by Sue Margolis
PRAISE FOR
SUE MARGOLIS’S NOVELS
A CATERED AFFAIR
“Wickedly funny… . I laughed until I hurt while reading A Catered Affair. It’s a delightful romp with a theme lots of women can empathize with, but it’s got a lovely message too.”
—Pop Corn Reads
“A guilty pleasure … bawdy and fun.”
—The Romance Reader
“British chick lit at its finest. Sharp-witted humor with warm, breathing characters … [a] unique love story.”
—RT Book Reviews
PERFECT BLEND
“Frothy, perky … titillating fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fun story full of an eccentric cast of characters… . Amy is an endearing heroine.”
—News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)
“Laugh-out-loud funny, passionate, sexy, mysterious, and truly unexpected, Sue Margolis has created the Perfect Blend of characters, romance, and mystery. Read it!”
—Romance Junkies
“A fun, sassy read… . The romance blooms and the sex sizzles. This is a hilarious and engaging tale. Sue Margolis has whipped up a winner.”
—Romance Reviews Today
FORGET ME KNOT
“A perfect beach read, with a warm heroine.”
—News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)
“A wonderful glimpse into British life with humor and a unique sense of style… . If you’re looking for a lighthearted romance with original characters and lots of fun, look no further… . This is one British author that I’m glad made it across the pond, and I will definitely be looking for more of her books.”
—Night Owl Romance
GUCCI GUCCI COO
“A wickedly prescient novel… . Likable characters and a clever concept make this silly confection a guilty pleasure.”
—USA Today
“[Margolis’s] language … is fresh and original… . [This] is a fast, fun read [and] a great book for any smart girl who has ever had to attend a baby shower.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
ORIGINAL CYN
“Hilarious… . Margolis’s silly puns alone are worth the price of the book. Another laugh-out-loud funny, occasionally clever, and perfectly polished charmer.”
—Contra Costa Times
“Has something for everyone—humor, good dialogue, hot love scenes, and lots of dilemmas.”
—Rendezvous
“A perfect lunchtime book or, better yet, a book for those days at the beach.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Delightful… . Fans will appreciate this look at a lack of ethics in the workplace.”
—Midwest Book Review
BREAKFAST AT STEPHANIE’S
“With Stephanie, Margolis has produced yet another jazzy cousin to Bridget Jones.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A comic, breezy winner from popular and sexy Margolis.”
—Booklist
“Rife with female frivolity, punchy one-liners, and sex.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An engaging tale.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
APOCALIPSTICK
“Sexy British romp… . Margolis’s characters have a candor and self-deprecation that lead to furiously funny moments … a riotous, ribald escapade sure to leave readers chuckling to the very end of this saucy adventure.”
—USA Today
“Quick in pace and often very funny.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Margolis combines lighthearted suspense with sharp English wit … [an] entertaining read.”
—Booklist
“A joyously funny British comedy … just the ticket for those of us who like the rambunctious, witty humor this comedy provides.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“[An] irreverent, sharp-witted look at love and dating.”
—Houston Chronicle
SPIN CYCLE
“This delightful novel is filled with more than a few big laughs.”
—Booklist
“A funny, sexy British romp… . Margolis is able to keep the witty one-liners spraying like bullets.”
—Library Journal
“Warmhearted relationship farce … a nourishing delight.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Satisfying … a wonderful diversion on an airplane, poolside, or beach.”
—Baton Rouge Magazine
NEUROTICA
“[A] screamingly funny sex comedy … the perfect novel to take on holiday.”
—USA Today
“Cheeky comic novel—a kind of Bridget Jones’s Diary for the matrimonial set … wickedly funny.”
—People (Beach Book of the Week)
“Scenes that literally will make your chin drop with shock before you erupt with laughter … a fast and furiously funny read.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Splashy romp … giggles guaranteed.”
—New York Daily News
“A good book to take to the beach, Neurotica is fast-paced and at times hilarious.”
—Boston’s Weekly Digest Magazine
Also by Sue Margolis
A Catered Affair
Perfect Blend
Forget Me Knot
Gucci Gucci Coo
Original Cyn
Breakfast at Stephanie’s
Apocalipstick
Spin Cycle
Neurotica
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Sue Margolis, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Margolis, Sue.
