.

  ‘Okay, Alessandro may be letting you down in the sex department, but at least he’s domesticated. I spend my whole life picking up Scott’s underwear, which is a total turn-off.’

  ‘Darling, my husband irons his underwear. It’s the only stiff thing about him. I know what I’d bloody well prefer!’

  ‘Ooze charisma, boys!’ the entertainment officer encouraged. ‘There are top designers here talent-spotting. Now give me laser-beam eyes. I’m talking Blue Steel!’

  The contestants complied. I thought their facial expressions more closely resembled patients trying to pass kidney stones than an attempt to arouse sexual desire, but Emerald was besotted. ‘I feel like a woman with a fork in a world of soup. Lovely, yummy sexual soup,’ she sighed.

  ‘You’re such a sensuous woman,’ I comforted my oldest sister. ‘Maybe there’s some other reason Alessandro’s not interested. Has he got brewer’s droop? Maybe he’s a secret alcoholic – or, as they say in Adelaide, “likes wine tastings”?’

  ‘No. Only the odd beer. Plus, I’ve checked his online browsing history. No dogs or dominatrices. It’s just me he doesn’t want,’ Emerald admitted, forlornly.

  ‘Oh, god, count yourself lucky. Scott’s got genital myopia – he has a hard time seeing past his penis,’ Amber said. ‘Sometimes I don’t think he knows who or what is on the end of it. I could be a room-temperature apple pie, or a piece of rolled liver.’

  ‘But Scott’s hot. Why don’t you fancy him?’ Emerald said, almost crossly.

  ‘Because he doesn’t talk to me.’ Amber’s skin was bone white, her lips a slash of glossy crimson. ‘Talking is foreplay for me. Scott’s always in his office, only stopping by the house occasionally for clean underwear, when he may or may not remember my name. Lack of emotional libido leaves me drier than . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘Prince Andrew’s armpit?’ I suggested.

  ‘Exactly! It’s a wonder Scott can get it in without a shoehorn,’ she added, in a moment of tipsy candour.

  ‘Ah, the dreaded menopause,’ Emerald diagnosed.

  ‘That could explain why the only thing you’re getting between the sheets is an anticlimax,’ I agreed.

  ‘What are you taking for it?’ Emerald asked.

  Amber shrugged. ‘Herbal infusions for my hot flushes.’

  ‘Fuck that. That’s like taking an aspirin for a leg amputation. You need oestrogen, progesterone and a dab of testosterone.’

  ‘You take testosterone?’ Amber queried. ‘Well, that explains why you’ve turned into a complete hornbag, wanting to bed every man you meet.’

  Emerald eyeballed Amber. ‘Do you know me? Hello, I’m your sister. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been chewing holes in the furniture since puberty. And anyway, why shouldn’t women enjoy sex? Females are criticised for sowing their wild oats but then we also get punished for going to seed.’

  ‘HRT is mare’s urine, you know,’ Amber pointed out, cringing, an unspoken reprimand in her brusque manner.

  ‘Really? Soon you’ll be saying “yeah” or “neigh”, tossing your mane and counting with one foot,’ I joked, in an effort to placate Emerald.

  ‘I suggest you donate any dosh you were going to spend on all those Scandinavian menopausal “remedies” to the charity of your choice, Amber, and make the world a better bloody place, because it will have more of an impact than swallowing a herb to counteract hormonal upheaval,’ Emerald sniped.

  I could feel a clash escalating and went into full appeasement mode. ‘One thing’s clear, girls. God is a bloke. What else would explain all the biological ordeals women endure?’ I Neville Chamberlain-ed. ‘Getting taken hostage by our hormones once a month, then pregnancy, where you swell to sumo-wrestler proportions, followed by childbirth, where you stretch your birth canal by the customary ten kilometres . . .’

  ‘Yes, then mastitis, followed by the menopause.’ Amber started counting off biological inconveniences on her fingertips.

