Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  ‘Come on. The champagne is on ice.’I gently tug at his cuff, reminding myself of the way Auriol pulls at my skirt. Peter doesn’t resist but allows me to lead him towards our blissful date.

  ‘I feel wayward leaving the office on the dot at 6.30,’he laughs. Everyone knows that clock-watching is for pussies. Our mood is buoyant, expectant and fun. All at once I am deeply in love with my husband and feel assured that he is deeply in love with me. In a rush, I remember just how exhilarating life is when we have fun together.

  We arrive at Fifteen. I’ve been here twice before but with work. It’s so much more fun arriving with Peter. We chat about this and that, mostly the menu. We order cocktails and I encourage Peter to plump for a wine that costs more than fifty quid. The cocktails wash away the day’s cares for Peter (and the sting of the savage bikini wax for me). We settle down to enjoy the fabulous food.

  ‘So, Lucy, what’s the occasion? There clearly is one,’asks Peter as he forks up something bloody. His open mouth is so sexy.

  I grin but stay mute. I haven’t decided whether I will tell him what we are celebrating. I haven’t decided if I can tell him.

  ‘It’s not one of our anniversaries, is it?’

  Peter thinks it’s funny that we have three. One for the day we met. One for the day we got it together. One for the day we married. It’s not that I’m overly sentimental. I just like gifts.

  I look at my husband. His face is relaxed, a rare enough occurrence for me to comment on it. He’s a handsome man. His eyes are his best feature. They are vivid, intelligent eyes. They used to be set in a chiselled, sharp face; all cheekbones and strong jaw, but he’s put on a bit of weight recently. This bothers me ever so slightly although I wish it didn’t. I try not to see it as a disrespectful slip in standards and a failing in our relationship. I try to see it more as an acknowledgement of our contentment. I remind myself that angular people are rarely content. They may be focused, ambitious, beautiful or freshly in love but they are often depressed, adulterous or on drugs. Better to deal with love handles.

  It’s his outward show of contentment that encourages me to share. ‘How long have we been married?’I ask.

  Peter chews vigorously and because he’s good with numbers it only takes him a second to reply.

  ‘Five years, six months and oh, ten days.’

  ‘Four months longer than you were married to Rose,’I grin.

  I can’t hide my exhilaration. I’m delighted with my victory.

  Peter stops chewing. He does not look elated or relieved. He does not appear to be sharing my sense of exhilaration.

  ‘And that’s it? That’s why we are here tonight? Because of some stupid obsession you hold with Rose?’

  ‘No. It’s not stupid. And it’s not an obsession. I didn’t say that.’It’s too late. The relaxed, convivial atmosphere vanishes in an instant. ‘It’s just a landmark for me,’I stutter.

  ‘You are my wife, the mother of my daughter, I left Rose for you. Isn’t that enough?’

  It isn’t. At least not always. Not consistently. I know it should be. I wish it was but it isn’t. I daren’t confess as much. Peter glares at me. I fully expect smoke to flare out of his nostrils.

  ‘You are such a nightmare, Lucy. When is it going to be enough for you? I chose you. I live with you. I left Rose and my boys for you. What do I have to do to prove that it is you I love?’

  I know he thinks I’m jealous and he thinks that the jealousy is below me; unnecessary and undignified. It would be more reasonable and fitting if I pitied Rose but I don’t, I fear her. And I’m angry at her. I’m angry that she met Peter first. That she walked down the aisle with him first. That she bore him children first. Twins, for God’s sake. How do you follow that act? I’m angry that she influences my home life, everything from how we spend our Christmas holiday to where we live and which school our daughter attends. I’m angry that I have to look after Rose’s kids every Sunday. She probably visits the beautician while I’m ritualistically abused by the twins, undoubtedly at her instruction. I resent her presence and her existence. I wish I could annihilate her.

  I take a deep breath. This is not something I can, or should, share. Instead I try to explain why being married to Peter for longer than she was does matter to me.

