The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  I place it all on the coffee table and pick up my mug, sitting back on the sofa, clutching it in both hands for support.

  ‘How is my David?’ Maggie asks.

  David suggested I should meet his parents when we had been together two months. Two months exactly. We had been on a few dates – trips to fancy restaurants, sweaty nights out in exclusive clubs, even one night at the local cinema – but the words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ had never graced our lips, and certainly nothing about meeting parents. It came out of nowhere, but I enjoyed the warm glow that he wanted to crack on with the serious stuff and involve me in his life.

  In an act that marked the rest of our Sundays from then on, he brought me to Sunday lunch. I changed clothes a thousand times before he picked me up, eventually swapping my favourite wrap dress in favour of a long skirt and blouse David picked out when he arrived.

  ‘Tie your hair back,’ he said, passing me a hair band, ‘and take off the lipstick, it’s too red.’ I picked up a tissue and wiped it off, standing in front of him, pulling my shoulders back and standing up straight.

  ‘Ready for inspection,’ I joked. ‘How do I look?’

  David looked me up and down. He paused. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, mouth pursed in a tight smile.

  We arrived on the dot of twelve, David ringing the bell twice and adjusting his tie.

  Maggie answered, arms outstretched. ‘Darling,’ she said, kissing him on both cheeks, transferring some of her soft pink lipstick onto the edge of his mouth. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘This is Annie,’ David said, pushing me forward, one hand on the small of my back.

  Maggie gripped my upper arms, keeping me at a distance and looking me up and down. ‘Lovely thick hair, blue eyes,’ she said, assessing me like a prize heifer. ‘Bit short, but good frame.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Lovely to meet you, Annie,’ she said finally.

  David smiled, a big smile I had only seen a few times before, or since.

  After lunch, when we got back to my flat, we had sex on the living room floor.

  ‘I had never seen such a bashed-up tennis racquet,’ Maggie continues. ‘The strings were broken and hanging loose, the frame was in pieces, even the soft binding on the handle had been pulled apart. And when I asked him what had happened …’ She pauses for effect.

  ‘He said his dad had beaten him at tennis,’ I finish, my voice flat. I switched off a while ago, having heard this story several times before.

  Maggie gives me a hard stare, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. ‘He’s competitive, my David.’ She picks up the cup from its saucer and takes a final delicate sip, holding it out to me when she has finished. ‘He’ll usually win, but woe betide anyone who takes him on and beats him.’

  ‘Do you want another one?’

  ‘Please.’ Maggie nods, and I go back into the kitchen to flip the kettle on. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying, Annie?’

  ‘Maggie, I never compete with David, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t mean you, Annie, obviously you wouldn’t win.’ From the kitchen I raise my eyebrows at the overemphasis, miming ‘obviously’ under my breath. ‘I’m talking about Johnny.’

  I poke my head back round into the living room. ‘What do you mean? Johnny is two.’ On hearing his name, Johnny looks up from his books on the floor in the playroom, then back again, uninterested. ‘He can barely run, let alone play tennis.’

  Maggie sighs, tired of explaining the obvious to her simple daughter-in-law. ‘He’s competing for you. You need to make sure David isn’t second priority behind Johnny.’

  ‘Is that what you did, Maggie?’ I say, finishing off her tea. ‘Put your husband in front of your son?’

  ‘I always put David Junior first,’ Maggie says smugly, taking a sip of the scalding hot tea. ‘My son should always come first.’

  My mother-in-law is the sort of woman you wouldn’t notice in the street. In contrast to her son, she is small and thin, with arms the thickness of pencils and hands like spider’s legs, spindly and bent. Her single gold wedding band hangs loose like a hula hoop around her finger, held in place only by her twisted knuckles. Her neck pokes out of a pristinely ironed blouse like a startled chicken (for she wears blouses – she would never call it a shirt), holding up her lollipop head and coiffured grey cap. Nothing on her is ever out of place or dirty. Everything is ironed by her ‘girl’ (her girl is about ten years older than me) and bleached, starched and pressed to within an inch of its long and unfashionable life. She says her clothes are classics (‘Classics never go out of fashion, my dear’) but I doubt they were ever considered on-trend in the first place.

