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

by Kathy Lette

  The widow, her buttery hair swept up into a bun, looks frail and frightened in the dock. Although trying to remain dignified, Jazz’s nerves betray her, and she licks her lips with her tongue like a cat. Jazz’s solicitor has briefed a QC who asks eloquently for bail, the defendant meeting the criteria of having a place to reside plus the £20,000 surety.

  The Prosecutor for the Crown objects forcibly. ‘This woman intended to profit from her husband’s death, my lord. She is not a woman who would mourn from his passing. On the contrary, she intended to celebrate it.’ The prosecutor, rendered egg-bald by worry, is also no doubt bitter with the world about his acne scars, which give him a complexion like cottage cheese clawed with a fork; an obvious hindrance to any romantic aspirations. This can be the only explanation as to why he now goes on to paint a picture of Jazz as a gold-digger, caught up in the web of the criminal underworld.

  ‘There is no doubt that a crime has been committed. The happy family holiday was a sham. For months Jasmine Jardine had been in the throes of an acrimonious separation from her husband, battling over assets and custody of their son.’ He then accuses her of setting up the contract murder of her husband, to get the £2 million insurance payout, by luring her lover, Billy Boston, who was also in Australia at the time as the guest of a literary festival, into murdering her husband and throwing his body into the sea. ‘When Billy Boston declined, she obviously sought other means. This highly manipulative woman had two reasons for wanting David Studlands dead – money and sexual freedom.’

  Uh-oh, I think, gnawing my nails. And sure enough the loquacious prosecutor now reveals that Jazz has cheated on her husband with over a dozen men in the past year. ‘Shady men; men who could no doubt offer her ample escape routes out of the country. Boasting that she would soon be a rich widow, she embarked on a series of affairs, while her husband was working for the poor of Africa.’

  The judge throws in a disparaging harrumph at this point and glares over his spectacles at the Scarlet Woman. I want to call out that it’s actually Jazz who nearly died of an overdose of wedlock and that her husband had been exploiting the poor, but as I’m not even supposed to be here, bite my tongue.

  ‘My lord.’ Jazz’s lawyer stands and adopts the obsequious pose of a royal footman. ‘This is a missing person’s case. Police in Australia have launched an enquiry to try to find Doctor Studlands. Crimestoppers are now offering a substantial reward. There is no evidence of any crime, only the word of a convicted felon.’

  Jazz whimpers and mops at her eyes with a hanky.

  The prosecutor, oozing sarcasm, reminds the judge that no one is ever more apparently grief-stricken than the widow. ‘So grief stricken that within hours of his disappearance she was asking about his two million pound life insurance policy and pension death-benefits payouts.’

  ‘May I speak?’ Jazz asks, though she doesn’t wait for a reply from the Bench. ‘The grief that my husband might have drowned had to be faced so that I could help my son. Josh has to get on with the rest of his life—’

  ‘Can I remind you of the need to put your defence at the right time?’ The judge tries to silence her, his heavy, rounded vowels raining down on her like blows. ‘And through your counsel,’ he reprimands. But Jazz ignores him. This is a woman who has the courage of her convictions, i.e. that she doesn’t want one.

  ‘Although I have to learn to accept the unacceptable – the possible death of my soulmate – I will not allow grief to blight the life of my boy. If you keep me in jail, I can’t comfort my child.’

  ‘Please be quiet! ‘The judge makes a noise like a sea lion in labour and I start to seriously worry about how Jazz will cope with stamping due dates in the prison library for the rest of her natural life. She’d thrown herself on the mercy of the court and gone Splat.

  ‘There is a real concern that the defendant will interfere with the witness, who is out on bail,’ the prosecutor continues. ‘We have evidence that she once tried to kill her husband by substituting the wrong malaria tablets, thus exposing him to the parasite plasmodium falciparum. She also once mis-sized his bulletproof vest. More evidence of her ruthlessness.’

  Once again, my fine legal brain goes ‘Whoops.’