  ‘If I say “prime minister” to you, who comes to mind?’

  ‘Blair, of course. Where’s this going?’

  ‘For years after Margaret Thatcher had lost her mind and office, whenever anyone said “prime minister” an image of her would flash into my mind. Long after Major had been and gone and even after Blair had served an entire term. It took years before I started to think of him first. It’s the same with the word “wife”. Whenever you say “my wife” a picture of Rose comes into my head. It takes a nano-second before I adjust that mental picture and realize you mean me. Just a nano-second but it feels like a lifetime. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Peter looks wearily at his dinner and then drags his eyes back to mine before he admits, ‘Yes.’

  I know him so well. Too well. Something flickers in his eyes. A lethal cocktail of regret and resignation.

  ‘You do the same, don’t you?’I accuse.

  ‘Yes,’he sighs. ‘When I say “my wife” it takes a fraction of a second to think of you. Hers is the first image. I do understand what you mean.’

  I should pick up this understanding and turn it over, examine and mould it into a connection between us. God knows we need one. Rationally speaking, I should be thrilled that he has insight into my demons. Perhaps now I can tell him that since the day we got married things have got harder for me, not easier. I should explain that I’m not finding married life a picnic. That I miss the spontaneity, excitement and challenge involved in being a lover and I’m overwhelmed with the mundane tasks involved in being a wife. I do not much care whether everyone in the family eats enough greens or whether or not I switched the washing machine on before I came out to work, and I resent the fact that this role means I have to care about such banalities.

  I thought marrying was about making a public commitment to the person one loved most in the world. I thought it was romantic. It’s hilarious that I, of all people – Lucy the pragmatist, Lucy the cynic – got caught up in the big sell and believed that we would attain a higher plane by being married to one another, when in reality all I was doing was downgrading my quality of life. Marrying means taking on more work and sacrificing the best bits of our relationship and myself.

  But more devastating than the acceptance of the tangible duties being a wife entails is the fact that something intangible has changed within our relationship since we married. Before we married I felt supremely beautiful, sexy, confident, intelligent and assured. I was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew that she was going to get it. Stupidly, by marrying Peter I voluntarily invaded Rose’s territory and chose to fight her on her own ground. Big mistake. She was the ideal wife. I was the perfect mistress. Now I’m always playing catch-up in a game where I don’t know the rules and I fail to understand what there is to win.

  I could explain all this to Peter and ask him for his love and understanding. Maybe he’d take my hand and guide me through the emotional minefield. Maybe we could stay on course, at least for tonight, so that he’ll take me home and make love to me; with him edging down my tiny knickers I’m sure that once again I’d feel supremely confident and assured.

  Instead, I throw a glass of wine at him and leave the restaurant alone.

  11

  Friday 15 September

  John

  It’s her. Fuck me. Is it? What’s she doing here, though? Didn’t she live in Balham or Clapham, somewhere around there? Suppose she could have moved; it’s possible. I get out of my car and thread my way towards the school gate. Despite the mass of heads bobbing in front of me I manage to keep my eye on her head. If it is hers, that is. She’s wearing her hair straight now. But then everyone does.

  ‘Greenie?’
r />   She doesn’t turn to me instantly, but she freezes, and in that moment, I know it’s her. Now I’m close I recognize the shape of her shoulders, which surprises me. I didn’t know I knew them. I wonder if she recognizes my voice. I bet she knows it’s me. She’s probably working out whether she wants to spin and face me or whether she wants to run. Slowly, Greenie turns her head and there we are, face to face, after all this time.

  She looks older, of course, but she looks better. Glossier than I remembered. Healthier.

  ‘I thought it was you. How the hell are you, Greenie?’

  She’s lost her tongue. I have that effect on women. Her hand flutters up to her hair and she tucks a stray strand behind her ear. Sweet, she cares what she looks like. After all these years she still wants to impress.

  I had great sex with this woman.

  Just fantastic.

  Until she turned mental that is.