  ‘And then, just when everything goes quiet, do you know what happens? You grow a beard. How can that be fair?’ I kvetched. ‘I could make a macramé hanging basket with my chin hairs right now.’

  I pretended to plait my chin hairs, which caused Amber and Emerald to cackle like kookaburras. Making my sisters laugh has always been my favourite achievement. As they caught their breath, I felt a fierce rush of tenderness towards my siblings. I loved to hear them bantering, just like when we were girls – it was a pleasure I’d enjoyed so rarely of late.

  ‘What about you, Rubes? Now you’re fifty, are you having your own weather?’ Amber inquired.

  ‘Yeah. Are you sweating so much you feel as though you’re undergoing interrogation by the Gestapo?’ Emerald insisted.

  ‘Why have a hot flush when you can have a hot tropical holiday somewhere exotic?’ I replied. ‘One thing I do know is that we’ve raised our kids and paid our dues. It’s time to start living again. Living – you know, the bit between being born and dying?’

  At the mention of the D-word, my sisters’ faces froze. I’d momentarily forgotten my fake case of ‘Kev’, and instantly regretted my choice of phrase.

  ‘Ruby, I just want you to know that if Kev gets bad,’ Amber said, her pained smile spackled on, ‘I’ll take you to that clinic in Sweden.’

  ‘It’s in Switzerland, you idiot. At least get the country right. She doesn’t want to end up at an ABBA appreciation society meeting for her final moments, for fuck’s sake.’

  As my sisters started to flare up again, I placed a calming hand on theirs. ‘Listen. The greatest gift our mother gave me is my sensational sisters. We haven’t been together, just the three of us like this, since we were teenagers. But this time, there’s no parental supervision! We need to make this time count. Agreed?’

  Amber lay her other hand on top of mine. ‘Agreed.’

  Emerald followed suit. ‘Agreed. So, what are our objectives?’

  ‘Well, Amber is going to stop thinking about her kids. How many times have you WhatsApped them so far today?’ I snatched up Amber’s phone from the side table and read aloud. ‘Your clean socks are in the bottom drawer – really? You’re an awesome mum. You get your kids to eat salad and don’t allow sugar after four pm. You make them wear sunblock. You do their art homework assignments for them. But it’s time to cut that psychological umbilical cord.’

  ‘Your other objective should be to eat now and then, and actually enjoy it. One carb won’t kill you. I mean, I can see the three-course raisin you had for lunch!’ Emerald scoffed, poking Amber’s concave midriff.

  The underwear modelling round must have come to an end, as the entertainment officer’s voice boomed once more over the tannoy. ‘And now, it’s time for Neptune, Sea King of the Cruise to
reveal his hidden talent. But I think we already have a winner, girls – Jack here has just told me he can play the didgeridoo. Do you know what that means, laaadeeez? A guy who can breathe through his ears!’

  As the all-female audience squealed with delight, the more agile male contestants executed backflips, handstands and cartwheels while the burlier ones concentrated on shows of strength, one even picking up a substantial-looking judge and lifting her over his head.

  ‘Look at those sad women, flaunting themselves in front of boys young enough to be their sons. What are they going to do – date them, or adopt them?’ Amber mocked.

  I felt a twinge of ill ease. ‘Amber’s got a point. Isn’t it sexist, Emerald? To ogle men like this?’

  ‘Hmm. I passed that question on to my loins, which stirred then answered loudly, Hell no!’ Emerald said. ‘Women have been mercilessly subjugated by the patriarchal theonomy for eons. Now it’s our turn!’

  ‘I suppose your only objective for this cruise is to get laid?’ Amber asked Emerald, disapprovingly.

  ‘You bloody betcha. I’m gonna have my beefcake and eat him too.’ Emerald laughed. ‘And also drink the boat dry, obvs! Let’s do the wine tasting course that’s on offer. Maybe we’ll finally solve the conundrum of why men like their wine old and their women young.’ Emerald picked up a wine list and studied the descriptions. ‘“Nuanced”, “mature”, “complex” – surely these sommeliers could be describing we three middle-aged sisters?’

