It was the engine that gave the game away. I was sitting on the bed, gazing into the mirror and putting the last touches to my eye shadow as I got ready for work. Then I heard it: that deep thrumming that could almost be felt in the ground, rising up through the soles of my feet and coming to rest in my solar plexus; the psssht of the hydraulic brakes; the tiny squeal that was almost too high to be heard by humans.
For a second I met my own shocked look in the mirror as I realised what it meant, rejected it, then decided it really was the only option – and my cheeks went all pink at the prospect. Chucking down my make-up brush, I raced to the bedroom window and looked down.
Yes! Daryl was here! He grinned at me from the cab, waved, then clambered down.
‘Surprise!’ he called.
I laughed, catching his excited mood immediately. He was really buzzed up, eyes bright, body almost trembling with nervous energy as he jumped down and strode to the front door with such purpose that my breath caught.
Lots of men in films and books are described as striding, but Daryl really does. At 6ft 3in, he has the kind of long legs that can do that, and broad shoulders too; he towers over me by more than a foot. He’s incredibly powerfully built, and somehow his bald head seems to emphasise it, showing off the muscles of his jaw and neck. Phwoar!
I raced down the stairs in time to run into his arms, no hesitation; not when he was so happy. His massive arms wrapped round me and swung me round, then he gave me a huge, passionate kiss that made my stomach flip.
‘Hey Gorgeous,’ he boomed. So strong, so…extreme and over-the-top. But this is my Daryl, the man I love and it makes me feel alive when he’s like this, as though some of that energy somehow transfers to me, and all thoughts of being peed off with my marriage disappear.
‘Thought I’d surprise you. I finished my run sooner than I thought,’ he said. His grin grew even wider at some memory, probably of some crazy driving or something he’d had to do to achieve this early finish. ‘Yeah, it was a lot more successful than I thought it would be,’ he nodded, attention snapping suddenly back to me. ‘So who better to celebrate with than my babe?’
It’s funny really, how he never calls me by my name. I am Gorgeous, Babe, even Stroppy Mare sometimes, but never, ever does he say my name. When we first got together I thought it was wonderful to have a pet name, as though somehow it bound us closer because it was a secret between the two of us. Sometimes now though, it just makes me feel even more that I am disappearing, the real me unseen and nameless.
But I refused to think such sad things today, not while Daryl was in a glorious mood, the sun was shining, and I was in his arms.
Full of joy, I buried my head in the funny little hollow in his chest where his muscles don’t quite meet, the bit he hates because he thinks it makes him look puny, but which I love because it feels like it’s made just for me, and squeezed him tight. Breathed in that wonderful Daryl smell, a unique mix of diesel, engine oil and Lynx Africa that always clung to him.
Yes, my man was really home, had come to surprise me and spend the whole day with me. My smile grew against his jumper. Then it faltered. Hesitantly, I looked up. ‘Oh no, I can’t spend the day with you,’ I half groaned, half whispered. ‘I’ve got to go to work.’
‘That doesn’t matter, take the day off,’ he breezed. Actually breezed, like it was obvious. ‘Come on, how often do we get a whole day together?’
I suppose I should have been insulted really that he just assumed I would drop everything for him without so much as a moment’s notice, but…come on, who was I kidding. A day’s work or a day with my fella? When he’s in this mood and we won’t be sitting awkwardly in front of the telly? It wasn’t exactly a hard choice.
Before I’d had a chance to worry or change my mind, I was on the phone, faking a sore throat. My distraction must have only added to the bad acting, making me sound more convincing, because Daryl wasn’t even waiting for me to finish the conversation before nibbling at my neck from behind and ripping open my blouse, hands cupping my breasts almost aggressively. Where the hell had this come from?
Well, I wasn’t going to stop to question it – and honestly, when he’s in the mood there’s no stopping him anyway! With a squeaky ‘Got to go, feel a bit…hot and wobbly!’ to my boss, Keith, I put the phone down and surrendered myself to my man.
