Look to Your Wife

by Paula Byrne

  CHAPTER 23

  @FreddieSwings

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Hi Freddie, it’s Lisa Blaize here. So sorry again about the Bertie business. Don’t suppose we could meet for a coffee at the Bean?

  She hoped that Freddie Cole would think that she was going to offer advice about studying fashion, as a way of making up for having failed to save Bertie.

  DM from @FreddieSwings: OK. When?

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Tomorrow at 10.30?

  DM from @FreddieSwings: OK.

  Lisa made sure she was early, and ordered the coffees. Americano with hot milk on the side for Freddie, and an extra hot double espresso for herself. No pastries. Lisa could not be sure, but she suspected that Freddie had an eating disorder. So many Blagsford mums were on the spectrum. They definitely seemed to subscribe to Wallis Simpson’s dictum that you can never be too rich or too thin, and yet their husbands were invariably fat and jowly. The thinner they got, the fatter their husbands became. Yuk. Edward had never lost his figure; tall and thin, he could eat what he liked and never put on an ounce of weight. In fact, he could do with a bit of weight on his face.

  Freddie hurried in. She seemed always in a hurry. She was wearing her dark glasses, as usual. Lisa was anxious that Freddie would still be angry about Bertie’s exclusion, but she seemed fine. She took a sip of her coffee, and launched in:

  ‘Look, Lisa, to be honest, in the same position, I would have sacked Bertie. That boy is a nightmare, and always has been. Found a girl in his bed this morning. He found her on Tinder. He won’t stay long at B. G. I don’t know how we got him in there – state grammar school, and all that, not so susceptible to Daddy’s offer of help towards a new sports hall.’

  B. G. was the locals’ name for Blagsford Grammar, the selective state school that had taken over the former premises of Blagsford when the ancient public school had moved to the edge of town.

  ‘Thanks Freddie, that’s so kind of you.’

  ‘Real mixed demographic at the B. G. school gate. That’s another good thing about Bertie’s expulsion – not having to socialize with the ghastly yummy mummies. Not necessary at this age. I see enough of them at Euphoria. And there’s this fantastic teacher called Mr Onions. All the kids rave about him. He’s the first one to have got Bertie interested in his school work – shows what a waste of money Blagsford was.’

  Lisa was really beginning to warm to Freddie. She was forthright.

  ‘Oh, so do you belong to the gym? No wonder you have such a great body.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa. I first started going to get away from my husband. Then I realized that most of the women there were doing the same thing. It was also a great cover for my affair when I met Helen. God, those ghastly women. Up at 6.30 with their dumb-bells. That’s what most of them are: dumb belles, with bad teeth from chucking up in the loos.’

  Crikey, Lisa thought, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Freddie. She was cutting. But hilarious, and very different to what she had expected.

  ‘Are you happy with Helen?’

  ‘Oh yes. I always knew I was gay. Most men loved it, loved the challenge. Once I met Helen, that was it for me.’ Freddie lay her sunglasses on the table, and ran a perfectly manicured hand through her short blonde hair. God, she has amazing cheekbones, Lisa thought. She was really very, very pretty.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to make sure that you were OK. I saw your ex shouting at you in the car park. And I wanted you to know that I tried everything.’

  ‘Listen Lisa, you don’t have to feel bad. It is what it is. How about you? I really do like your fashion column in City & County. And I love you on Twitter. You are so funny.’

  ‘I’m OK. I’ve had a bit of trolling.’ Lisa looked at Freddie carefully.

  ‘Oh really. Well, that’s to be expected if you’re always online. And let’s remember what that great sage Ricky Gervais says about trolls?’

  Lisa raised a quizzical eyebrow. She was enjoying Freddie’s company.

  ‘Gervais tweeted something along the lines of this: Trolls don’t hate you. They hate themselves. They’re in pain and you getting upset is like their morphine. Don’t administer. Enjoy the screams.’

  *

  DM from @FreddieSwings: Thanks for the coffee, Lisa. You like your body and self. You don’t present as a beauty queen, which is why you are as sexy as hell.

