Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. I’ve told you what’s wrong. You!’

  Angry suddenly, I push him away to grab a tea towel and start to mop the milk from my leg. ‘If that’s really all this is, then you’re behaving like an idiot,’ I tell him. ‘Where is it written that only the little woman can switch on the oven or toss a green salad? You knew how important my work was to me when you married me. Surely we can share the chores a bit more?’

  He looks at me with something like pity, speaking slowly as if to a child. ‘Your trouble, Carly, is that you’ve been spoiled, and the result, basically, is that you simply can’t cope with real life. You’re incompetent, think only of what you want. You still haven’t taken into account the fact that you’re married now. Things have changed, and it’s long past time you put your priorities in order.’

  I stare at him, stunned. His words are so dangerously close to my own secret concerns that he’s put a doubt in my mind. It’s true that I’m not coping very well, either with running this house or the business. Emma shouldered the lion’s share of the work today, which isn’t fair on her. Is it true that I think too much of what I want, instead of what’s good for us, for Oliver and me? Are my aspirations too high? Maybe I have been spoiled, and now expect to have everything: a profitable business and a happy, fulfilled life with my husband. But if my unrealistic ambitions succeed only in damaging my marriage, where is the value in that?

  I chew on my lip, saying nothing, worrying that perhaps he might have a point.

  Oliver reaches into the fridge, pulls out the offending quiche and drops it into the pedal bin. ‘Now make me a proper dinner, good and hot. I’m off to the pub for half an hour. I’ll expect it to be ready and waiting by the time I get back.’

  Only when the front door slams shut behind him, do I put my face in my hands and start to cry.

  ‘Carly has it so easy. She wants to try swapping places with me for a day.’

  It had taken over an hour for Jo-Jo to prise her three children away from their various toy cars, and bricks and Barbie dolls, go through World War III in the bathroom, read an episode of Bob the Builder and finally tuck them all up and escape for a bit of peace with her husband. She and Ed took it in turns to put the children to bed, so tonight he had cooked their evening meal: a delicious lasagne which Jo-Jo was eating with very little appetite.

  ‘She swans off every day driving round in that natty little Peugeot, looking all smart and prosperous, earning her own money as well as raking it in from her rich new husband. She even gets to talk to grown-ups while I’m stuck in this house most of the time watching Teletubbies and trying to stop our Ryan from scribbling all over Samantha’s books.

  Ed chuckled. ‘This wouldn’t be a display of petty jealousy, would it?’

  Jo-Jo scowled at her husband as she sulkily pushed her food about the plate. ‘Don’t you start. Carly accuses me of that all the damn time. She even did it today when she rang to ask if I could take Gran to the doctor’s because she was having a ‘frantic’ day. I told her she didn’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘You two are speaking again then? This must be a first since the wedding. But then Carly was hardly likely to welcome being told her fiancé is suspected of playing away, right before her big day, was she?’

  Avoiding her husband’s accusatory gaze, Jo-Jo carefully loaded her fork with meat and pasta and put it into her mouth. ‘It has been a bit awkward between us recently, but I was only concerned for her, that’s all. If she doesn’t choose to believe me, that’s her choice.‘

  ‘And you were sure of your facts, were you?’ Ed’s voice was soft with concern. ‘Is it worth risking your relationship over a rumour?’

  Jo-Jo gave a harsh little laugh. ‘What relationship? Don’t you know sisters always quarrel?’

  ‘But you still love her,’ Ed gently reminded his wife.

  ‘Of course I still bloody love her. That’s why I told her about the letter.’

  ‘Right, not because you wanted to spike her guns,’ Ed teased, ‘or because you were in a bad mood about something?’

  Jo-Jo slammed down her fork. ‘Who knows whether it’s true or not. I just thought she should be warned, that’s all.’

  ‘Your parents did the right thing by throwing the letter on the fire. You should never have mentioned it, Jo-Jo. It was very naughty of you.’

