How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints)

by Kathy Lette

  I looked at Hannah in alarm. Jazz wasn’t the most subtle or cautious person. Whatever she did to Studz might be originally reported as an accident, but not after those highly advanced forensic tests proved that his heart had been gouged out of his body by his wife’s nail file.

  ‘You know what he wants now, Hannah? Did Cassie tell you? He wants custody of Joshie.’

  ‘What? I would have thought that putz would sue for less custody.’ Hannah positioned herself on the kitchen banquette, orchestrating her taffeta evening gown around her.

  ‘It is ridiculous,’ I commiserated. ‘I mean, they may sit on the same twig on one branch of the family tree, but that’s about all they share.’

  ‘If he gets custody, you see, he won’t have to pay me any maintenance.’

  ‘But Josh is an adult, nearly.’

  ‘Not till he finishes school. And then he’s got Uni so he’ll still be living with me in the family home. And that maniac of a hubby of mine doesn’t want to have to pay for it.’

  ‘Apart from that it’ll be an amicable split,’ I elaborated to Hannah sarcastically. ‘They’ll both get fifty per cent of the acrimony.’

  ‘Look what I found today.’ Jazz thrust a torn-out bit of newspaper at me. ‘A phone number for a Forensic Cleaning Service for Victims of Violent Crime. It deals with Decomposition, Blood and Related Stain Removal. Rather handy if I chop him up and put him through my food processor. Now that’s the kind of tip a wife needs. How to Kill Your Husband – (and other handy household hints).’

  ‘Stop this crazy talk right now!’ Hannah demanded. ‘Let’s all sit down and get practical.’ She patted the banquette beside her. ‘Who’s your accountant? Do you have his or her home number?’

  ‘It’s not crazy talk. The reality is, there are only two days when a husband is great fun to be around. The day you marry him – and the day you bury him.’ Jazz cackled like one of the witches in Macbeth.

  ‘Studz will never get custody of Josh.’ I put my arm around Jazz reassuringly. ‘It’s the mother’s job to be the eye of the storm.’

  ‘Boys need their mothers.’ Hannah slid her arm around Jazz’s other shoulder. ‘You must be strong for the sake of your son. Mother Courage, that’s where the expression comes from, dah-ling.’

  Pained at the memory of how the predatory Bianca had ingratiated herself into my children’s lives, my skin, which already felt as though it were made of paper, was scorched by her words. I could feel my face burning.

  ‘I know Josh’s friends, his dreams, fears, hopes. What he’s thinking, how he’s feeling, what mischief he’s plotting. What do I live for? My son’s jeans still warm after he takes them off for the wash. The smell of his hair when he hugs me goodbye in the morning. Is that too much to ask out of life?’

  ‘No, darling,’ I soothed, kissing her forehead. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Jazz. Think straight. Accountant’s number. Bank account details. Do you have a lawyer?’ Hannah insisted, sitting back down and marshalling pen and paper. ‘If only he didn’t have that private eye’s evidence. Gevalt! And that photo! I told you cheating on Studz wouldn’t fix anything. But did you listen to me? No.’

  Jazz leaned back against the sink, cocked her head to one side and looked down at Hannah through screwed-up eyes. ‘Are you suggesting that David and I should have gone to couples counselling? Oh, that soooo worked out for Cassie, didn’t it? Her husband is now living with his therapist – thanks to you.’

  It was true. All therapy had done was to encourage Rory to leave our marriage. One word from Bianca and he’d left so damn fast he had G-force cheeks. I bit back a tear.

  Hannah bristled. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re the one who ruined Cassie’s life. She was fine, she was happily married, until you interfered, Jasmine.’

  That was true too. At Jazz’s insistence, I’d been hurling myself against the bars of my relationship to test its endurance levels, as though I’d been a special effects stuntwoman. And guess what? It hadn’t endured. My lower lip trembled.

  ‘I didn’t interfere.’ Jazz prodded Hannah in the chest with a stiletto nail, not hard, but enough to make Hannah stand up, her evening dress creaking floorward. ‘I just pointed out how she was being exploited. Cassie worked the rest out for herself. Self-enlightenment is just one of the services I offer,’ Jazz then gave another deranged twirl.