  Lisa couldn’t help blushing. She had never been bi-curious before. Not another Twitter flirtation. Time to consult Misty.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Father, father, I need to confess.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: what is it now, Blaize? I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you getting into trouble.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I think I’ve got a girl-on-girl crush.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Isn’t your life complicated enough already?

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: But I’m fine with this if I can join in and make it a threesome.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I’m joking, lovely. But she did give me some good advice about not feeding the Troll.

  DM from @FrJohnMisty: Good. Listen to it. And, by the way, I adore your blog. It’s hilarious.

  DM from @Lisa_Blaize: What blog?

  CHAPTER 24

  My Fabulous Life

  Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com

  Welcome to My Fabulous Life

  Hi there readers, time for my latest blog entry. Today it’s all about the Headmaster’s White Garden. Gosh I am so lucky to have my own White Garden, and a hunky School Gardener to tend it. Hope you like the pic below. The school-leavers look gorgeous in their fine clothes. The girls from our sister school so pretty in their ballgowns and the boys in their black tie. Last night was the Blagsford Ball. Drinks in the Headmaster’s White Garden, and then dinner and dancing. Such fun.

  My dress was McQueen, of course. White silk chiffon, cinched at the waist with a silver belt, and a thigh-skimming split. Metallic sandals by Christian Louboutin. Grabbed every diamond I could find, and was practically sparkling in the moonlight. Later that evening, Sir Edward covered my shoulders with a white fur stole (rabbit). We danced all night. I especially loved dancing with the gorgeous head boy. He could barely keep his eyes off me … more anon …

  *

  ‘My God, Edward. This cyberstalker is sick. How does she know that we have a White Garden?’

  ‘Because, my sweet, silly darling, you keep tweeting pictures of the White Garden. And some jokes about the hunky head gardener. You’re giving your stalker ammunition.’

  ‘So how do you know that? Are you stalking me?’

  ‘Not stalking. Just protecting. Checking everything’s OK.’

  ‘Censoring, you mean. Controlling.’

  ‘No, love, waking you up. And are you still so sure it’s a woman?’

  ‘I know it is … woman’s intuition.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  Edward told her that he had taken another good look at all her Twitter followers. That everyone from the head boy to Emma’s teacher in primary school could see what she was tweeting. He thought she was making herself too vulnerable to the wrong sort of people.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time for a Twitter vacation?’

  ‘OK, fair enough, I’ll go quiet on Twitter for a bit and we can see what happens. But that stuff about dancing with the head boy … what’s all that about? That’s a dangerous rumour to be circulating in such a tight-knit community. I know I once slapped and kissed a schoolboy, but that was a long time ago. God, Edward, maybe it’s one of their mothers exacting revenge after all these years. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that letters and blogs like these encourage paranoia and fear. You’re letting it get to you. One moment you think it’s Moira, and the next it’s the poor mother of a boy you once slapped. How many enemies do you have?’

  ‘Well, I probably have a lot. Edward, have you told the staffroom about this stalking business?’

  ‘Not yet.
I’m having a think.’

  ‘But does anyone have a grudge against you? Against us? There’s too much intimate detail in that blog for my liking.’

  ‘Internet detail, not intimate.’

  *

  It had been such a crazy year that they had not booked a summer holiday. Indonesia had been enough as far as overseas travel was concerned, and Queenie was too young to put into kennels, so they went to the south coast for a week of English seaside air. It was such a tonic to be away from the claustrophobia and backbiting of Blagsford.

  CHAPTER 25

  #Lovelyme

  ‘We’re off for a staycation in Lyme,’ Lisa had told Belinda Bullrush.

  She was longing for Queenie to see the seaside. Lyme Regis was one of her favourite places in the world. Edward had never been there and she wanted him to know the place she loved so much. They booked a small apartment with a sea view. There was a secret passageway that led out from the flat via a fake front door onto the promenade, which the children especially loved.