We don’t have sex much any more, not since he developed the ‘little problem’ that I’m not allowed to mention. Apparently all men go through it at some stage, I just never thought he’d be one of them, and I know it sounds selfish but it makes me feels like it’s my fault, like I’m no longer attractive enough for him… But to be swept off my feet like that was, wow. It was lovely.
You see, we can be romantic sometimes! For all my boredom and frustration, I do love Daryl and want to be with him. In fact, that’s what causes the problems. If I didn’t feel that way it’d be easy to just walk away and leave him.
Afterwards I felt so relaxed. Closer to him than I have in months, like something invisible had reconnected. Twisting in his arms, I turned to him, looking into those bright, cold-blue eyes as I idly ran my fingers through the dark curls of hair scattered over his chest. In that instant, for once feeling brave and in control and calm – and positive – I told Daryl that I wasn’t happy and that things had to change. Said he had two choices.
‘Either you can talk to a counsellor and get over this mental block about kids and well, your temper sometimes, or you could tackle it yourself. It’s up to you,’ I said gently, straightening a hair and watching it spring back into shape, unchanged, unchangeable. Running a finger over his collar bones and up his neck, trying to keep him soothed and calm like I might an injured dog that may growl and lash out unexpectedly at any second. ‘Things have to change between the two of us. We’re in trouble. And I want children, you know I do. It’s time, I’m ready, and I don’t want to put it off any longer. But you’re not ready…’
Daryl didn’t seem to know what to say. But he didn’t fly off the handle and that is a good start. Didn’t start saying how I was the one with the problem so I should look at fixing myself before having a go at him – that’s the kind of thing he generally throws at me. Anything rather than discuss the actual problems we’re having.
I understand why he’s so emotionally closed off and hesitant to have children, what with his past. I’ll never forget that time he told me about his mum, way back when we’d very first started dating nine long years ago.
He’d looked like a little boy then, those massive hands of his twisting the hem of his shirt backwards and forwards like he’d been trying to wring the life out of it.
I hadn’t dared move, in case I’d broken the spell; I’d had a feeling something big was about to happen. Those bright blue eyes of his, so piercing that sometimes they feel like they can laser-beam straight into my soul, had come up so suddenly to meet mine. There’d been the strangest look on his face as he’d forced his fingers to still, his hands to stop wringing. Something almost dangerous; they’d been such a cold, steely blue that they’d reminded me of the dead eyes of sharks. I’d realised why as he’d spoken.
‘Me and Mum aren’t close,’ he’d admitted softly. And the second he’d said those words his eyes had softened back to the more usual bright blue. I’ve never known anyone before whose eyes seem almost to change colour with his mood, but Daryl’s do. Right then, I’d known he’d made a momentous decision about me, something I couldn’t understand.
He’d decided to let me in, just the tiniest bit.
‘I used to get bullied at school. These g-’ he’d stopped short then continued. Had he been about to say girls, or had he just cleared his throat? ‘These kids made my life a misery. Called me rubberlips. All the time, it never stopped.’
Daryl has full lips. All right, so his top lip is quite long, a bit like that old prime minister we had, who was it? Yeah, John Major. But that’s the only thing he has in common with him; my Daryl is tall, strapping, han
dsome, with pale skin but not pasty. He even suits having his hair shaved off, since his dark wavy hair started receding badly two years ago. And he always has the most wonderful, comforting smell to him. Diesel and oil mixed with aftershave to create something so uniquely him that whenever I inhale it I feel like I’m home. After all these years of working around engines the aroma is impregnated into his skin; no matter how much he showers he can never get rid of it. It’s another thing he hates about himself, but that I love.
Anyway, I’ve gone off the subject – but suffice to say, anyone picking on my fella’s lips is just being rotten for rotten’s sake.
Still, I hadn’t said any of that to him, not right at that moment nine years ago; still too scared to break the spell. He’d picked up his coffee then, taken a slurp as if to lubricate the passage of the words that were stuck in his throat. Then his big hands had cupped it protectively – like it was protecting him like a shield, I mean, not the other way round. His fingers had obscured bits of the ‘World’s best trucker’ logo that ran round it front and back, making it look a bit rude if you were trying to piece together what it said just from the fragments left showing.