  A sob chokes Jazz’s throat. But the only thing that would move this judge are his bowels. He is peering over at Jazz in a cold way, as though she’s nothing more than a specimen beneath a microscope. Fright shivers through me. I have now used up my nails, and am chewing down to my elbows. But just when it seems that her future is teetering, like a tightrope walker, a court usher bustles up to the prosecutor with a faxed page on official notepaper. Speed-reading, his face elongates with amazement and his cottage-cream complexion curdles.

  ‘My lord, word has just come from the South Australian police that the torso of David Studlands has been discovered in the belly of a Great White Shark. It says here that the Fisheries Office have been hunting Great Whites because of an upsurge in attacks,’ he reads aloud. ‘The man-eater containing the torso which has now been identified as Doctor David Studlands, was as wide as a car and twenty-three feet long. It is impossible to say what triggered the attack as it was not whale migration season. The victim was in the water at dusk, the most dangerous time. Sharks can also detect the most minute amount of blood and a used tampon has been found in the back pocket of the victim’s swimming shorts.’

  There is a cry, and I look across to see Jasmine fall down in a dead faint.

  There are many good things about being female. One is that you are escorted off sinking ships first. Another is that you don’t have to readjust your genitalia in public. And the third is that you can scare male bosses, policemen or aged judges with mysterious, gynaecological disorders or the mere mention of the word ‘tampon’.

  The judge’s curiosity overrides his embarrassment and he breaks with protocol to ask Jazz, who is crying quietly in the dock after a half-hour recess to cope with the shock of the news of her husband’s death, for an explanation regarding the ‘feminine hygiene product’.

  ‘It’s proof, that’s what it is. Proof of just how well David and I had been getting on,’ Jazz whimpers. ‘We were frolicking around in the shallow water by the rocks. David wanted to have sex. I had my period. And, well, I didn’t want to leave the tampon in the ocean. I mean, it could have been picked up by a wave and hit some poor swimmer in the face. So David gallantly offered to put it in the back pocket of his shorts. That’s how intimate and loving we were, my lord. Afterwards, I was tired and wanted to swim back. David said he’d join me later for a sunset cocktail, but while I was showering, I suspect he snorkelled out beyond the headland where we’d been warned not to venture. He was like that – so fearless. A true hero. And well . . . you know the rest.’

  The entire courtroom is staring at her now. I can’t believe that Extreme sports enthusiasts, otherwise known as ‘organ donors’, haven’t taken up ‘Used Tampon In Pocket Whilst Swimming in Shark Infested Waters’ as the ultimate risk-taking thrill.

  ‘We’re English,’ Jazz suddenly cries out. ‘We didn’t know that sharks feed at dusk. We also didn’t know that they can detect the most minute amount of blood.’

  She breaks down again. Tissues are produced and a glass of water fetched.

  I glance anxiously at Jazz’s lawyer. I am not sure if this latest revelation has helped her case or not. Jazz has only been arrested for attempted murder, thanks to the evidence of Billy Boston. Now there’s a body, has this increased or decreased her chances of freedom?

  The kerfuffle behind me is Quincy Joy, striding back through the courtroom door. I watch her whisper into Jazz’s barrister’s ear. He rises magisterially.

  ‘My lord, Ms Jardine’s solicitor has been approached by the witness who wants to withdraw and has been advised to go to the police to verify this. As the Crown’s reliable witness has proved unreliable and withdrawn his statement and the remaining evidence being hearsay and speculation, I’m sure you will agree that the Crown Prosecution must drop
all charges.’

  Jazz looks in my direction. I gaze back. All I can think is that Trueheart must have decided that he does need his dangling participle tweaked after all.

  An hour passes as I wait by the old cell door for the police and the prison to confirm that Jazz is not in custody on any other charges. When her release forms are finally signed, she appears. I wonder how many times a prison officer has flung open this door for two women to collapse into each other’s arms, laughing and crying simultaneously. We are both awash with relief.

  ‘Thanks for offering to put up the bail money, Cassie,’ Jazz snivels. ‘You truly are a great friend.’

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t me. I’m skint as usual . . . It was Hannah.’

  Jazz looks dumbfounded for a moment, before slipping back into her usual abrasive banter. ‘Actually if I’d known that I would have preferred to stay in prison. I mean, look at me, sweetie. I’ve lost a stone in weight, I’ve detoxed from alcohol and taken up reading again. A short stay in a low security prison could be the new ashram.’