  They walked as far as the Cobb, then onto Monmouth Beach on the west side, where dogs were allowed all year. Queenie loved chasing the seagulls into the sea, and the children were happy with buckets and spades. It was a typical English seaside holiday, with salty fish and chips in newspaper, ice creams, and warm beer. Lisa loved to feel the sand between her toes. She helped George to pick shells, and they paddled in the turquoise water. Gosh, she must book George in for swimming lessons, she thought to herself.

  As they walked back towards the Cobb, Queenie was yelping and barking happily at the birds and the waves. Then she began running around in circles. Lisa rummaged in her coat pocket for the requisite doggy bag. Shit, she’d forgotten to pack it. Edward, fastidious as ever, glanced expectantly. They mustn’t soil this lovely beach.

  ‘Oh God, I’ve forgotten the bag.’

  ‘Lisa, how many times …?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s all the stress of packing for the holiday. I have some more at the apartment. Shall I run back?’

  ‘No, we need to sort it now. We can get fined for this sort of behaviour.’

  The children were playing in the sand, Emma, as always keeping a sharp eye on her baby brother.

  ‘Don’t you have a handkerchief, Edward? You always carry a handkerchief.’

  ‘The handkerchief? It’s one of my best linen handkerchiefs that my mother gave me. I’m not using that. I don’t suppose you thought to bring baby wipes?’

  ‘You barely notice your mother’s existence. You never see her, so I don’t know why you’re suddenly so concerned about her handkerchief.’

  Edward looked livid.

  ‘What are you trying to say? That I’m ashamed of her?’

  ‘Well you sometimes act like it’.

  Lisa frantically searched her jeans’ pocket and extracted a ragged tissue. Edward took it and began clearing up Queenie’s mess. Oh God, it was getting everywhere, all over his perfectly manicured hands. Lisa cursed herself silently for not bringing baby wipes. Edward was furious.

  ‘Give it here, and go and wash your hands in the sea.’

  Lisa took the offering and ran off to find a bin. When she got back, Edward was drying his hands on his chinos. She could see he was still furious. He hated mess of any kind. Queenie was looking at him; the picture of innocence, and Lisa burst out laughing. She just couldn’t help herself. Edward was not seeing the funny side.

  ‘Why don’t you make more of an effort to train this bloody dog? May I remind you that I was against this dog business until the children nagged and nagged and I gave in.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault.’ Lisa was really beginning to get the giggles, Edward looked so funny when he was angry.

  She placed a hand on his arm. He took her hand and pulled her towards him, and, then, without a hint of what was to come, he put his hand around the top of her throat, and spoke softly: ‘You fucking bitch.’ It lasted the briefest of seconds, and he released his hand instantly.

  ‘Lisa, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’

  She made her way to the children, busy with their sandcastles. Queenie trotted after her, as she always did.

  Edward, still shocked, joined the group.

  ‘Who wants ice cream?’

  *

  Later, Lisa pondered the incident. Edward was clearly very angry. He’d seemed so calm, so unflappable when she had told him about Sean, but she realized that, deep down, he was shattered. How could she blame him? In a way, she respected his fury; it showed that he cared. But was it really her, Lisa Blaize, that he cared about, or was it his sense of self, his dignity? There had been tears in his eyes when he offered ice cream, but were they tears of self-pity? For that split second, she saw him as another person. She had felt something she had never ever felt before in Edward’s presence; she had been frightened.

  Neither one of them referred to the incident. She would bury it in the Lyme sand. Later that evening she took a long solitary walk on the Cobb. The sea always soothed her. Lovely Lyme. When she got back, she took out her phone and posted a tweet.

  Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize

  Beautiful sunny day at Lyme Regis. #Lovelyme.

  Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t do any harm to post a few photos of herself on the Cobb, just to let Sean know that she was surviving. Liking her new hashtag ‘LoveLyme’, she appended it to each of them.

  This brought out the trolls. It only took one to stumble across the picture before others responded in a chain reaction.

  REPLY TO @Lisa_Blaize

  U. R. A. Fox @1BigHorn

  Lovely me? I’ll second that, Lisa.

