by Sue Margolis
I can’t help smiling.
“Tina based her entire theory,” he is saying now, “on the fact that when I was a kid my dad never let me win at Connect Four.”
“Well, that is a pretty mean, childish thing for a parent to do. Maybe it did affect you.”
“Crap. I was feeling down because I was anxious and shy and spending too much time alone in my room jerking off. Once I’d moved out of Palmdale and got laid, I was fine.”
We’ve reached Virginia Pruitt’s front door. Greg looks at his watch. It’s seven o’clock. (Although we both left work early, I can’t believe we made it home to Putney and then to Muswell Hill in less than a couple of hours.) “Right on time,” he says. “She’ll either see that as proof of our commitment to therapy or she’ll decide we’re people pleasers, neurotically obsessed with timekeeping.”
A woman I assume to be Virginia Pruitt opens the door. I feel my face fall. Virginia Pruitt is tall, reedy and—off the top of my head—a 32B. This isn’t the plump, bosomy mummy I ordered. My inner child already wants to start acting out. The only thing that puts Virginia Pruitt into the mummy category is her age. She is maybe sixty. I take in the gray hair, which has been cut into a sensible bob. She’s wearing a calf-length skirt in beige linen. Her short-sleeved blouse—cream—has one button open at the neck to reveal a single row of pearls. How a sex therapist can look so prim beats me. I decide the name Pruitt suits her.
“Ah, you must be the Lawsons.” Plummy voice. I picked this up when I called to make our appointment. “I’m Virginia. Do come in.” I fear she is used to organizing garden fetes and gymkhanas and is going to be bossy and strict, but she offers us a warm, welcoming smile. As we shake hands I start to relax.
Virginia Pruitt’s entrance hall is large and a bit grand. I take in the parquet flooring and antique Indian silk rug. She leads the way down a wood-paneled passage, towards the back of the house. Greg makes small talk about it being a beautiful evening and how it looks like summer has finally arrived. Virginia is friendly enough, turning to offer him another smile, but keeps her reply brief. “We can only hope,” she says. Greg has warned me that shrinks don’t do chitchat and that they tend to keep their facial expressions pretty deadpan. Apparently, revealing their thoughts and emotions gets in the way of the therapeutic process.
While Greg prattles on about the warm weather and the possibility of another drought, I’m taking in the watercolors on the walls—landscapes, mostly. We pass a mahogany table. I’m guessing Victorian. Sitting on it is that Indian god, the one with a man’s body and an elephant’s head. I’m damned if I can remember his name.
“Beautiful statue,” Greg says. “It’s Ganesh, isn’t it? Did you get it in India?”
Virginia Pruitt turns around again. “Yes. My husband and I bought it in Mumbai last year.”
OK, I know what’s going on. Before we’ve sat down, before I’ve even had a chance to mention the tank, Greg is trying to suck up to Virginia Pruitt and get her on his side.
She shows us into her counseling room. It’s small and cozy with French doors at one end. These open onto a pretty paved garden and more plant-filled pots. A breeze has started and the long net curtains are billowing gently. As Virginia Pruitt pulls the doors closed, I notice the framed botanical prints on the walls, the pretty cast-iron fireplace with its original blue and white tiles. For some reason, I start to imagine Virginia’s kitchen. I’m thinking cream Shaker units with pine doorknobs to match the long farmhouse table and antique dresser. In the middle of the table there’s a Victorian crackle-glaze jug full of sweet peas. The kitchen is, of course, spotless. It’s impossible to imagine Virginia Pruitt having used tea bags blocking her drain or cobwebs hanging from under her sink waste pipe.
What little I’ve seen of Virginia Pruitt’s house exudes quiet calm and order. It’s a proper grown-up home, and even though her style is a bit too English country house for my taste, I’m jealous.
She directs us to a sofa covered in poppy and daisy Liberty print linen. Greg and I sit down, putting a “meaningful” distance between us. I wonder whether Virginia Pruitt has noticed and will remark on this. I find myself running my fingernail along the sofa arm and thinking how clean it is. A few months ago, Greg and I made the mistake of buying a white sofa from Ikea. In a couple of weeks it was covered in chocolate, dried-up cereal and general kid-crud.
