My Husband's Wife

by Amanda Prowse

  They both crumpled into laughter and Rosie wished she hadn’t shared Naomi’s favourite swear word with her mate, hoping it wasn’t a moniker that was going to stick.

  *

  Rosie placed the mug of tea on the side table by her husband’s chair and sat back down on their denim sofa, an impulse-buy from a few years ago. It grew saggier and comfier with each passing year and was now so imperfect, no one cared about the odd splash of coffee or swipe of felt-tipped pen. It was a far cry from how she had guarded it when it was new, whipping off the kids’ shoes and banning food and drink from their tiny sitting room. This was far nicer, relaxed.

  ‘I bumped into Kayleigh earlier.’ She held her mug with both hands and tucked her feet beneath her legs.

  ‘Oh, sorry to hear that. What ailments is she suffering from today? Should I be dusting off my black tie? Again?’

  ‘Ah, don’t be mean, Phil. Mel thinks she’s got a screw loose.’

  ‘Bloody hell, and that’s coming from her!’ He enjoyed ribbing his best friend’s wife. ‘It’s Ross I feel sorry for, having to put up with that! Bloke needs a medal.’

  The two watched the adverts on the television, the silence broken by Rosie after some minutes.

  ‘Do you think we should have more sex?’ she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen.

  ‘Blimey, Rosie, what, right now?’ He laughed. ‘Can I finish my cup of tea first?’ He raised his mug.

  ‘No, you dafty, not now! I’ve just been thinking about it and I wondered if you think we have enough sex.’ She nibbled the shortbread biscuit she’d taken from the packet and turned to watch Phil do the same to its twin that she’d placed by his mug. The health kick had lasted approximately twelve hours. Neither of them mentioned it. She had, however, noticed that his salad had been returned in the Bob the Builder lunch-box, untouched.

  ‘When you say more sex,’ he pondered, sipping his tea, ‘do you mean more frequent or longer, or—’

  ‘I don’t know!’ She felt her cheeks flare. ‘As I say, I was just thinking about it today. How many times do you think we have sex a month?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Let me just go up and count the notches on the bedpost.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Seriously, Phil, how many times would you say we do it?’ She bit into her shortbread.

  Phil took a deep breath and looked skywards, as if counting. ‘I’d say maybe once or twice a month.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I reckon.’ She paused. ‘Do you think that’s normal?’

  ‘God, I don’t know! What’s normal?’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ she confessed. There was another period of silence before she continued. ‘Do you think we have more or less sex than our friends?’

  ‘Rosie! I don’t know! Do you want me to phone Andy and ask him?’

  ‘No.’ She giggled. ‘I suppose I just want to know that we’re having the right amount for you and that you’re happy.’ She held his gaze, but he didn’t say anything. She noticed the slight rise and fall of his Adam’s apple and felt a wave of love for her man. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to feel inadequate. ‘I was just thinking that when we first met we had lots of sex, probably every day.’

  ‘Yep, probably.’ He nodded at the TV.

  ‘But it’s got less and less, hasn’t it? And then we had the kids, and now it’s just once or twice a month. I worry it’s not enough.’

  He flashed her a smile.

  ‘I love you, Phil.’

  ‘And I love you too. Mind you, thinking about it, if there’s a bit more sex on offer, I’m not going to refuse.’ He winked at her.

  ‘Play your cards right, Mr Tipcott, and after Big Brother’s finished, I might just make you an offer.’ Rosie finished her biscuit and enjoyed the warm glow of love that swirled in her stomach. She was happy. This was all she needed: a squidgy sofa, a cup of tea, a stick of shortbread, crap telly and the promise of an early night with the man she loved. I’m a lucky woman.

  They heard the creak on the stairs long before Leona popped her mussed head around the sitting-room door. Rubbing her eyes and swallowing her tears, she trotted in wearing her pink Dora the Explorer pyjamas.

  ‘Oh, Leo! What’s the matter?’ Rosie placed her mug on the floor and held her arms wide open as her little girl took a flying jump and landed next to her on the sofa.

  Phil sat forward. ‘What’s up, my little girlie?’

  Leona lifted her head and tried to stem her tears. ‘I... I had a bad dream.’