  Hannah, who’d been dragged away from her charity dinner for this, tossed some nuts into her mouth with startling violence. ‘Your trouble, Jazz, is that you openly despise every man on the planet and secretly despise the few exceptions.’

  ‘And I’m bloody well right too. Look at what Rory has done to Cassie. It’s male nature to be lying, two-faced and rodent-like.’

  ‘Do you agree with this puerile analysis, Cassandra?’ Hannah asked imperiously.

  I took a breath while trying to devise a way to earth the electrically charged atmosphere. ‘Look, all I know is that Jenny had this mouse she named after her dad, who was extremely messy and slob-like. He lived up in the mice tower in their cage and only came down for a feed or sex. Well, one day, a mate of my husband’s, who’s a mobile vet, popped in for a cuppa and I asked him to de-sex Rory. Once he’d worked out that I wasn’t referring to my spouse, I got him to neuter the male mouse. The next thing, Rory is cleaning the nest, nurturing the babies. Crikey, he was practically reading The Female Eunuch.’

  ‘You see! That’s what all husbands need. Castration! Or maybe we should replace their Viagra with Oestrogen? Sprinkle some on their cornflakes? Or . . . I know!’ Jazz’s apron strings were unravelling as she danced around the kitchen. ‘I could get Billy to take him out! Why didn’t I think of it before? My boyfriend is a murderer, after all. He could kill your husbands too – the cheating, duplicitous scum. He could award them a Prison OBE – One Behind The Ear. Three for the price of one.’

  Hannah drummed her nails on the tabletop. ‘Not all husbands are dishonest. Pascal is faithful to me. He supports my career. We are very, very happy.’

  Jazz stopped flitting about abruptly. ‘Is he now?’ There was something menacing in her voice. It was as though a switch had been thrown. ‘I am so sick and tired of your Holier Than Thou attitude, Hannah. All husbands have things to hide. Including yours.’

  A spasm of irritation darted across Hannah’s forehead and she thumped the table again. ‘This is your modern take on the sewing bee, isn’t it? We bitch and stitch. Bitching about, then stitching up every man we know. I’m sorry you’re so unhappy, Jazz. I really am. But why are you hellbent on destroying your girlfriends’ happiness too? So that we’ll be as miserable as you are?’

  Jazz raised a combative eyebrow. ‘I am not the kind of friend who goes round ruining girlfriends’ lives – otherwise I would have told you about your husband’s secret life and I haven’t, have I?’

  ‘What secret life?’ Hannah stared at Jazz, non-plussed.

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way. I suggest you call the mobile vet because you have a very large rat on your hands.’

  I nervously ripped off a hangnail with my teeth. I don’t like to be scared – it scares me. After all, getting scared half to death, twice, could be fatal. And this conversation was definitely headed into unchartered waters.

  ‘Why would you say Pascal is attracted to you?’ Jazz went on sweetly. ‘What’s your best feature, do you think? Your marble Jacuzzi or your Mercedes convertible?’

  Hannah waved a dismissive hand. ‘Bitch and stitch. I should worry.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say. A fool and her money are soon married. And in you, Pascal found a wife he can really bank on.’

  ‘If they made a movie of your life, Jasmine, do you know who’d play you? Bette Davis,’ Hannah announced off-handedly, but her face flickered and tensed.

  ‘The man you love and worship and sing the praises of constantly has a whole other life. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but . . .’

  Hannah gave off an air of aloofness, but her voice had becom
e high and girlish. ‘You’ve gone quite mad, do you know that?’

  ‘David has been Pascal’s doctor since they were students, writing out prescriptions for this and that. He always treats old mates and family, here at home. And the needy, of course – asylum seekers claiming torture et cetera. Well, as you know, I’ve been snooping on Studz for months. So, I was riffling through his filing cabinet last week, the one he keeps locked, and, well, I read your husband’s entire confidential file. Pascal’s been seeing David privately because of a very private matter. The thing is, Hannah, he’s – well, he’s shacked up with an art student. She . . .’ Jazz hesitated before delivering the final blow. ‘She . . . I mean they have a son.’