  REPLY TO @1BigHorn

  Night Prowler @Sniffer69

  She looks like she needs a real seeing to.

  REPLY TO @Sniffer69

  Zwounder @rnxyzdm

  I’d give her one too.

  REPLY TO @1BigHorn & @Sniffer69

  Teens Only @iLikeEmYoung

  Scrawny old slapper, no thanks.

  CHAPTER 26

  Literary Ladies

  Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com

  My Literary Pashurns

  I was always a big reader. Right from being a very young girl, I was a big reader of the classics. And I mean big. That’s because I was really, really clever, much cleverer than anyone realizes to this day, and I knew which writers to love. I loved the Brontes because of the language, the passion. I’ll say it again: the LANGWIDGE, the PASHURN (I hope my Liverpool accent is coming through here, because it’s such a big part of who I am). But my biggest passion is for fashion. Passion, fashion, get it?

  The brilliant thing about fashion is that you can be passionate and intuitive. You don’t have to worry about the nerdy stuff that makes you do well in exams. I’m a natural, you see, I can’t be constrained by mindless rules. I always go with my gut instincts and don’t bother listening to what those snobby academics have to say. That’s why I loved Manchester and the one thing I don’t love about my lovely husband is all that snobby Oxbridge stuff he was brought up with.

  O, did I tell you that my biggest LITERARY PASHURN is for Jane Austen. She’s so clever and funny, just like me. And she loved the seaside, just like me.

  We couldn’t get away for more than a week this summer. Sir Edward such a very important man, you know. So we just took the children to Lyme Regis for a week. I really do love Lyme, just like Jane, which is why I recently wrote Lovelyme in a hashtag. It turned out someone thought I meant Lovely me – as if, LOL!! They said they thought it must be a Freudian slip, the meanies. I mean, do I act as though I love myself? During our stay at Lyme I was very restrained and self-effacing. I only posted three photos of myself on Twitter, one of me in my Liz Hurley bikini which I absolutely love (it was just that I was photobombing the children, and not that I wanted everyone to see me in my bikini and pearls), and two of me in my blue halter-neck dress, which again had nothing to do with wanting peop
le to see me in the dress both from the front and from the back. Each of those photos had a perfectly valid motive – the first one was to show that there’s always time to drink fizz no matter how important you are, and the second was to show me saying goodbye to Lyme. Nothing to do with the dress at all, and nothing to do with the drop-dead gorgeous woman wearing it whose shoulders are broader than her husband’s (I refuse to take any notice of those people who say I look like a cross between a tranny and a Cheshire housewife).

  Goodness, I’ve just seen that it’s cocktail hour, so I must dash. I’ll be blogging again soon, so don’t go away.

  *

  ‘Edward, this is identity theft. Isn’t that against the law? There must be something we can do about it.’

  ‘Apparently not, if that very immature young policeman who left us his card is to be trusted. I phoned him, and he told me that you can’t stop someone setting up a blog in any particular name. I know you might find this hard to credit, but you’re not the only Lisa Blaize in the world.’

  Lisa thought this was harsh. Edward had coped extraordinarily well with the Sean business, but he couldn’t resist the odd dig every now and then. He’d never been like that before. But he had the right.

  *

  Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com

  I Lurve Literary Ladies

  I’ve been thinking about these literary types. They always go on about metaphors and symbols and the closed system of the text, whatever that is. They don’t let readers read novels how they should be read: as if they were true. I mean, what’s the point of creating a literary character who the readers can’t treat as a real person? As a friend. Or as a bit like themselves. I like to think that characters in novels, and even in Shakespeare plays, are me. Lots of heroines in books remind me of me. It’s a big part of who I am. Eustacia Vye, for instance. I so love her. I love her because she is passionate like me. I love Bathsheba, too, because she is a really passionate, clever woman like me, gobby yet smart, who feels oppressed, like I do, by having to express her passionate emotions in a language created by men. Scarlett O’Hara is another heroine who reminds me of me, which is why I said on Twitter that time that I was feeling very Scarlettish, LOL! The list goes on, really.