  Jo-Jo pushed her plate away, cheeks bright with guilt. ‘For goodness sake, don’t make me out to be the wicked sister. There was no need for her to get so uppity, but that’s our Carly. Always knows best, and thinks the sun shines out of that man’s ass. Maybe it does. Maybe I’m wrong. No doubt the beautiful newly weds are even now enjoying the best wine at some smart restaurant or other. I bet they eat out every night. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t spend all evening running up and down those stairs putting our Ryan back to bed. I’ll tie him to the bed post, I swear it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Ed chuckled. ‘Come on, eat up. At least it’s good that you two are talking again, so don’t get too upset about it.’

  ‘I’m not upset,’ Jo-Jo snapped.

  ‘Just jealous.’

  ‘No. Bored. I’m bored, bored, bored! I hate Bob the bloody Builder.’

  Ed laughed, not taking her too seriously as he tucked into his own supper. ‘Well, if you want to make life more exciting you should win the lottery, or you could always consider taking a lover. Just remember to check the guy’s bank balance first.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me!’ This was an old joke between them but for once Jo-Jo wasn’t laughing.

  Ed glanced at his wife’s barely touched plate and embarked upon a gentle lecture. ‘You’re not on another diet, are you? I’ve told you a million times I love you exactly as you are, sweetie. I like cuddly women.’

  Jo-Jo promptly burst into tears. And with that instinct which comes from having lived with a woman for almost ten years, and seen her in this emotional state on at least three previous occasions, Ed knew instinctively that her tears were not caused by her having taken offence at his ham-fisted compliment, but because there was a reason for the extra inches. ‘Oh, my God, you’re pregnant!’

  Ed Dickson had been in love with Jo-Jo Holt ever since the fourth form at Kirbie Kendal School together. And with his teasing, gentle manner and cheerful smile, his good looks, dark hair cut close to his head, and soft brown eyes, she had been instantly smitten by him. He made her laugh, was a perfect foil to her highly-strung, over-emotional personality.

  Now he abandoned his own meal and quietly led his wife to the sofa to cuddle her close as the crying notched a pitch higher.

  ‘I never meant this to happen, I swear it. Three is more than enough for anyone. And I’d just got back to work, even if it was only part time for Mum and Dad. Oh, Ed, we can’t afford another child, what are we going to do?’ she wailed.

  Ed was stroking her hair, kissing the tears from her cheeks, while looking as if he’d been hit head on by an express train. ‘Well,’ he said in that quiet way he had. ‘We can’t send it back and ask for a refund, can we?’

  Despite her misery, Jo-Jo gave a spurt of laughter.

  He smoothed back her ruffled curls, fair, like her sister’s, only with a wildness to it, rather like her personality. But then Jo-Jo hadn’t been near a hairdresser in years, resorting to chopping bits off it herself, whereas Carly had the income to spoil herself a bit more, and was far more businesslike and efficient in every way. Carly was the quiet one, the steadying influence and nose-to-the-grindstone sort, whereas Jo-Jo relied more on impulse, rushing through life by the seat of her pants. He rather loved that in his wife. He preferred the untamed look, the unpredictability of her personality, always thought she looked prettier when she forgot to apply lipstick and nail varnish, although she would sometimes use both when she was trying to impress.

  He cupped her face between his hands and considered it with serious concern. There was usually a cheeky light to her brown eyes, a quirky smile to the wide
mouth, but not today. ‘You aren’t going to go all hysterical on me, or do anything stupid, are you?’

  Their gazes locked in perfect understanding and accord. ‘As if. You don’t mind too much then?’

  ‘Well, another boy might be a good idea. Even things up nicely, that would. I reckon our Ryan will need all the support he can get to stand up to our Stacey and Samantha, once he grows up a bit and stops being such a novelty.’

  Jo-Jo smiled at her husband through her tears. ‘He’s only just started walking. He’ll be little more than two when this one is born.’

  ‘They’ll be chums for each other then. Just make sure it’s a boy. Although I do love little girls. Happen we’ll have another one of them too.’

  ‘On your bike, mister! You can have that one yourself.’

