The Seven Year Itch

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job. Anyway, I’m interested. I’ve always wondered how people cope with a sudden shift in lifestyle like that. I’ve always wondered what it would be like . . .’

  ‘Well,’ I say, taking a moment to think about it. Then, perhaps emboldened by the beer, or perhaps because her in-your-face attitude is becoming contagious, I decide not to give her the PC version, but to tell her the truth instead. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘well, you’ve heard of alien abduction, right?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t believe in it.’

  ‘Well, you should.’

  She laughs.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I say, ‘because it’s for real. It happens to thousands of pregnant women every day. They go into those hospital maternity wards perfectly sane, only to come out, well, temporarily changed, altered, not quite themselves . . .’

  ‘That would certainly explain why one of the foremost experts on motherhood was called Dr Spock,’ Jessie suggests.

  I smile, taking another swig of my beer. ‘Exactly, and after Amy got home from the hospital, that’s how it was . . . like I was observing Amy Through the Looking Glass, or The Twilight Amy, like she’d become somehow separate from me, alien, and totally wrapped up in her own new world.’

  ‘It sounds horrible.’

  ‘No, it was just weird. Just different.’

  I know I should be feeling guilty about telling Jessie all this, because it’s personal to Amy and me, but I don’t. Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

  ‘Was she on meds?’ Jessie asks.

  ‘No, but she acted like it. For weeks. She just kept staring at Ben, and right through me.’

  ‘Surely that’s only natural. After a trauma like that.’

  ‘Yeah, well trauma’s the right word, but people don’t use it. People think you’re callous if you use it. Miracle. That’s what people like to hear. The miracle of birth. But trauma’s what it is, all right. For men and for women. I swear, I’ve seen horror films with less blood in them.’

  ‘Wow . . . maybe we should get you on our show, too . . .’

  ‘No, because I don’t want Amy ever to know . . .’

  ‘What, about how you felt?’

  ‘Yeah. I never told her any of that. I mean, how could I?’

  ‘When she was the one who’d gone through all that pain . . .’

  ‘Exactly. I mean, I was fully aware what my role was meant to be in all of this. I was meant to be interested, sympathetic and supportive, and I was. And I am. And I do respect Amy for carrying Ben and giving birth. Just like I am grateful to her for quitting her job to look after Ben, so that I didn’t have to quit mine. Just as I also recognise that childcare is hard work in itself . . .’

  ‘You sound like quite the model husband,’ Jessie says.

  I laugh. ‘Plus if I had accused her of being a hormonal nightmare after the birth . . .’

  ‘She’d never have spoken to you again . . .’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is . . . you’re not as close as you were . . .’

  ‘No.’ I frown. ‘No, I’m not saying that at all.’

  She holds up her hand. ‘Sorry . . . old DJ habit . . . putting my words in other people’s mouths.’

  I feel a jolt of panic. ‘But still, that’s what it sounded like to you?’

  She nods. ‘A little.’

  A silence settles between us.

  ‘I think I’ve probably said enough,’ I then say.

  ‘It’s OK. We’re only talking. And people don’t talk enough. About personal stuff. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘It’s the same for me.’

  I smile awkwardly. ‘Oh, come on, you’re on the radio all the time. Talking personal’s what you do for a living.’

  ‘I don’t mean on air. That’s all fake. I mean intimately. One on one. Like this.’

  Again, the silence drops.

  ‘How about you?’ I then ask, figuring I’ve said more than enough. ‘Have you ever considered having kids?’

  ‘I’m too selfish. I like having fun too much.’

  ‘But you said before that you’ve always wondered . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’ She runs her forefinger pensively round the rim of her bottle, and then continues, ‘But I suppose, yes, it is always out there. As a possibility. Not that I think you have to have kids. Not that I think you’re incomplete in some way without them.’

  ‘Or maybe you just haven’t found the right man yet.’

  ‘Or maybe I’m just having too much fun looking . . .’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘How about you, Jack?’ She peers into my face. ‘Are you still looking?’

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking.’