Virginia Pruitt lowers herself into a black leather armchair. Between her and us is a low coffee table. On this sits a small clock. It’s positioned in such a way that all three of us can see the time. Next to it is a box of apricot-colored tissues.
Greg is looking towards Virginia’s bookcase. “Ah, I see you have Simon Schama’s A History of Britain. Excellent book. Really well written and informative, I thought.”
Oh God. He’s still sucking up to her. I’m relieved when Virginia Pruitt doesn’t respond beyond a polite nod. She is so on to him.
She crosses her legs and adjusts her skirt hem, signaling she’s ready to start. “So, Greg and Sophie, what brings you to therapy?”
“My tank,” Greg blurts, clearly deciding to get his retaliation in first after all. “That’s to say, it didn’t physically bring us here. I mean, it’s twenty feet long. It would have taken up God knows how many parking spaces.”
Virginia Pruitt looks puzzled.
“Greg, when you say ‘tank’ …”
“I mean a Second World War Sherman tank.”
She’s nodding in a manner that can only mean she thinks my husband is a total weirdo. Round one to moi, methinks.
Greg continues: “I keep it at my mate Pete’s farm in Sussex. I’m not into war games or anything. It’s just a toy. I’m in the middle of restoring it.”
“And when that’s done?”
“I’ll ride around the countryside in it.”
Virginia Pruitt’s face breaks into a smile. I assume it’s one of pity.
“Huh … I can see that might be fun.” Her voice is measured, but approving. “So it will be a chance for a bit of frivolity and pleasure. A bit of you time.”
“Absolutely. You’ve got it.” Greg is blinking, clearly taken aback by her approval. He is also beaming.
I can’t believe that Virginia Pruitt is siding with Greg without bothering to ask me how I feel about the bloody tank. She’s a woman, for crying out loud. She’s meant to get it. She’s supposed to be on my side. Earlier, when Greg and I were in the car discussing the tank, even he was convinced she’d take my side.
I’ve barely finished this thought when Virginia Pruitt turns to me. “So, Sophie, how do you feel about the tank?”
I feel myself warming to her again. “Well, to quote Princess Diana, ‘There are three of us in this marriage, so it’s a bit crowded.’”
“And the third person—if you will—is the tank, and you’re having to compete with it for Greg’s affection.”
OK, finally she’s getting it.
“That’s right.” I explain that Greg works long hours during the week and now most Saturdays are taken up with the tank.
She asks Greg what he does for a living.
“I’m a journalist. I’m the political editor of the Vanguard.”
Virginia Pruitt acknowledges his professional status with a slow, approving nod. I’d put money on her being a Vanguard reader. She has all the credentials: middle class, educated and a shrink, she’s bound to be to the left politically.
She’s looking at me again. “So, Sophie, you must feel quite abandoned on the weekends.”
Hang on. Why hasn’t she asked me what I do for a living? Is she thinking I’m some pathetic, bored housewife who is so in need of her husband’s attention that she can’t be left to cope alone on the weekend?
I’m still working out how to respond when she adds a postscript. “I mean, during the week you’re working full-time in a very demanding job and on the weekends you’re lumbered with the children.”
How does she know I work? … OK, got it. I told her o
n the phone. I’m impressed that she’s remembered. It’s dawning on me that Greg isn’t the class pet. I’m beginning to trust her.
“That’s exactly how it is,” I say.
“You seem angry,” she says, spotting that I’ve turned away from Greg.
“I am. You see, this isn’t just about the tank.”
Virginia Pruitt is smiling in a way that tells me she isn’t remotely surprised. “I find the words ‘straw’ and ‘camel’s back’ coming to mind,” she says.
I nod. Greg tuts. I ask him why he’s tutting and he says it’s because I’m about to go on the attack re his domestic shortcomings.