  Ed began to unbutton her blouse. He didn’t notice the stains of baby food and tomato ketchup down the front. He was more interested in the lacy, peach coloured bra his wife was wearing underneath. Instinctively she started to fend him off, and then remembering the damage was already done, laughingly started to kiss him instead. ‘Oh, I do love you, you daft article.’

  ‘I’m quite fond of you too. A quick shag isn’t entirely out of the question then?’ he asked, pushing her back on to the sofa. ‘Doesn’t seem anything to lose, does there? I’ll make it quick in case our Ryan does his usual trick of going walkabout.’

  ‘Pity he didn’t do that the night you got me into this mess,’ Jo-Jo complained as she helped him tug off her jeans, then busied herself with Ed’s zip. ‘I’m going to have to go on the pill you know. Other women do. Or you could have the snip.’

  ‘So you’ve gone off the idea of making it a round dozen then?’

  Giggling, she hit him with the cushion, then bit her lip to stop herself from making too much noise as he entered her. Upstairs came the creak of a floorboard and the sound of small feet.

  Life settles down into some sort of normality over the next few days with no repetition of that little tantrum. Oliver returns to his usual good humour, even profusely apologising for behaving like a prat. While he was at the pub I’d quickly defrosted and grilled a couple of pork chops, tossed a salad and micro-waved a jacket potato each. It wasn’t exactly cordon bleu but seemed to pass muster. Afterwards, he slept untroubled while I lay awake, worrying about what on earth had got into him, what he was trying to prove.

  I still can’t understand what triggered such a ferocious attack. He seems to think he can shout at me as much as he likes, but if I dare to complain, I’m in trouble. Presumably I’m supposed to merely listen and obey. If I don’t, then I’m being inconsiderate of his feelings. My task, apparently, is to look after him. The thought makes me feel very slightly sick. This wasn’t at all how I imagined married life would be.

  But I block the memory of that awful night from my mind. He said himself he’d had a shit of a day. It was an aberration. It won’t happen again, I tell myself.

  We go for Sunday lunch to my parents’ house and he’s all sweet and charming, as usual. Quite his old self again. He compliments my mother on her cooking and makes some joke that she should perhaps give me a few lessons. I laugh, and confess to the failed quiche.

  ‘Perhaps you used too much milk and not enough eggs,’ she suggests, preening herself at Oliver’s compliments on the tenderness of her beef and the lightness of her Yorkshire puddings.

  ‘I did my best in the time I had available, Mum.’ I risk a further comment, casting my husband a smiling glance as I do so. ‘Like all men, Oliver approves in theory of my running my own business, but I believe he’d much prefer it if I devoted myself exclusively to him.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Oliver demurs. ‘I believe a woman has every right to be independent and do her own thing. Anyway, I don’t mind chipping in and doing my bit to help.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ Mum says, smiling into his clear blue eyes.

  ‘And I’m so proud of her,’ he says.

  ‘Indeed, and why would you object to Carly’s efforts when you’ve made such a good start in life yourself? Besides, you’re a nice person,’ Mum agrees, putting another slice of beef on to his plate.

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘Sometimes she thinks she’s Superwoman, asks far too much of herself, so I have to give her a little lecture about priorities.’

  They continue in this vein for some minutes while I listen in astonishment to the unexpected spin my husband is putting on the very same subject about which we rowed. I’m confused, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Is he deliberately telling lies or did I misread his attitude completely?

  ‘She does her best but her cooking is pathetic, bless her,’ Oliver says, patting my cheek fondly. ‘But she’s so sweet, and she is getting better.’

  ‘Our Carly makes great scones,’ Dad says, and I smile at him gratefully. At least someone is on my side.

  ‘Whatever have you done to yourself? That’s some bruise on your arm,’ Emma said, examining her friend with concern.

  Carly had taken off her overall in the heat of a warm spring day in order to scrub the bath properly, and Emma had unexpectedly come in and caught her. She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Whacked it with the cupboard door.’

  ‘Not one of those brand new cupboard doors in your beautiful new designer kitchen?’ Emma teased.

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Then get the corners chopped off, sanded down or whatever. You could do yourself a mischief.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Have you nearly finished in here? I’m just about done with my bit.’