Coming clean/Sue Margolis.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-101-62772-3
1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Marital conflict—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6063.A635C66 2013
823’.914—dc23 2012038750
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
Praise for Sue Margolis
Also by Sue Margolis
Title Page
Copyright
Couples’ Therapy—Session 1
Couples’ Therapy—Session 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chap
ter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Couples’ Therapy—Session 3
About the Author
Couples’ Therapy—Session 1
“So,” Greg says, getting even more irritable as he tries and fails to front into the parking space. “You’re determined to tell this therapist woman about the tank and make me look like a complete nob.” Our fender makes contact with the one in front. “Shit.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “You only tapped it.” But I can’t resist the scolding add-on, “I told you the space was tight. You should have reversed in.”
“Thank you. I don’t need your advice.” Realizing he needs to back up a couple of feet before he can pull out, he rams the gearshift into reverse. Only it isn’t reverse. He revs the engine. The car doesn’t move. I point out that he’s in neutral.
“Yes, I know I’m in effing neutral.”
Two gear changes later, he edges out of the parking space and draws parallel to the car whose fender we just bumped.
“Do you get a kick out of trying to belittle me?” he says, twisting around and looking over his shoulder as he prepares to reverse the car back into the space.
“What, you’re so insecure these days that I can’t even point out you’re in neutral instead of reverse?”
“I don’t mean that.”
I realize that we’re back to the subject of the tank and my decision to “rat on him” to our therapist. Her name is Virginia Pruitt. Apparently she offers sex therapy as well as couples’ counseling, which is good because neither of us is entirely sure which service we require—probably both. I found her through my best friend, Annie, who has a friend who knows a couple who saw her last year and said she’s brilliant. We’re about to have our first session—if we ever get parked.
“Greg, I am not trying to belittle you. The way I see it, you buying the tank was totally out of order and there’s no doubt that it’s put even more strain on our relationship. Surely that makes it a legitimate subject to bring up with our therapist. Before the tank our sex life was pretty dismal; now it’s nonexistent. I can barely remember the last time we did it.”
“That’s right—blame it all on the tank. Like you always do. Can’t you accept that you’re at least partly to blame for our sexual decline?”
He’s not wrong. Of course I have a role in all this—that’s one of the reasons we’re here, to examine my contribution—but right now we’re discussing him and sodding Tanky and I’m determined to stay on topic.
“Greg, most men make do with a den or a garden shed.”
“I’m too young for a shed. A tank’s cool.”
Meet my husband, the forty-year-old adolescent.
I should point out that the tank isn’t the sort you fill with guppies and rainbow fish. Greg didn’t go out and buy an aquarium. (I wish. The kids would have loved it.) No, we are talking military vehicle here: thirty tons of Second World War military vehicle. Three months ago—having promised he was going to Tanks for the Memory merely to window-shop—Greg became the proud owner of a genuine Sherman tank. He tried to sell it to me on the grounds that he’d got it cheap (being a rusty, clapped-out fixer-upper, it had “only cost three grand”). “Plus,” he said, “the Sherman possesses the first ever seventy-five-millimeter gun, mounted on a fully traversing turret.”
Even though Tanky—my mocking, less than affectionate pet name for the killing machine—does up to thirty miles per hour (or will do when Greg has got it going), he was forced to agree with me that it didn’t make the ideal inner-city runabout, so presently he has it “stabled” on his mate Pete’s five-hundred-acre farm in Sussex. The kids and I have met Tanky once, when the whole family called in at Pete’s one day on the way to Brighton. Ben immediately started clambering over it, making loud machine gun noises. He asked if it had killed real Nazis. (The child is eight and he knows what Nazis are. I still haven’t forgiven my dad for letting him watch The Great Escape.) His sister, Amy, who is two years older and more of a Hello Kitty tote bag with rhinestones kinda gal, took one look at the rust heap in front of her and curled her lip. After which she put her iPod buds back in her ears and carried on listening to her Miley-Justin Radio Disney music. I prefer to call it muse-ache.
I think I might have said something noncommittal re the tank, like: “Oh my God, Greg. I cannot believe you spent three grand on this pile of crap.”
• • •
“But why is it out of order?” Greg is saying now. “I still can’t see what’s meant to be so wrong with buying a tank. I could understand if I was into war games or I’d become a survivalist with a mullet and a bunker full of AK-47s and I’d started indoctrinating the kids about the New World Order. But I’m a pacifist who just happens to think it’s a bit of a lark to ride around the countryside in a tank. And it’s not like we couldn’t afford it.”