  Hannah relaxed then, snorting with laughter. ‘I thought you were going to tell me he had a gambling addiction or something. Pascal hates children! He’s always laughed at those fathers, padding around Sainsbury’s on invisible dog leads called “commitment”. You know that.’

  ‘It’s not that he didn’t want children. He just didn’t want children with you. I’m sorry, Hannah, but the man’s just been using you as a cash cow all these years.’

  I looked at Jazz aghast. The woman was obviously self-medicating from David’s doctor bag.

  ‘Where is your proof?’ Hannah stropped, but her pursed mouth was as taut as an archer’s bow.

  Jazz clicked down the hall in her satin mules and clattered up the stairs, with Hannah and me in tow. We were like a human fuse burning towards a bomb. On the mezzanine was an office which doubled as a small surgery. There was an examination table in the far corner and sherbet-toned walls the colour of a nurse’s uniform. With its medications and bandages, the room exhaled an antiseptic breath. Jazz took a key from its hiding place inside the hollow leg of a bronze statuette, unlocked a filing cabinet, then threw open the drawer with a flourish. She flung a manila folder onto the desk as though it were contagious.

  Hannah moved towards the desk so slowly it was as if she were underwater. She put one foot in front of the other as gingerly as a novice ice-skater. Quailing inwardly, I came to a ragged stop beside her and also began to pore over the contents. The file contained the medical records of Pascal Swan, a twenty-six-year-old woman named Shona Sarpong, and a five-year-old boy – Dylan Swan.

  My blood was throbbing like a diesel engine. This could not be happening. Since Rory’s betrayal I hadn’t been able to regain my equilibrium. The floor in front of me seemed to be constantly undulating. Hannah leaned on to the desk for support, equally unbalanced. At first she said nothing. There was just an aching, tourniqueted quiet. Then, when she finished reading, a single tear crawled down one cheek. She closed the file on Shona last. ‘She only has three per cent body fat,’ she said, her voice suddenly thick-throated with sobs.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but pieces were suddenly falling into place – Pascal’s holidays with male friends abroad, like the truffle hunting in Italy when he failed to bring back any truffles. The heli-skiing in Russia – when he couldn’t ski. The weekends he went painting in the Cotswolds, returning with a curious lack of canvases. His studio in Shoreditch, the one Hannah was never allowed to visit, even though she’d bought it for him. This, no doubt, was where Dylan and Shona resided.

  ‘Why would he stay married to me if he has a child with her? Why would he stay if he didn’t love me best?’

  ‘Um . . . what’s the phrase I’m looking for? Joint bank account? Holiday house in France? First-class air travel?’ Jazz replied bluntly.

  ‘Jazz, that’s enough,’ I begged.

  ‘Oh, but does infidelity really matter, when you have so much else?’ Jazz parroted what Hannah had said months before when Studz’s sexual incontinence had been discovered. ‘“It’s only sex” – isn’t that what you said to me? And “Can’t you move on?”’

  ‘Jazz. Stop it!’ Jazz may be stunningly attractive but if her inner beauty were on the outside right now, she’d be Boris Karloff.

  ‘Why? Why did you have to tell me?’ asked Hannah numbly.

  ‘Come on.’ Jazz softened her tone. ‘You must have known something was wrong when you saw stiletto marks on the leather roof lining of that new jeep you bought him.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything.’ Hannah’s voice sounded creaky and old.

  ‘I see. So you kept your eyes wide open at work and half-closed at home – is that it? Would you really rather live in ignorance?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah said sadly.

  ‘If ignorance is bliss, then why aren’t more people happy, huh? Besides, if I hadn’t told you and you’d found out, you’d be screaming “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” I’ve agonized over this for a week. But how could I know something about your life which is this monumental and not tell you? I wish someone had told me about Studz. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my whole fucking life. Maybe you did know and didn’t tell me, is that it?’ Jazz turned the tables with the expertise of a furniture removalist.

  ‘You want me to feel sorry for you!’ Hannah exclaimed. ‘But you’re the kind of female creature my husband is with now. You sleep with other women’s men.’ Her lips were drawn tight, as thin as a paper cut. And her words scissored out sharply. ‘You’ve become the female version of Studz. You’ve become the very man you hate.’