  Her words – and the look that accompanies them – leave me feeling stumped. I stare down at the ground and tap my toe in time with the tune that’s playing on the radio, unable to look Jessie in the eye.

  The thing about it is, I’m no longer used to being regarded sexually in this way – if that is indeed what’s going on here. I’m more used to being disregarded by women, in fact, and have been ever since I became a dad.

  Women have a sixth sense for it: dadness. It’s almost like they can smell the baby on you. To them, you’re like an old bull in a field at the side of the motorway, harmlessly chewing the cud, watching the world race by, nothing like the wild buffalo stock from which you came.

  You’ve got a ring on your finger, but you might as well have one through your snout. You’re domesticated, desexualised. You’re no longer seen as predatory, to the extent that women discuss stuff in front of you that they’d never dare to discuss in front of a single man, for fear of becoming desexualised themselves.

  I remember how I once had the misfortune of sitting in between two mothers on a pigeon-crapstained bench beside the kids’ sandpit in Queen’s Park, as they openly discussed the symptoms of a particularly virulent vaginal yeast infection that one of them was suffering from – like I wasn’t there . . .

  As I look up now, I notice that Jessie’s very much staring right at me, still waiting for a reply.

  I open my mouth, uncertain just what it is that she wants to hear, or just what it is that I’m going to say.

  Then my phone rings and I quickly take it out and answer it.

  It’s Matt: ‘I don’t care what you’re doing,’ he says. ‘Wrap it up and get your arse down here. You’re late.’

  I shrug apologetically at Jessie, as I tell Matt, ‘I’ll be there in five.’

  ‘It looks like we’ll have to pick up this conversation another time,’ Jessie says as I slip my phone into my pocket and reach for my jacket. ‘Which is a shame,’ she adds, ‘because it was just getting interesting . . .’

  I pull my jacket on. ‘Right . . .’

  She raises her bottle to her lips. ‘I’ll look forward to next time,’ she says. ‘Cheers.’

  A Right Old Casanova

  We’re at our usual corner table in the Portobello Gold and Matt’s holding forth about why he’s taking everything with Honey one step at a time (or one lovin’ spoonful at a time, at least . . .).

  ‘I tried that whole “Find The One” thing with H and it didn’t work,’ he’s telling me. ‘I wanted to fall in love, but I just fell apart. I learnt my lesson. You can’t plan to fall in love with someone, and it’s the same with fidelity. You can’t plan to be faithful to someone. You just have to find yourself suddenly doing it. That’s how you’ll know you’re with the right person. Like you and Amy.’ Matt laughs. ‘I mean, who’d have thought you’d ever settle down with one girl? But you did. It just happened. It just came right at you, when you weren’t looking, right?’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Right?’ Matt checks.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure. I mean, of course.’

  He looks at me curiously
. ‘You’ve still got your work head on. You need to relax.’ He taps my glass with his. ‘See that one off and I’ll get you another.’

  As I watch Matt walk away with our empty pint glasses and merge into the crowd at the bar, my mind returns to Jessie.

  Did she make a move on me? There in the kitchen, just before Matt rang. Did I read those signals right? Because I didn’t exactly hang around long enough to clarify her intentions. And I’m out of practice. It’s like trying to remember my French irregular verbs. I think I’m right, but I might be wrong.

  Which is why I don’t need to mention this to Amy, I decide. Because there might not be anything to mention. And even if there is, I passed and I walked away. I walked out of Jessie’s life and back into my own.

  In other words, whatever this is, or isn’t, whatever either is or is not going on, I’m handling it just fine. Right?

  Right.

  And the only reason I’m getting stressed about it at all is because I’m tired. Matt’s right. What I need is to have a few beers and relax.

  In an effort to distract myself, I pick up Matt’s phone, remembering that he mentioned he had a picture of Honey as his screensaver, but even in this simple matter, I now see that he’s been a typical lawyer, mincing his words.