  Shit, I’d forgotten she went la la. When I saw her neat little body dash towards the school gate, all I noticed was the way she flashed that wide, cheeky grin of hers. Not at me, at some woman she was chatting to. Her blue eyes sparkled and I had flashbacks of my holding her hair as she sucked my cock; I just wanted to say hi. It’s only now, when she’s staring at me with that intense, almost angry look, that I remember. She looks like a cornered convict deciding whether to run or rampage. I remember this woman wanted me too much. This woman confused my hunt for sex with her hunt for a soulmate. This woman thinks I betrayed her. If I’d given it a moment’s thought I wouldn’t have said hi. But I didn’t give it even that long. Rarely do give anything that much thought; I’m an instinct man myself. Life’s too short.

  I decide the only thing to do now is bluff it out. Make out we were nothing more than old colleagues and that we’re now knocked out by the coincidence of seeing one another somewhere unexpected.

  ‘Well, well, well. Fancy bumping into you.’

  Greenie looks around, she’s clearly checking out who can hear us. A fat bird taps her on the arm.

  ‘Are you all right, Connie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Spot on, fat girl.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Rose,’replies Greenie.

  The fat bird hovers, waiting for Greenie to introduce us. She never was that good at thinking on her feet. I’m not sure how we got away with our affair for as long as we did.

  ‘I’m John Harding. Constance and I were colleagues in a former life.’I beam and hold out my hand. I’m charming. I know so.

  The fat bird takes my hand and energetically pumps it up and down the way women with no sexuality do.

  ‘Rose. Lovely to meet you.’She turns back to Greenie, who still appears to be in shock. ‘Should I find Fran?’

  At this point I notice that Greenie has one hand on a stroller thingy inside which there’s a kid. Obviously hers.

  ‘Who’s this angel?’I ask. It’s one of the lines I use on single mums. It always works a treat. Personally, I’m a big fan of single mums, most of them go like rabbits and they are commitment phobic (once bitten twice shy and all that); my idea of a perfect woman. Of course the line works on Greenie too.

  ‘This is Flora. She’s my youngest.’She smiles as she says her kid’s name and looks genuinely relaxed for the first time since she clapped eyes on me. Then she absentmindedly fondles the kid’s head. Quite touching. It’s a cute kid. As you’d expect. She looks like her mother. ‘I’m here picking up my eldest. She’s just started school. Reception class. And you? Are you…’

  ‘Jesus, no, Greenie.’

  I bat aside her presumption that I’m a dad on school run. Relief flickers over her face. I wonder if she’s relieved that I don’t have a brat at the same school as her brat or whether she’s relieved that I don’t have a kid at all. A kid would demonstrate a commitment to someone. A commitment I was unprepared to give her.

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’She’s not making a polite enquiry. Her question has an edgy, impertinent tone. Strangely, I find it exciting.

  ‘Doing a consulting job at the BBC, up in Shepherd’s Bush. Although now I’ve told you that I’ll have to kill you.’

  I glance at Connie to see if she’s recognized the old joke. She says nothing and there’s no sign of a playful smile flickering across her mouth. I move on.

  ‘I knocked off early and my mate, Craig Walker, works here so I thought I’d catch him and we’d go for a beer.’

  ‘Mr Walker is a friend of yours?’

  Greenie is no longer a grey colour; she’s turned so white she’s almost transparent. I bet she’s reinvented herself as someone quite proper and the last thing she needs is her torrid past tripping her up. I enjoy the moment, let her suffer – it serves her right for not being friendlier.

  ‘Oh yes, Craig and I go back years. We were at primary school together. In fact the reason we are meeting for a beer is that we are planning a stag weekend together.’

  ‘Yours?’Is she curious, hopeful or fearful?

  I pause and then shake my head. ‘Been there, done that, read the book, got the T-shirt and the decree absolute.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’She doesn’t sound sorry. Her tone suggests that I’ve met her every expectation and every one of them was as low as a snake in the grass.