Despite my original outburst about the cost of the tank, lately I’ve come to see his point. Last year, just before Christmas, Greg’s gran died. She left him twenty thousand pounds in her will. Once it’s restored, the tank will end up costing around four and a half grand, maybe five. Not cheap, but I guess everybody deserves to indulge themselves occasionally. “Plus,” he said, “it will be something to remember my gran by.” I told him that I could think of no better memorial to this sweet, gray-haired old lady who always smelled of Estée Lauder Youth-Dew.
Greg insisted I had a few treats, too, so I splashed out on a couple of new outfits and a posh handbag. The rest of his inheritance was put into a savings account, which we’d opened a few years ago to help with the kids’ secondary school fees.
Had our marriage been jogging along OK, I don’t think I would have begrudged him his ridiculously over-the-top übergadget. I would have laughed and taken pride in my husband’s eccentricity. “God,” I’d have said to my girlfriends, “you’ll never guess what Greg’s been out and bought.” I might even have found it sexy.
But because our marriage wasn’t “jogging along,” his buying the tank seemed—and still seems—like the ultimate selfish indulgence.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you buying a tank,” I say, stabbing the air with my index finger. “It lives fifty bloody miles away and you insist on visiting it practically every weekend. During the week you’re working all hours. Now you spend all day Saturday tinkering with your Tanky. The kids really miss you. What’s more, you’re absenting yourself from our marriage and you know it.”
“That’s such bollocks.”
“It isn’t bollocks.”
“And stop calling it Tanky. Why do you always have to take the piss?”
“Because I’m angry.”
“You’re always bloody angry.”
Even though I’m still determined to raise the subject of the tank with Virginia Pruitt, I can see how under attack Greg feels and decide to offer a compromise. “Look,” I say. “Instead of me mentioning it, why don’t you bring it up. That way you get to put your side of the story first and you won’t feel belittled.”
My generosity is met with a grunt. “She’s bound to side with you. Women always gang up against blokes over stuff like that.”
Finally, Greg pulls down hard on the steering wheel and eases his foot off the brake. In one perfect maneuver, we’re parked. I decide against saying “well done” as I’m not sure how he’ll take it.
“Oh, and another thing,” Greg says, once we’re out of the car. “If this Virginia person gets onto the subject of sex and starts asking us to give our genitals ‘safe, nonsexual names,’ I’m out of there.” Clunk of the electronic door locks.
He’s never forgotten that cringe-making episode of Sex and the City, which he half watched with me one night while he was waiting for some soccer game to appear on Sky Sports, in which Charlotte and Trey go for sex therapy and the therapist suggests they each name their bits. Charlotte decides to call her vagina “Rebecca” and Trey starts referring to his penis as “Schooner.
”
“OK,” I say, “I’m with you on that.” I feel myself grinning. “But if you absolutely had to name your penis—I mean, purely hypothetically speaking—what would it be?”
Greg grimaces. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“No, come on … what would it be?” I don’t know why I’m pushing him—trying to lighten the atmosphere, I suppose.
“I dunno.”
“You must have some idea.”
“OK … Doric, as in column.”
“Ooh, very phallic, I’m sure.”
“Well, you did ask.”
He doesn’t ask me what I would call my vagina, so I tell him that I’m considering Miss Moneypenny … because Bond-wise she never saw any below-the-waist action. I think it’s pretty clever of me to come up with something so witty on the spot, but he barely responds beyond another grunt.
I can’t believe that Greg and I are about to start couples’ therapy. When we first got together, eleven years ago, we were crazy about each other. We laughed at the same things, shared the same worldview. We both insisted on extra olives and anchovies on our pizza. It was the perfect match. It wasn’t long before we were mapping out our future together. If I’m honest, we were pretty smug and we probably annoyed the crap out of our friends with our plan to get pregnant as soon as we were married, take sabbaticals from our jobs and schlep our infants around India and Nepal.
Back then, I fancied Greg like mad. He was tall, good looking with thick chestnut hair that skimmed his shirt collar, but most of all he had a great sense of humor. I remember the night we met—at my friend Kat’s birthday party. He got me a beer, and as we stood chatting he confessed that he suffered from serious paranoia. I was planning my exit route when he said, face deadpan: “Yeah, when soccer players go into a huddle before the game, I’m convinced they’re talking about me.”
I always said that Greg laughed me into bed. He did brilliant impressions—still does. You should hear his Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama. There was a time when he only had to say, “The president is gagging on my gas bladder. What an honor,” and I was his. Occasionally he would try to excite me by playing The Flintstones theme tune on his head. He could also play “God Save the Queen” on his teeth.