  On the way out of the Old Bailey to a bar on Fleet Street for a celebratory drink, Quincy takes my arm. ‘I believe you owe your old man a kind word.’

  ‘Who – Rory?’

  ‘Yes. I accidentally let him know Billy Boston’s bail address. And apparently he paid him a little visit – along with a Rottweiler, a Doberman, a Great Dane, a jar of venomous spiders and a bag full of pythons.’

  ‘Rory did that?’

  I am flummoxed. During this adventure in the Old Bailey, a place of notorious corruption and vice, I have met two police officers who were courteous, and Jazz has told me her barrister had said menacingly that he was called Graham and how anxious he was to keep down her legal costs. So, perhaps my preconceptions were wrong about other things too – like whether or not a low-down rotten mongrel husband could tranform into a Knight in Shining Armani?

  But there’s no time to dwell on this conundrum. After a few celebratory glasses of champagne, it is suddenly 8 p.m. I have to let the babysitter go, clean up the kitchen, defrost tomorrow’s meal, check homework, get the kids to bed, pay bills, do various household DIY and – oh God! Try to find a plumber. It would be easier to find my orgasm again than to find a plumber on a freezing January evening. My central heating is one of those models that has been pre-programmed by the factory to break down the minute the temperature reaches winter levels. And apparently, the repairman I booked couldn’t find my house – even though he must have scoured the street for literally a nanosecond before zooming off home in his heated white van to his roaring fire after leaving me a note that he could make it back to me by, oh, say January next year.

  Rory has always taken care of the plumbing before. Oh well, at least in the last year he’s brought religion into my life. I now really do know what it’s like to be in hell.

  26. The Househusband

  Apart from the discovery of a Condoleezza Rice/George Bush sex video, and for it to be authenticated, the most cheering thing that could happen to an exhausted single mother is coming home to find her house miraculously painted and the garden weeded. At first, I allow the taxi to drive right past my house. It’s so neat I don’t recognize it. The lawn is shorn, the hedges trimmed, the bins out of sight, the flaky front door painted pretty pink. Hell, the ficus tree’s even been re-potted. When I dazedly let myself inside, the warmth of the hall embraces me – as do the aromas emanating from the kitchen. God! Is that roast chicken and apple pie I detect?

  ‘Darling.’ And there’s Rory, in an apron.

  ‘Are you actually baking?’ My pulse quickens.

  ‘The homework’s done and I’ve put out their school uniforms. I’ve rotated your tyres, read, then filed all the warranties, bled the radiators, fixed the central heating, de-leafed the gutters, assembled the Ikea flatpack furniture, replaced the dud light bulbs and closed down the surgery. I’ve also rented some rooms on Kilburn High Street for the practice so you no longer have to put up with all my smelly animals. I thought we could use the extra space for the family – knock the walls through and give the kids a den and you a study. I mean, now that you’re an Acting Head Teacher. I’m so proud of you.’ And he grins, his eyes crinkling with kindness. ‘Your first job as Head is to make me write out one hundred lines I must worship my wife and wash up occasionally.’

  I stare at my husband in astonishment. What on earth was I going to do with my lips now that I couldn’t thin them whenever I looked in his direction?

  ‘You see?’ he went on. ‘Men can change.’

  ‘Ohmygod. What’s that noise?’ I reply. ‘Oh, I know. It’s the sound of millions of women laughing themselves to death.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘How long do you think this phenomenal change will last, Rore? Don’t you think I’ve figured you out by now?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to handle a woman, although nobody has bloody well worked out what that is yet! But I will clean up more and listen more, and I have now got directions to the G spot, and a lovely little spot it is too! So lovely that I actually intend to spend a lot more time there. And I love you loads. So it’s a start, right?’

  Words burble out of him as though he’s an auctioneer. And what he’s selling is himself.

  ‘Rory, the thing is, I’m over you.’

  ‘Over me? Christ, what am I? The flu?’