  ‘Yep,’ Carly agreed, head down in the bath as she dried it with paper towels, mentally kicking herself for her carelessness. ‘I’m done.’

  The two girls returned to the office together but Emma couldn’t help noticing that despite the lack of air conditioning and unexpected warmth of the day, Carly rolled down the sleeves of her shirt. Is that the only bruise she’s carrying? Emma worried. Should she say something further, or was it best not to interfere?

  It had irritated Emma recently that Oliver had taken to calling Carly on her mobile around five each day, to check that she’d finished work and would soon be on her way home. She’d hear Carly assuring him that she was about to leave, ‘Yes, darling, I’ll be on my way any minute.’

  ‘Make sure that you are,’ Oliver would retort, in a voice loud enough to carry half way across the office, and Carly would roll her eyes in amused despair. Of course, it often took another half hour or so to finish off, but she was always frantic to leave, which was a pity. The end of the day was generally the only time the two girls got the chance to really talk.

  This evening Emma insisted they finish early and grab a quick drink at the John Peel pub. She was keen to discuss a few pressing issues, not least the question of working hours. The moment they were both settled with a couple of lagers in front of them, she made her suggestion.

  ‘How about if I take over the evening work for a while? It seems fair, since you’re still newly weds, and Oliver is obviously desperate to keep you wrapped in romance and red roses.’ Emma was careful not to mention to Carly that her husband rang the previous evening, insisting upon this change. Oliver had made it very clear that he was sick of his lovely new wife being tied up of an evening, that he expected her to be home on time every night from now on. Emma had resisted, naturally. She’d tried to explain how they divided the task between them, how evening work couldn’t be entirely avoided during the summer months. Unfortunately, he’d then threatened to stop Carly working altogether, and she’d been forced to back down. The last thing Emma wanted was to lose her partner. ‘It’s occurred to me that you might need a bit more space in these early months together,’ she finished, rather lamely in her estimation.

  Carly was surprised by this generous offer, but suitably grateful, as well she might be. ‘Oh, Emma, you’re so kind. Are you sure?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have offered otherwise.’

  ‘It would indeed help marital relations, at
least for this first summer. Then we’ll get back to normal, Okay?’

  ‘No problem.’

  The words were barely out of her mouth when Oliver himself walked in, quite out of the blue. ‘So this is where you are? Not working at all. I did wonder when I got no response to my text.’

  Carly stared at him in horror, then glanced in panic at her mobile, which showed no evidence of a signal. Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment and Emma lifted her eyebrows slightly, longing to comment but not quite having the nerve to do so. She met Oliver’s iron hard glare with one of her own, while Carly gulped down her half of lager and leaped to her feet. ‘I must go. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  ‘Still love’s young dream then?’ Emma said, with a wry smile.

  ‘My wife has other responsibilities now,’ Oliver coldly informed her, and hustled Carly out the door. Emma watched them go with a troubled frown.

  Chapter Four

  As summer progresses Oliver and I settle more comfortably together. We seem to be perfectly happy and content, so that I forget things ever went wrong between us. I start to believe that I’ve been worrying unnecessarily, that it’s all going to work out fine and he’s got over whatever was bothering him in those early days.

  Even so, I find myself being far more attentive towards my husband, trying hard to please him and make him happy. I carefully follow recipes in my new cookery book, make certain that I don’t forget to buy mushrooms if he wants a full English breakfast, to fry his egg without breaking the yolk. The last thing I want to do is to put him in a bad mood. And thanks to Emma’s generosity, I get home early each day, which helps enormously.

  Oliver is incredibly punctual himself and I discover that routine is strangely important to him. He likes me to run his bath for him, to have it ready and waiting as he walks through the door. Everything has to be perfect, not only the bath but also the right kind of shampoo and soap, or he complains and makes me change it. He expects a hot meal beautifully cooked the moment he’s finished bathing; the house all neat and tidy with no sign of any books or papers or account sheets littered about. I can be a bit untidy in this respect when I bring work home, and he makes it very plain he doesn’t care for that either.