  At that moment a tiny blonde kid flings herself at Greenie’s legs.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, guess what we did today.’

  Greenie crouches down so that she’s eye level with her daughter and beams. She doesn’t let the kid tell the exciting news because she swoops in for dozens of unselfconscious smackers. Greenie and her kid smile and kiss and chatter for some minutes and I’m forgotten. They mirror one another’s expressions of delight, surprise and wonderment and they both laugh at the same time as the child delivers what must be the punchline to the story. They are beautiful.

  Greenie catches my eye and appears startled to see I’m still standing in the same spot. Had she thought I was a figment of her imagination? She manoeuvres the stroller around me and hordes of others and makes to leave. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’she says formally. ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘’Bye then,’I mutter.

  She nods.

  ‘See you again,’I add.

  This time she hesitates as she searches for the correct response. We lock our gaze and I see regret. I wonder if she is regretting that we can’t spend longer together or whether she is regretting we ever spent any time together at all.

  I watch the threesome disappear along the busy tree-lined avenue until they fade into a dot.

  12

  Monday 18 September

  Rose

  Annoyingly my friends and relatives have timed their big push to reacclimatize me into society rather well. It’s mid-September and I soon discover that there are thousands of classes I could enrol for, all beginning in a week or two. I also discover that most of the classes are inexpensive, as I’m entitled to a single person’s allowance or, if I chose something vocational, I’d benefit from a back-to-work freebie. I learn this much from the dozens of brochures which Connie and Daisy have had sent to my house. When I am sure that an entire forest has been lopped just to provide me with a selection of prospectuses, Simon arrives out of the blue and insists that we sit down for three hours, searching on the internet for yet more appropriate courses. I work hard at not feeling pressurized or patronized and remind myself, on an almost hourly basis, that they mean well.

  I start my search for a new hobby by flicking through the fattest prospectus. Some of the courses are intimidating, irrelevant or boring. But some, I have to admit, seem interesting. There is a large gap in my general knowledge of history and literature, for example. I find I am a little bit tempted to enrol for a course entitled Sorcery, Starvation and Sex: a study of sixteenth-century women, if only because it’s a respectable way to reminisce about the days when sex was part of my life, which seems as long ago as the sixteenth century, ha ha.

  Bell ringing? Something to do with
computers? I’m not a technophobe. I use e-mail all the time, I shop on the internet, I research white goods (and now further education courses) on the internet and I’m a wiz with Excel. But I don’t wish to learn how to build a computer from scratch, so I flick past the section on computers. Dog training? No. Our Labrador is too old to learn new tricks. I relate to him but the dog doesn’t have a bossy sister insisting otherwise. Flower arranging? Now that might be pleasant. H for horticulture. Well, I do like gardening. I read the small print and discover that I’m being overly ambitious. There are options to specialize in milking goats or dry stone walling. I have a modest London garden, not a farm.

  I draw up a shortlist of half a dozen courses that don’t actively worry or offend me and I pin the list to the noticeboard in the kitchen. I hope that the list, and the entire idea, will soon be forgotten; lost behind bits of paper advertising organic vegetable delivery and birthday party invites. I see that this is not to be when Luke arrives on my doorstep one evening. He’s carrying a bottle of wine and some papers which are later revealed to be application forms. I comment that it seems to be the case that the whole world is conspiring against me.

  ‘For you!’insists Luke. ‘Should I open this wine?’

  Luke has been chosen as the one most likely to get me to sign on the dotted line because he’s an interesting blend of qualities (infinite patience and yet an ability to be decisive). It’s a powerful combination. Besides, I have a soft spot for him and everyone knows that I find it difficult to refuse him anything, which is why I’m so often making chocolate bread and butter pudding, his favourite.

  Luke and I rarely have time alone and I decide at least to enjoy the novelty of male company. We chat about the kids. Fran is settling well at Holland House, she’s going to dress up as a Hungry Caterpillar for Readers’Day. I tell Luke that the boys are quibbling over the difference between a poem and a nursery rhyme.