  She has a stock of favourite stories she will recite at great length. All feature one lead and important character: her. Always engaging in daring, savvy and amazing acts designed to show her in the best possible light. Failing that, she will talk about David, her David, and what a prodigious child he was, how perfectly she brought him up, and how wonderfully he is doing today.

  Despite the success of our first meeting, I have never quite fitted her image of the perfect partner for her David. I am too scruffy, too short, not pretty enough, not clever enough. Just not enough full stop. She realised it too late; by then we were already married, and somehow I had his father on my side.

  David Senior. Now there was a man I liked. He had a gentle, laid-back air, taking scant notice of the hyped-up pretence exuded by his wife and son. He liked crosswords, and strong whisky. I made him laugh when I told him my stories from the office; stories that Maggie would screw her nose up at with upper-class distaste and David Junior would disregard as petty and unimportant. ‘Wait until you have a proper job,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll see what a real argument looks like.’ Of course, I never did. And probably never will now.

  David Senior died much too early from a brain aneurysm in his sleep. Just never woke up. Maggie had been lying next to a still, lifeless corpse all night and didn’t know it. I wanted to joke that that was what David Senior had been doing for years, but the timing was never right.

  His funeral was held a week later, a small and personal ceremony. David Senior, true to form, had made plans, put away money and organised the whole thing just after his sixtieth birthday, so his dear wife wouldn’t have to worry about it, as Maggie kept telling us. ‘Such a considerate man, such a wonderful husband,’ she said on a loop. It was a pity she hadn’t said such a thing to his face while he was alive, always remarking what a waste of space he was and how he couldn’t organise his way out of a chocolate teapot, mixing her metaphors with abandon. In reality I think he knew she would overdo the whole thing, turn it into pomp and circumstance he would hate. Despite his success in the workplace, he liked the simple things and was a quiet and understated man. I could never understand what he saw in Maggie.

  Maggie wore a fitted black skirt, black jacket, black court heels and a long black veil, held in place with a little round hat. An outfit startlingly similar to the one Jackie Kennedy wore at JFK’s funeral. In contrast, she avoided dignity of any description, clinging to David’s arm and wailing, at one point prostrate across the top of the coffin. She sobbed loudly through the service and David’s eulogy, and refused to leave the graveside as the coffin was being lowered into the ground. I think she considered throwing herself into the hole along with it, but maybe didn’t want to take the risk of everyone seeing an opportunity and burying her at the same time.

  This may seem harsh: it was her husband’s funeral after all, and a widow is entitled to cry as much as she likes. But the occasional sideways glance to those around her, and the constant clamour for David’s arm made me wonder whether it wasn’t just a tiny bit put on. This was her moment, she was in the spotlight, and she was damned if she wasn’t going to make the most of it.

  David, on the other hand, didn’t shed a single tear.

  Back at home after the funeral, Maggie deposited at her house with a gaggle of well-wishers and one-serving dinners in Tupperware, David shut the fr
ont door behind him. He brushed his hands off, and put them together in one loud clap.

  ‘That’s that then,’ he said. ‘Mother will want to see a bit more of us going forward. I hope you’re okay with that.’

  I nodded, surprised at his lack of emotion. He’s in shock, I told myself, his dad’s death will hit him later, he’ll cry then.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ David said, and went into the kitchen.

  5

  ‘You can’t go all in after half an hour!’ David threw his head back, laughing at me.

  I slowly moved my hand from my poker chips. ‘Why not?’

  It was after work on a Friday and we were at David’s house. The takeaway pizza box lay empty on the floor, one bottle of red already discarded next to it. The flicker of the candlelight caught the contours of David’s face, the light stubble on his chin, his defined cheekbones. He had already discarded his tie and jacket from work, and his white shirt was open at the neck, showing a flash of tanned chest underneath. He picked up his wine glass and topped it up from the second bottle.