“Too right I am.” I can feel myself getting really cross now. I turn to face Virginia Pruitt. “The thing is, Greg refuses to do his share of the housework or clean up after himself. He’s like a big kid. He expects me to tidy up after him. I’m at the end of my tether. I just can’t cope any longer.”
“Wrong. I do not expect you to tidy up after me. You choose to tidy up after me because you’re so neurotic about keeping the house tidy.”
“I don’t choose to unblock the loo after you’ve filled it with half a toilet roll. You simply refuse to do it.”
I’m finding it hard to keep my cool. “I don’t think it’s neurotic to want a toilet that will flush and a bathroom free of toenail clippings, do you?”
Greg unfolds his arms and grudgingly concedes the point. “Look, I don’t do it on purpose. I have stuff on my mind. Sometimes, I just forget to clear up or I don’t realize how much toilet paper I’m using.”
“Sometimes? Greg, you always forget.”
Greg is looking straight at Virginia Pruitt now. “My wife is a clean freak and a martyr. What can I say?”
“Sophie, how do you feel when Greg calls you a martyr?”
“I feel angry and worthless. It’s his way of telling me that the things I regard as important don’t count.”
“That is such bullshit.”
Virginia Pruitt doesn’t bat an eyelid at Greg’s expletive. “And it’s bullshit because?”
“She’s saying I don’t respect her and that’s not true.”
“But it seems to me that Sophie is telling you that she wants to live in a clean, comfortable home, and instead of helping her create an adult space for the two of you, you’re sabotaging her efforts. Is that showing her respect?”
This shuts him up.
“It’s got to the point,” I say, “where I can’t do my job and run the home on my own.”
“But we have help,” Greg butts in. “Mrs. Fredericks comes in once a week.”
“Yes, but she can’t reach the actual dirt because there’s so much crap in the way. She’s always moaning about how all the surfaces are covered with junk.”
Virginia Pruitt asks me to describe a typical working day. It’s clearly occurred to her that Greg needs reminding. I’m starting to really like Virginia Pruitt.
My husband snorts.
I tell her that I’m up at six to prepare the kids’ lunch boxes and maybe put a casserole in the slow cooker so that it’ll be ready when I get home. “Then I take a shower, blow-dry my hair and put on some makeup. By now it’s seven and Klaudia, our Polish nanny, has arrived. She’s great—kind and totally unflappable. The kids love her and I’d be lost without her. I’m always running late, so I end up half walking, half jogging to the tube.”
“So you’re wrung out before you even get to work.”
I nod. She is so getting this.
“An hour later, I reach the office.” I remind her that I’m the senior producer on Coffee Break. “The moment I walk in, I’m accosted by Nancy, the presenter who’s inevitably having some kind of hissy fit. I deal with her humongous ego and tantrums, watch the show go out, make notes and attend the daily postmortem with the other program producers and the editor. After the meeting, I deal with admin, respond to a stack of e-mails and eat a limp canteen sandwich at my desk. I usually manage to get away by six. I pick up any urgent shopping on my way to the tube. If there are no problems with the trains, I’m home by seven. I supervise homework and attempt some bonding time with the kids. I might read to them or they come onto my bed and we have cuddles. If Greg’s coming home at a reasonable time, I’ll have dinner with him. I’m usually in bed by nine thirty.”
“It sounds exhausting,” Virginia Pruitt says.
“That’s it, side with her,” Greg blurts, clearly furious.
If Virginia Pruitt is irritated or ruffled by his comment, she gives no hint. “Greg, I’m wondering why my sympathizing with Sophie makes you think I’m siding with her. Did you assume I wasn’t interested in hearing about your workday and wouldn’t bother asking you about it?”
“I dunno. Maybe. It’s just that I’m fed up with being cast as the bad guy in all this.”
Virginia Pruitt nods. “Go on.”
Greg turns to me. “Have you any idea how stressful and exhausting my job can be? During the last election, I was doing fifteen-hour days. Then there was the MPs’ expenses scandal … WikiLeaks. And almost every evening there’s some tedious political do I’m expected to attend. I’m convinced you just think I sit on my arse all day.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t think that. I know how hard you work.”