My own coffee had been going cold, but I hadn’t cared. Because I’d known that what he was about to tell me was about more than just being bullied by kids.
‘They picked on me all the time. I’d tried holding my lips in to make them less big, less ugly,’ he’d continued finally. ‘Thought if I trained my muscles that somehow they’d start doing it automatically and hey presto, no stupid, big, fat rubber lips any more. Didn’t work that way, of course. Nothing stopped me looking the way I did, nothing stopped the bullies.
‘They’d scrawl my nickname on the board at school, chant it in the playground until it felt like the whole world was joining in, leave notes in my bag or desk threatening to rip my lips off if I told anyone what was happening. They’d steal my sports kit and throw it on top of the flat roof of one of the classrooms so that they could watch me trying to climb up and get it back; or just stuff rubbish into the bag or pour yoghurt over it so that then I’d get into trouble with the teacher for not having my kit – I couldn’t tell them what had actually happened or my life would have been made an even bigger misery.
‘I just reached a stage where I couldn’t take any more. I ran home one day, told Mum about it because I knew I couldn’t deal with it alone any more. Told her things were so bad that I wanted to die. “So what, dear?” she said. Just like that, “so what”. Like it wasn’t a big deal.’
Bloody Cynthia, I could just imagine her saying something like that. I can’t stand the woman, she’s so odd, so cold and unemotional. And she calls everyone ‘Dear’ yet manages to makes it sounds nothing like an endearment…it’s quite a skill.
Daryl’s words had seemed freerer suddenly at the moment, like the coffee had washed away whatever had been causing the blockage of emotion. He’d taken another sip to be sure, then carried on.
‘When she said that, I’d realised then that I really was totally alone. There wasn’t a single person in the world who gave a stuff about me. I’d run up to my room then, locked myself in. She didn’t bother coming upstairs to check on me…not for three days.’
I hadn’t been able to stop myself then. ‘Three days?!’ I’d gasped.
That couldn’t be right. What mum would do that to their own kid, just let them hide for days on end because they were so traumatised, and not even be bothered to comfort them. His dad had died in a car crash before Daryl was born, so there had only been Daryl and his mum, no one else for him to turn to.
At that moment I’d been able to imagine him – still can – a poor little confused kid, longing for someone to hug him and tell him everything’s going to be all right; longing for someone to get angry and take on the battle for him, saying ‘I’ll get straight down that school and sort this – I’ll give them what for!’
Poor kid should have had his mum making him his favourite comfort food of sausage and mash to cheer him up, then cuddling up and watching his top programme on telly too. Even letting him stay up a bit later than usual as a treat, so he knows he’s not in trouble.
Certainly what any sane parent would not do is leave their kid alone after something like that. And definitely not for three whole days. So I’d reckoned I’d clearly misheard him.
But no. His flaming mother had let him sob his little heart out for half a week, starve himself because he didn’t come out for meals even. God knows what his bedroom must have smelled like, with him not going out even to the loo…
That’s why I hate Daryl’s mum, Cynthia. And yes, I do understand why he’s not mad keen on having kids himself. Poor bloke’s probably terrified he’ll be about as good a parent as she was. But we can get past this thing, together – with a little help from a counsellor maybe.
That’s what I told him as we lay in bed today. He said he’ll think about seeing a therapist.
‘I’ll be there for you,’ I whispered. I know the thought of talking to a stranger terrifies him and I’m very proud of him for taking this step. Hope we make it.
Thurs 7
Met up with Kim for lunch today. Although we work in the same office we don’t get the chance to chat much, so it’s always good to take our break together.
After our usual round of slagging off the boss and saying how much better a job we could do than him if only we were in charge, we got down to the real business – exchanging gossip and having a catch up. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my glorious day of skiving with Daryl.