  ‘It’s too obvious. Haven’t you heard of a poker face? Either you’re bluffing and have absolutely nothing, or you have an amazing hand and I should fold right away.’ He looked at me closely. I stared back, trying not to smile, our faces no more than a few inches apart. ‘I fold.’ He threw his cards onto the table and put his hands behind his head. ‘Am I right?’

  I picked up my own cards and put them back in the pack. ‘You’ll never know,’ I laughed, and he leant over quickly and grabbed me, pulling me to his side of the table. He kissed me and the cards fluttered to the floor, my straight flush lost forever in the melee.

  It’s not like that any more. Friday-night poker has changed.

  I wake with a deep grind in the pit of my stomach. The clock says 5.58 a.m., two minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Blissful silence; even Johnny is still asleep. For two minutes, I lie in bed, compelling myself to get up and start the day.

  For most people Friday is cause for celebration: the start of the weekend and a marker for relaxation and freedom. For me, now, it’s the opposite. For me, it’s an evening of entertaining domineering men, primitive idiots who consider everything rightfully theirs in a world of no responsibility or care. This is their pressure release at the end of a stressful week, where only the king of them all, the man of the house, controls the disgusting behaviour.

  A proper dinner is off the menu for Fridays, so I eat with Johnny in the kitchen before David gets home. It’s calm and Johnny is good company, chattering away, happily sitting in his chair. I get to eat what I fancy; today I have a jacket potato and beans and lots of cheese. Lots of lovely melted forbidden cheese.

  For them, I prepare barbecue chicken wings, honey-glazed sausages, baskets of chips and ketchup and a mountain of crisps. Anything greasy, full of carbs or meat-based. I get the room set out for their arrival – plumping the sofas and shining the coffee table ready for their inconsiderate rings of condensation to mark it anew. I load the fridge with beers and roll the green felt across the dining room table, smoothing every crease to a perfect lawn. I wipe down the poker chips one by one and place them in their plastic case, white markings in a precise line. I get out the cards, count the deck, and take out an ace for David to hide if he needs it later.

  They all arrive on the dot of eight, bringing markedly expensive bottles of wine that David admires and they never drink, one of the men being brave and upping the stakes with champagne.

  ‘What are you trying to do, impress me?’ David laughs and the others look nervous.

  ‘There’s a fine line,’ David told me once, ‘between being a show-off and making a good impression. A bottle of fine red,’ he nodded, ‘good impression. Bottle of champagne?’ He looked at me.

  ‘Show-off?’ I suggested.

  ‘Damn right, babe,’ he said, kissing me hard on the lips. ‘Nobody brings champagne unless they’re celebrating something, and if they’re celebrating something, they’re showing off.’

  ‘What if you’re celebrating?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not a girl,’ David said scornfully. ‘I drink whisky.’

  The chips fly and cards get thrown down in disgust. David always does quite well, with large notes passed his way when the settling-up is done at the end.

  ‘I should take this up professionally,’ he laughed once to me afterwards. ‘I would clean up in Vegas.’

  I refresh their beers and bring out new bowls of crisps and snacks, trying to soak up some of the alcohol. I’m largely unnoticed, which is fine. I watch one hand of cards with interest. David’s colleague is holding a king of diamonds and a nine of spades, enough to combine with the cards in the middle to create a pretty good full house. I’ve seen him before but I don’t know his name – nowadays I don’t make an effort to remember. They come and go – it’s easy to offend David and get crossed off the list, and there’s always someone new to impress and invite over. He’s overweight and sweating through his shirt, throwing his cards down at the end of the round with a groan of disappointment in response to David’s three of a kind. I wonder if David knows how many hands are folded out of a tactical plan to stay on his good side. I wonder if he cares.

  Full House Man recovers from his public bad fortune with grace as David pulls the chips towards him, gloating. He nods to the table then looks up and notices me behind him with a jolt, knowing that I have seen exactly what he held in his hand.

  I carry a tray of glasses back to the kitchen and place them on the counter, then jump as Mr Full House walks in behind me, pushing the door closed with his foot. I try to move out of his way, but he presses up against me, his bulbous stomach forcing me into a corner of the work surface.