“So,” Virginia Pruitt cuts in, “it’s not easy for either of you.” She looks truly concerned. She asks us when we last went out on our own. I tell her it was for the kids’ parent-teacher evening a few weeks ago.
“OK, but when did you last go to the movies or out to dinner?”
We admit that we can’t remember. “I have so many evening commitments,” Greg says. “On the nights I’m free, I just want to come home and sink a few beers in front of the TV.”
“And even if we did go out,” I say, “we’d only sit in silence or fight.”
Virginia Pruitt asks us what we’d fight about.
I tell her that I’m so angry with Greg that everything about him seems to irritate me these days—what he’s wearing, his hair, how he holds his knife and fork, expressions he uses.
“Yeah—the other day she told me I was breathing too loudly.”
He’s not wrong. I feel myself blushing.
She asks us to think back to when we first started dating. “How did you get along?”
“Finding Sophie was like coming home,” Greg says.
I can’t help feeling touched.
“It was the same for me.” I tell her how I fell in love with him waltzing down Charing Cross Road.
We tell her that the sex was pretty hot and regale her with tales of our acrobatic, clothes-ripping, three-day shagathons.
“When we weren’t having sex,” I say, “we would sit up till all hours putting the world to rights and planning our future.”
I tell her about our dotty plan to give up work and schlep our kids around India and Nepal. “We only gave up on this idea after Amy was born. What with the sleep deprivation, the hemorrhoids and the cracked nipples, I could barely wheel her up the road to the supermarket.”
Greg starts talking about our first holiday together. “We went to Spain. We’d only been going out a few weeks.”
“And on about day three or four,” I butt in, “Greg took me to this new beach he’d discovered. Of course, he failed to tell me it was a nudist beach. We sat there in hysterics while we watched naked men barbecuing. You should have seen them. Their dangly bits were all over the chicken drumsticks. Then Greg says maybe we should join in—not with the barbecuing, just the naked bit. Anyway, eventually he persuaded me and we ended up making love in the dunes.”
He’s laughing. “Yeah, only we had a bit of a sand issue … and things got slightly abrasive.”
Virginia Pruitt is wincing and smiling at the same time.
“So you have some really good memories from your early days. There was clearly a real intimacy between you, both physically and emotionally. I think you need to recapture some of that.”
“That won’t
be easy,” I say. “How do you start to rekindle your love life when your husband has turned into a sofa that farts?”
She doesn’t have a chance to reply because Greg is straight in there.
“Oh, and I suppose you think you really turn me on by coming to bed in your PICKLE MAKERS DO IT WITH RELISH T-shirt?”
Virginia Pruitt raises her hand to stop us bickering and says she would like to change the subject.
“So, Greg, if you’re not having sex with Sophie, do you masturbate?”
Greg looks taken aback, but my guess is it’s only partly due to embarrassment. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too: Virginia Pruitt with her sensible skirt and string of pearls just said “masturbate.” A look passes between us. Any moment I’m going to start laughing. I turn away from Greg and bite my bottom lip. Finally he admits to Virginia Pruitt that he does masturbate.
“And you’re able to come?”
Come? Women like Virginia Pruitt don’t say “come.” They talk about having “arrived.” I refuse to look at Greg and cough to stifle my giggles.
Greg says yes, he is able to come.
“He masturbates when he thinks I’m asleep,” I manage to blurt, “but I’m always catching him at it.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“I’m past caring,” I say.
“Really? You don’t feel rejected?”
I shrug. “A bit maybe. I mean, OK, we’re not having sex with each other, but I guess it still hurts.”
Greg throws up his hands. “Do you mind telling me what I’m supposed to do?”
“I’m just saying, that’s all.”
“So, Sophie, are you having solo sex?”
“You have to be kidding.” I manage a bitter laugh and inform her that being tired most of the time and living with a lazy slob isn’t great for the libido. She responds with an understanding nod.