  There’s actually only part of Honey on display. Or two parts of her, at least. Instead of the photograph of Honey’s face that I’m expecting, or maybe a nice shot of her smiling at Matt over a candlelit dinner, what I actually get are boobs.

  Honey’s boobs.

  At least, I’m assuming they’re hers, because the JPEG is a close-up, and I can’t see her face.

  The breasts, as a result, seem strangely non-sexual and disembodied, reminding me of those cheesy old postcards outside the tourist shops in Piccadilly Circus, the ones of women’s tits painted to look like cartoon characters, or puppies, or pigs . . .

  I’ve always wondered how the models concerned, potentially grandmothers in their seventies by now, feel about these artistic curios.

  ‘Oh, yes, that was a giggle. I was going out with a biker called Dave at the time, who used a tin of boot polish to make my tits look like Pepe Le Peu . . .’

  Similarly, I can’t help wondering how Honey feels about Matt carrying this shot of her round on his phone to show to his friends.

  ‘Pervert,’ I tell him, as he returns with our pints.

  He snatches the phone from me. ‘Don’t blame me,’ he protests. ‘She’s the one who took the picture – and told me to have it as my screensaver. She sends them to me. Snaps of herself. At work. In meetings. It turns her on. It’s just something she does. Still,’ he reflects, staring admiringly down at the phone, ‘you can’t beat a nice pair of twenty-something norks, eh?’

  Apart from a great pair of forty-something norks, my subconscious automatically pipes up, once again tossing up an image of Jessie the first time I saw her, trussed up in a Wonderbra, with a burning ciggie in her hand . . .

  I shake my head to dispel the image and take a deep swig of my beer.

  ‘Who are they?’ I then ask, nodding towards two very attractive girls, a blonde and a brunette, who’ve just walked into the pub, and who are now waving as they walk towards us.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Matt says, standing up, and loosening his tie. ‘I asked Honey to pop along if she wasn’t busy, and it looks like she’s brought a friend.’

  I don’t bother telling Matt that, no, he didn’t tell me this, or reminding him that the whole idea (his idea) behind this evening was for a quiet boys’ night out.

  ‘Honey, meet Jack,’ Matt says proudly, kissing the blonde on the lips, before turning her round to face me. ‘Honey works in art,’ he explains.

  And is clearly something of a work of art herself.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, keeping my eyes fixed on hers, unwaveringly, refusing to let my stare drop even a millimetre, on account of a problem I’ve got.

  The problem is the JPEG of Honey on the phone, and the fact that my brain keeps playing this trick on me, substituting the photo for Honey’s actual ample glittery-T-shirt-covered chest.

  ‘This is my mate, Carmen,’ Honey says, introducing the brunette, who shoots me a wide, bright smile. ‘You’ll have to watch this one, Car,’ Honey giggles. ‘Matt told me that back in the days before he got hitched, he used to be a right old Casanova . . .’

  Back in the days . . .

  What next, I wonder? Is she going to ‘Hey, Daddio’ me, or start referring to me as ‘old-timer’?

  I don’t know what stories Matt’s been telling her, but it seems to have completely slipped her notice that he and I are the same age.

  ‘Married, eh?’ Carmen says, looking down at my ring finger to check. ‘That’s a shame, eh?’

  A shame . . .

  I can’t help feeling a tiny thrill of gratitude and pride at this compliment.

  The old bull in the field seems to have some juice in him yet.

  In fact, I feel more like the wise old bull in the old joke, the one who’s standing at the top of a hill alongside an impetuous young bull, with both of them staring down at a field of cows.

  ‘I’m going to run down there and fuck one of them,’ says the young bull.

  To which the old bull answers, ‘I’m going to walk down there and fuck them all.’

  Not that I’m planning on fucking anyone, of course, but still, it’s nice to know that perhaps I still could . . .

  On the back of my ego boost, I ask the girls what they want to drink. I notice there’s a spring in my step when I walk up to the bar, like I’m suddenly several years younger.