  He breathes fumes of beer and garlic into my face, and I feel him run a pudgy finger up the back of my leg, past the hem of my skirt. I freeze, and his finger hovers at the top of my thigh, just below the elastic of my knickers.

  ‘He doesn’t know it, but he owes me now,’ he sneers. ‘I wonder how he’s going to pay me back.’ He smiles, revealing a row of uneven yellow teeth, a piece of something black stuck next to his right incisor. ‘Maybe a business deal,’ he continues, ‘or something else.’ He moves his finger up another inch, pushing it beneath the hem of my knickers.

  I reach down and grab it, bending it back far further than I intend. I feel the resistance, then a click and a grind, crunching ligaments and bone.

  He pulls it away quickly, backing away from me, cradling it in his other hand. ‘Little bitch,’ he mutters. He opens the kitchen door and leaves with a glare; I can see the next hand in the poker game has been dealt and his cards are ready for his attention.

  I stand for a moment and take a deep breath, clasping my shaking hands together. Familiar feelings return: the helplessness, the impotent rage, hatred for my own body and for the weakness of being female in a world where equality is a pipe dream. My mother’s boyfriends used to look at me in the same way, like property they fancied owning, with an entitlement for anything they wanted to put their hands on.

  I reach for the baby monitor set aside on the worktop. I hold it to my ear and can faintly hear the sounds of Johnny breathing, steadily in and out, oblivious to what is going on downstairs. This isn’t the same, I tell myself. I am a wife now, a good wife, and my husband will protect me, unlike my mother, who never could. I smooth down my skirt, stand up straight, breathe in and refresh my tray with another round, wondering deep down if that is really true.

  Once the poker is over, they retire to David’s study, and I bring round the box of cigars. David’s study: the smallest room in the house, the one place I’m not allowed to go, locked every morning and night with a key held only by David. It’s his territory, and a riot of foul decoration.

  Cream and red furry wallpaper coats the walls, fading as it gets closer to the window, balding in places where the flocking has rubbed away. A few dismal watercolour paintings of horses are scattered round the room, along with
a photographic print of a plane, reminiscent of a teenage boy’s bedroom. A tacky world globe table sits next to the window, and opens to reveal a drinks cabinet fully stocked with spirits older than the decor. Even Maggie describes it as an interior designer’s worst nightmare and keeps on nagging to let her ‘gay boy’ (as she calls him) work his magic. But David says no, and locks the door to make sure neither Maggie nor I get anywhere near it. At least, that’s what he says.

  And so it never gets cleaned. The carpet remains musty and stained; the lack of open windows holds the cigar smoke and sweat from a thousand Friday nights. He’s welcome to keep his study.

  I stand in the kitchen, listening to them roar and slur, and place six tumblers in front of me on a tray. I open the whisky bottle, and take a large swig of the toxic brown liquid, wincing as I swill it round my mouth. Then, pursing my lips, I carefully spit it back into the bottle, delicately wiping my mouth clean with the back of my hand, watching my saliva mix with the expensive liquor. I smile, and pour six generous portions, taking them through to the group waiting in the study.

  I was aware of the rough carpet under my naked bum and the feeling of a stray playing card stuck to my thigh. Once the heady moment of lust faded, I felt only too aware of my imperfections as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. David leant up on one elbow, his hair falling in his face, and ran a finger across the perspiration on my stomach.

  He touched my cheek and leant in to kiss me, slowly.

  ‘So beautiful,’ he muttered, looking into my eyes, then stood, confident and resplendent in his nakedness. ‘Time for a shower?’ he asked, and held his hand out to me, pulling me to my feet, my legs wobbly.

  As he led me to the bathroom, I smelt burning and looked over to the table. A long tendril of smoke wound its way towards the ceiling; one of the candles had extinguished itself, suffocated in the excess of its own melted wax.

  After the alcohol and nicotine is distributed, I’m allowed to go to bed, while the men stay up for hours, discussing their women, their conquests, and massaging their egos. The smell from their cigars drifts up to my bedroom; I can hear their loud dirty laughter, their guffaws and chortles, each one outdoing the other to laugh at David’s stories.