  Amber laughed, finally relaxing. ‘Okay, so I’m going to stop being the perfect mum, and Emerald is getting back her sexual mojo, but what about you, Rubes? What’s your objective?’ Amber squeezed my hand once more and looked into my eyes with a mix of love, pathos and pity.

  The truth tingled on the end of my tongue. Now was the time to spill the beans. Now, now, now . . .

  ‘Well, my objective is to . . .’ I began tentatively. ‘To have fun with my sisters, who are going to be nice to each other and become friends again, and rebuild our sisterly bond.’

  Now, do it now, you gutless wonder. Level with them, I admonished myself. My lips parted to divulge my dark secret . . .

  ‘Otherwise, the next time you need my help to patch up your friendship after some stupid fight fuelled by our mother, you might be talking to me through a ouija board.’

  Oh, that went well, I congratulated myself as my two sisters came in for a group hug. Well done. Time to pop over to Parliament House to pick up that bravery medal.

  ‘Ladeeezzz, thank you.’ The entertainment officer brought proceedings to a close and began tallying up the judges’ scores. The male contestants, eager for the crown, stood in a long line – flexed, nostril-flaring, feisty, caressing their undulating abs with sunscreen SPF 50-lust. The appreciative female audience members were purring like canary-filled cats. Eyeing those taut, brown buns in such skimpy bathers had women preparing to leave their partners pronto and have a love child.

  As the virile Viking was crowned Neptune, King of the Sea and awarded his prize by Brent, I tried to tell myself that there were worse things than lying to my sisters – like, I dunno, clubbing a baby seal to death. Purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from a Russian mercenary. Or, even more damning – voting for Bolsonaro, Boris, ScoMo or Trump. I’d made my sisters abandon their lives for three weeks under false pretences – three weeks during which they could feed me to the fishes at any time once they discovered the truth. Who wouldn’t want to postpone that pain?

  Yes, I felt a knot of remorse in my tummy, but it passed momentarily, like acid reflux. As I was already bound for hell, I added, ‘Oh, and I don’t want to be treated like a patient or have cancer define me. So, will you please stop crying, Amber? You seem to be welded to that box of Kleenex. And no more medical questions, either, Emerald. I just want to enjoy time with my sisters. Let’s make a pact not to talk about it till we get home. Okay?’

  That reprieve would allow me a little guilt-free time to enjoy some sisterly solidarity. I knew the amount of arse-kissing I would eventually have to do would require the purchase of lip balm in bulk. But, for now, I wouldn’t think about my lie, my job, my mother, my empty nest and least of all my cheating, duplicitous drongo of a husband. That was my real objective. No, I wouldn’t give Harry a second thought for the rest of the trip.

  8

  That cheating bastard! All I could think about was Harry. He consumed my waking hours and haunted my nights. Who had he cheated with? That was the question. No doubt some young, designer-vajazzled goddess who could easily guarantee my elimination in a wet T-shirt contest. In the witching hour I’d lie twitching, glaring wild-eyed at the ceiling or staring through the glass balcony doors at the velvety night sky dotted with diamanté stars, racking my brain for clues. It infuriated me that he wouldn’t confess his carnal crime. Every instinct in my body told me it was true; when a husband starts helping around the house without being asked and begins making meals unaided, that’s the signal for a wife to hire a private eye. The trouble is, I thought, tossing around in my bed until I became as twisted as a French braid in the plush linen sheets, that I had thought we were happily married, but he cheated on me, so obviously we weren’t happy at all. I’d been living a lie. This fact filled me with a deep despair that clung to me like melted plastic. If he’d just confess and grovel a bit, maybe we could climb out of this marital Mariana Trench. But grovel, email, text message, WhatsApp or Messenger apology came there none.