  Jazz recoiled at the idea. ‘You’re just taking your anger out on me because you can’t believe how stupid you’ve been. Pascal’s wedding vows should have read “Do you take this woman to the cleaners, for fifty per cent of her income, from this day forth, for richer and richer?” You bloody well bet I do!’

  ‘You’ve ruined my life,’ Hannah moaned. ‘You’ve ruined Cassie’s life too, making her find fault with Rory. You practically pushed her to the abyss she’s in now. You’re evil. You’re Machiavelli in Miu Miu!’

  I, too, looked at Jazz astonished. ‘Chaos, heartbreak, despair. I’d say your work here is done, Jasmine.’

  Jazz made a placating gesture and began to speak but Hannah silenced her with a traffic cop hand.

  ‘You’re like some psychological butterfly collector. An emotional lepidopterist. You just pinned us both onto a board, to watch our painful flutterings, for your own sadistic enjoyment. But do you know what I’ve just realized? You’re the poor, pathetic moth, flitting from flame to flame.’

  At Hannah’s harsh rebuke, Jazz’s bravado evaporated and sadness flowed down her face.

  ‘Constantly telling us we’ll be cured by taking toy boys.’ Hannah snorted. ‘It might be okay behaviour for Joan Collins and Cher, but for we mere mortal women, it’s pathetic. Look at you. You’re walking around in orthopaedic nightmares to make your legs look longer. You’re losing circulation because your clothes are so tight. You spend the whole time reversing out of bedrooms so that younger men can’t see the backs of your thighs.’

  Jazz looked suddenly pitiable and faintly ridiculous in her ankle chains, henna tattoos and rubber message bracelets.

  ‘But what you didn’t realize, you silly cow, is that all those toy boys only have sex with you because they’re too lazy to masturbate.’

  Jazz rose to criticism like a cobra, striking Hannah’s face. With slapstick timing, Hannah hit Jazz right back. Mimicking premenstrual schoolgirls they started tearing at each other’s hair. Their argument was silenced by the crash of Jazz’s crystal vase. I gasped. It was her most treasured possession, given to her by her mother before she died. Watching the pink flower petals fall to the carpet with gentle implacability, Jazz dissolved into silent tears. Hannah, however, began howling like a wounded creature, falling to her knees, beating her breasts, tearing her hair and ripping at her taffeta frock. Her day had started as calmly as any other and then she’d just drifted into disaster, like a boat without a rudder, ending up shipwrecked.

  What a trio we were. Women fantasize about being ‘taken’. Well, we’d been taken, all right, but not quite in the muscley-thighed, half-naked Adonis way we’d wet-dreamed of.

  Jazz was being taken to the cleaners by her
husband.

  Hannah had been taken for a ride by her husband.

  And I’d been taken for granted.

  Wedding vows really need updating. They should read: Have faith in your husband. Respect your husband. Idealize your husband . . . but get as much as you possibly can in your own name.

  PART FOUR

  21. Underachievers Anonymous

  Now is the summer of my discontent. Well, our discontent really. Hannah, Jazz and I needed a Low Self-Esteem Support Group, but the class would be cancelled as no teacher would want to hang out with such losers. Besides which, it would be a very small class because Jazz and Hannah were not on speaking terms. I was so low, I changed the joint ‘We’re out’ message Rory and I had left on our answermachine to say instead, ‘I’m out of my mind – but leave a message.’ When feeling blue, it helps to start breathing again, but just in case, I took to reading impressive Booker Prize-winning tomes, so that at least I’d look intelligent if I died in the middle of one.

  Early in August the bank foreclosed on Jazz’s house. Too frightened to divorce, she had to move with Studz into a minuscule, rented two-bedroom flat on Finchley Road. Her beloved Josh, traumatized by all the change and tension, turned remote and withdrawn. He was suddenly quoting Goethe and becoming intellectually precocious. Jazz thought he might be seeing someone, but he wouldn’t tell her anything. ‘I’ve done everything except a polygraph test,’ she confided in me anxiously.