  As I wait to get served, my phone rings: it’s Amy. It’s so noisy in here that I don’t bother answering – or that’s the excuse I make to myself anyway. The truth is, I don’t really want to answer. I’m happy and relaxed and I don’t want anything spoiling my good mood. What’s the harm in that? It’s only for a couple of drinks. So I switch the phone off and glance back at Matt and the others instead.

  Regarded sexually twice in one day . . . I don’t know quite what to make of it. Is my lucky star in the ascendancy? Or is this just a quirk of circumstances? Do I just look good in these jeans? Has my hair accidentally reached some optimum pulling length and style? Is my whole being suddenly in?

  Or more likely – it then hits me with a worrying thud – and worse, much, much worse, have I become like Jodie Foster in that film I watched the other night? Have I started sending out signals myself? Have I started wanting, and watching for, replies?

  9

  Amy

  Beware The Chicken Fricassee

  I’m watching re-runs of Will & Grace on the TV, as the clock on the video ticks over to 1.38 a.m. I get up and start pacing the living-room rug. Then I sit down again. This is ridiculous. I should just chill out, I tell myself. Jack’s been out late loads of times before. Getting uptight isn’t going to make him come home any sooner.

  I pick up my empty glass and go to put it in the sink. The flat seems oddly quiet and I look around the kitchen and think how pokey it is. A feeling of hopeless depression washes over me.

  Things haven’t been back to normal between Jack and me since our lunch on Primrose Hill and we haven’t had sex since Kate and Simon walked in on us. In fact, now that I think about it, we haven’t really been getting on since Ben’s barbecue.

  I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but we’re always snappy and quick to find fault with each other, and lately I’ve found myself childishly sticking out my tongue at Jack behind his back, silently furious at some thoughtless oversight he’s made.

  Of course it doesn’t help that we’re accidentally living with possibly the most thick-skinned selfish female on the planet, but despite all the hints I’ve dropped, Jack still refuses to ask his sister to move out.

  But tonight we were supposed to be alone. Just us. Kate’s gone away on a work jolly for a few days and Ben’s asleep, put to bed early under protest, so that I could get ready.
>
  Because tonight was the night that all the rows and recriminations were due to stop and the romance that’s been missing for the last few weeks would be rekindled. Because Jack and I both agreed that we needed quality time together.

  So I’ve really pulled out all the stops.

  And it’s all been for nothing. The chicken fricassee I made sits untouched in the pan on the hob, the vegetables chopped and raw on the board. On the table, the candles are unlit, the ironed napkins still folded, and the remaining two of our best wedding crystal wine glasses, empty.

  It’s dark outside. I can see my reflection in the glass of the kitchen doors. My hair is dishevelled where it’s fallen out of its clips. I’m wearing a low-cut top and the necklace Jack gave me, but instead of looking sexy and alluring like I did seven hours ago, when I was expecting Jack to come home, I look crumpled and tired. I’ve had too many vodka and tonic top-ups and I feel drunk and unsteady. All I want to do is go to bed and fall into a deep black sleep, but I’m too wound up.

  I check my mobile phone again, but there are no new messages. Jack sent a text earlier to say that he was going to Jessie’s, but he’d forgotten he’d promised Matt that he’d meet up with him for a drink afterwards. When I called him back, he didn’t pick up. Then, at ten o’clock, he sent another text to say that he was staying later with Matt and he wouldn’t be home for dinner, after all – and that I shouldn’t wait up.

  I’m so busy imagining all the places he might be, and working out my eloquent speech about how unfair it is that he gets to have all the fun, that I nearly jump out of my skin when he creeps into the kitchen and throws his keys on the side.

  ‘Oh, so you’re finally home,’ I say, flicking on the lamp next to me. He freezes like a burglar who’s just been caught.

  ‘Jesus! I thought you were in bed.’

  ‘Well, I’m not Jesus, and I’m not in bed.’

  ‘It’s really late.’

  I can tell that he’s drunk. His eyes look bloodshot and, even though I’m slightly squiffy too, there’s no way I’m going to let him off the hook. I can feel myself rapidly sobering up, like a tape on fast rewind.