  I checked my inbox so often I developed RSI from hitting refresh. He was no doubt using his hands for other things – clit-tweaking, or twirling his girlfriend’s nipple rings, whoever the hell she was. Pacing around my deluxe cabin, I ground down my molars until there was practically nothing left but a pile of powdery enamel. Yes, Harry may have graduated top in his year at technical college; yes, he may be the famous Mr Fix-it, but, ironically, Hire a Hubby had broken my heart. It deserved to be a country-and-western song, it really did.

  In a pre-dawn, sleep-deprived fury I texted him: We are now officially separated. Surely he’d now be so racked with remorse he’d get carpet burns on his knuckles from crawling back to me? But still nothing.

  When there was no word from him when we first left port, I initially tried to convince myself that the cruise line had accidentally outsourced all communication services to one of the more slovenly former Soviet satellites, which was saying nyet to the net.

  When there was no word on day one at sea, I had told myself that he was probably too busy buying me ‘make-up’ jewellery; the traditional gem of a way to show contrition.

  When there was still no email on day two, I had imagined he was flying to meet me at the next port, or maybe rowing solo across the Pacific to prove his devotion.

  Maybe he’s been injured, I’d thought happily, on the third day of radio silence.

  Maybe he’s dead, I reflected on day four. Obviously, he must have fallen off the ladder as he was topiarying our front hedge to read ‘I love you, forgive me’, and accidentally whacked his head on the driveway and died. Tragic but touching.

  On day five I thought, He’d better be dead, because otherwise I am going to kill him.

  Clearly, while I was out of town, my husband’s cock had become a heat-seeking missile that wasn’t reporting to mission control. The low-down, lying scumbag.

  Yes, yes, I sobbed into one of my six goose-down pillows – pot, kettle, black. Believe me, there’s truly no need to point out my hypocrisy. I’d lied so much of late it was a wonder my lips hadn’t fallen off. When I thought about how and when to tell my sisters that I’d fibbed about the cancer diagnosis, I just adopted the position of a defensive echidna, rolled tightly into a ball, and willed myself to think of something else. But the lie I’d told my siblings was accidental, whereas Harry had blatantly deceived me.

  Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, I leant on my balcony railing, looked down into the dark water and listened to the hiss of the sea against the side of the ship. As the warm wind whipped thro
ugh my hair I crossly cross-examined myself. Had I ever lied to him? Well, yes, but just little white lies. Off-white, even. Maybe beige. But that was normal. I mean, how terrible would life be if couples told each other the complete truth all the time? There’s a word for couples who tell each other the truth all the time – divorced. Complete honesty is not always the best policy in marriage. Surely it was perfectly fine for wives not to showcase their flaws and foibles. How many women does it take to change a light bulb? None: on certain things, it’s best to keep men in the dark.

  Shoes, for example. Has any woman ever fessed up to a partner about the true cost of shoes? One of the biggest differences between the sexes is that men only need one pair of shoes the whole year round, and maybe only four pairs for his entire life. Consequently, they just don’t understand that it’s genetically impossible for most women to walk past a shoe sale and not buy something irrational and strappy. Sometimes Harry would ask how much I’d spent. I usually dodged the financial truth bullet by fobbing him off with a little jest – ‘Hey, my foot’s so often in my mouth, it simply has to be well-shod, right?’ while surreptitiously hiding the receipts. Well, don’t you?

  And then there were the little white lies about the car. Like all men, Harry thinks he’s an excellent driver. The first time he got a note under his windscreen that read ‘parking fine’, he presumed it was a complimentary comment on his driving skills. I know that he also secretly believes that every woman is bad behind the wheel – which is why I’ve never, ever, let slip when a postbox had dented my door or another car had failed to take evasive action when approached by my bumper bar. I would just sneak over to my brother-in-law, the Dent Boss himself, for some surreptitious chassis restoration, bribing Alessandro with a slab of beer to keep schtum.