I knew it wouldn’t go any further, we tell each other everything, could both blackmail each other from here to kingdom come with the amount of information we’ve got on each other. Besides, I know for a fact that that ‘24 hour stomach bug’ she had the other week was actually her staying at home with her boyfriend (why she would want to let that weasely runt near her with a bargepole is not something I shall dwell on).
So I expected her to be happy for me. Instead, she looked like she’d just sipped sour milk and was trying not to let it show, her mouth twisting to one side slightly in a weird cross between grimace and smile, her cat-shaped eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. It took the shine right off my mood, I can tell you.
‘What?’ I demanded, aiming for jokey, sounding closer to snappy.
‘Well…just…’ I could tell she was choosing her words carefully, her eyes glued to her chips as she dunked one into the yolk of her fried egg, breaking its delicate skin so that the contents spilled out across the plate. Finally, as she lifted the yellow-nubbed fry to her mouth she looked up at me and hurled the words out in a hurry. ‘Don’t you think sometimes you end up doing more what he wants than what you want?’
As a full stop, she shoved the chip quickly into her mouth, as if to stop herself from saying more that she might regret.
‘No, I wanted to stay at home with my husband. I wanted to spend time with him, and frankly I wanted to have great sex. So, no, I reckon I did exactly what I wanted, and can’t see a problem with it.’
I forced my voice to stay light, even though my heart was thumping a bit and I could feel the heat storming across my skin and making my cheeks flame.
I really, really hate confrontation, but there was no way I was going to take criticism from a woman whose own relationship is a total and utter mess and she can’t even see it! Seriously, our nickname for her fella, Sam, is Psycho. Says it all really, doesn’t it.
Bracing myself for a row, I pushed my chair back slightly with a high-pitched scrape, while at the same time easing my plate away from me. I couldn’t face food, not now.
But instead of an argument, Kim did something even worse. She just looked at me, mouth smiling, but eyebrows knitted together and raised so high in the middle that they did a pretty good impression of Kilimanjaro. It was a pitying look she was giving me.
‘I just worry about you,’ she said apologetically. Her brow had so many ridges in it that it almost looked frilly. Then
it smoothed as she shrugged and sank another chip into the egg. End of subject. To show we were still mates, I nicked a chip off her plate.
I didn’t bother telling her about the rest of my day with Daryl though. About how I’d felt all warm and fuzzy inside ever since, like someone in a Mills and Boon. I refused to let her negativity seep in and slowly cool my warm glow and make my fuzzy all sharp again.
The problem is, people just don’t understand me and Daryl. There’s no point in me talking to anyone about us, because they just don’t get it.
Fri 8
Oooh, lunchtime gossip was that Kim has decided to finish with Psycho Sam. Hurray!
Sat 9
Okay, what I’m trying to think of right now is ‘what the hell can I do for Valentine’s Day?’ Ah, the eternal question. Something nice and romantic, which shows I really do care, but not off-puttingly sloppy. At first I tried to think of things men would like but drew a blank. Then I tried to think of things I’d like and came up with quite a few ideas.
Then I got depressed because I realised that what I actually wanted was for Daryl to do something like this for me, not the other way round. I want so much for him to give me stupid, big gestures and thoughtful stuff. To show me he cares. Maybe I actually want to change him. Or maybe it’s not that he’s not like that…maybe it’s that he’s not like that for me. Because he doesn’t love me enough.
So now I’m scared. I was supposed to be planning Valentine’s Day and instead I’m depressed.
What’s more, I’m fat. I don’t just feel fat, I am fat. 10st. And under one week until VD (that actually looks really wrong written down!) so no chance of losing any pounds, really. Bet Daryl won’t even be around either, bet he’s working. He’s always bloody working. God, I feel so alone.
One thing’s for sure, sitting here moping won’t make me feel any better. So…my romantic ideas are:
1) List the reasons why I love Daryl, and what makes him unique. Put each one on a bit of paper and pin up round the room. I read about this one in a magazine. Sweet but, to my mind, verging on obsessive. Maybe just list in a card instead?
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