  I shrug off my coat and amazingly he takes it from me and hangs it up. He then steers me gently into the kitchen, which is, by the way, spotless, and sits me down at a table, prettily laid with polished silverware on a spotless cloth. Where have we moved to? Stepford? ‘Did you really go round and terrorize the prison playwright into withdrawing his statement?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. It’s amazing what people will do when they have a loaded Doberman pointed at them. I didn’t do it for Jasmine, though. I did it to prove how much I love you. Please,’ he begs remorsefully. ‘Please take me back.’ If his voice had legs it would be on its knees. ‘Forgive me, Cass.’

  I shake my head in tight, quick, determined little movements.

  ‘Is it because of my air guitar? Or is there some other little thing?’ he asks nervously, serving up my dinner.

  ‘Oh no, not much – just that when the babies were born, okay I stayed home, but then when I went back to work fulltime, you just expected me to continue doing all the washing, cleaning, cooking. You left it to me to organize the kids and get up with them at night. And I started to resent it. My personality changed. I felt I couldn’t be myself. I lost interest in sex – Jesus, my pussy’s been drier than Gandhi’s left flip-flop. But did you notice? No. Which is why I suggested therapy. And we both know how that bloody well worked out . . . But apart from those little, teeny, tiny things, I’m fine. I really, really fucking am!’ I shovel a forkful of food into my twitching mouth – food which is tonsil-ticklingly good, I note.

  Rory winces. ‘Listen, what I’ve learned is that the only rule for achieving a good marriage is to talk through any problems with sufficient honesty to be able to agree that I’m always wrong,’ he adds playfully.

  Is this my husband talking? He must have taken a course at Say The Right Thing School. I stare at him suspiciously.

  ‘Cassie.’ He sits down opposite me. ‘I know you want me to express my deep innermost emotions and share my feelings. And I would, believe me, only I’m a guy. I don’t think I have any deep innermost feelings . . . Except for you, Cass.’

  I look at him the way a turkey looks at a farmer the day before Thanksgiving.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.

  What I’m thinking is that this dinner is delicious. ‘That my heart has grown scar tissue because of you, from hurt feelings.’

  ‘Mea culpa,’ he says contritely. ‘But couldn’t there be a Statute of Limitations on adulterous guilt? I can’t go on without you, Cassie.’ He crosses his eyes and pretends to strangle himself. ‘You can’t leave me. Not now I know the right temperature to wash coloureds.’

  I must be smiling at
him because he lights up. ‘I think she’s warming up to me,’ he says to the heavens. ‘I mean, she’s only kneed me in the groin twice during this conversation!’ And then he zaps me with that smile. It’s a smile which renders him instantly likeable. I get up quickly and pretend to put something in the bin, just to remove myself from his Charm Range, and am dumb-founded to note that the empty milk carton has been thrown away and not just put back in the fridge. When I open the freezer for the vodka, I see that the ice-cube trays have been refilled. He smiles at me again, so I remove myself to the loo – only to find it scented and soaped. Not only have the tiles been scoured with a grout brush, but the toilet roll has been replaced on the spindle. Will miracles never cease? I have the feeling that even if I were parallel parking, Rory would sit quietly and say nothing!

  ‘I know I’m insensitive, Cass,’ he says when I return to the table open-mouthed. ‘Christ. My best mate’s family could be wiped out by a chainsaw-wielding Triad member and I wouldn’t know because I’ll have been far too concerned with debating last night’s footie score. I’m not good at expressing my feelings, not verbally. But there are other ways.’ And then he pulls me into one of his blanketing hugs. He smells of minty teeth, like a child, and newly ironed warmth. His hand on my hip is familiar and comforting. He is like a favourite, faded pair of jeans which I can slip into without thinking.

  ‘I do love you, Cass. If only I were better with words. I know it sounds cheesy, but I’m sorry, so desperately sorry for hurting you. And the kids. I tired them out today with house cleaning.’

  And then he leads me by the hand, up the stairs and into the children’s bedrooms, which are tidied to pristine perfection – even the doorknobs have been polished – to gaze at our loved ones tucked up in bed, dreams flitting across their faces soft as moonlight. As I move back towards the stairs, he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I lean across and kiss his mouth. It’s impossible to say which of us is more astounded by this act. And then he looks at me as though I’m crème brûlée and he’s the spoon.