  ‘Oh no! What did you dream about? Ssshhh...’ Rosie cooed into her daughter’s hair, trying to calm and reassure her.

  ‘I thought that Naomi’s poo-face rubber was really big... and... and under my bed and it was trying to get me and shove me up its... its nose!’ she managed through her tears.

  Phil pulled his head into his shoulders and fought the laughter that wanted to erupt.

  Rosie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Don’t cry, little Leo. Don’t cry, baby. It was just a dream. You are safe and you are here with Mummy and Daddy and no one and nothing can hurt you.’ She held Leo tight until her tears slowed and her body relaxed.

  ‘C... c... can I sleep with you, Mummy?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ She kissed her child.

  Phil sighed and finished his biscuit.

  4

  It was March, a whole month later, and the weather had brightened significantly. It was the time of year when Woolacombe began to have a buzz about it. This was especially so at weekends when incomers from Exeter, Bristol and further afield arrived with their cash and in their cars, queuing for the car parks in an orderly fashion before walking their dogs on the beach. Busy cafés churned out platefuls of bacon and eggs to stave off hangovers, and sticks of rock had last year’s dust wiped from them and were arranged just so in jaunty coloured buckets on the counter tops of the convenience stores.

  The Hunter-wellies-and-waxed-jacket brigade walked arm in arm, whistling for their Labradors to catch up and watching with fascination and envy as the long-haired surfies unloaded their vans, zipped up their wetsuits and waxed their boards. The whole place had the sniff of summer about it. It was the seasonal equivalent of waking on the day of a special event and knowing there was so much to look forward to, an unspoken promise of what would be arriving in just a few short months.

  It was early one Saturday and Rosie had just arrived at work. She had tramped up the hill and was a little out of puff. The caravans were, as ever, fully booked. It wasn’t the grandest of holiday parks, the facilities were sparse and the trek to the beach a hike, but the caravans were spotless and the view was the best in the area. The sea was flanked by the curve of graduated hills, each peppered with fat sheep boxed in by full and ancient hedgerows. A farmhouse sat in the foreground, its chimney billowing smoke that filled the air with the distinct aroma of a real fire. The whole scene shone against its backdrop of clear, crisp, turquoise sky. Rosie smiled, thinking that if someone wanted to bottle an image of the perfect English countryside and pop it in a snow globe, this would be it.

  With her tabard on, her long, thick hair fastened into a messy knot on top of her head and her bucket full of cleaning products in her hand, she walked to caravan 9A as per her worksheet. She knocked, then tried the handle. Receiving no reply, she let herself in and made straight for the kitchen, knowing that she might need to start by giving a grotty grill pan a good soak. She checked the cooker. It was pristine. Clearly the guests in 9A preferred to eat out, which was absolutely fine by her; less to clean. The kitchen areas were her nemesis. She had many horror stories of fat-clogged pans and bean-caked saucepans that could take her an hour to get clean. She ran her sponge under the hot tap and squirted kitchen cleaner on the small areas of work surface and the stainless steel sink drainer.

  ‘Oooow! Good Lord!’ a voice yelled from the bathroom at the other end of the caravan.

  ‘Shit!’ Rosie switched off the hot tap and gathered up her bucket and other bits and pieces
as fast as she could. She had got as far as the hallway when the bathroom door opened and she came face to face with a middle-aged man, who thankfully had had the foresight to wrap himself in a large towel. He was, however, naked from the waist up. She tried not to look at his bare, hairy chest; it was strange and embarrassing to see a man who wasn’t her husband in this state.

  ‘Who are you?’ he yelled, more in shock than anger. His accent was distinctly American.

  ‘I am so, so sorry!’ She spoke with her free hand raised in supplication and the bucket in her other hand. ‘I knocked and waited, but there was no answer, so I came in to clean.’

  ‘I was in the shower!’

  ‘Yes, I can see that now.’ She cowered.

  ‘The shower ran really cold.’ He pointed behind him, as though this might be of interest and as though he wasn’t standing wearing a towel, chatting to her in a rather con-fined space.

  ‘That was my fault too. Sorry. I ran the hot tap, to do the surfaces. I am so sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll let you get on.’ She stepped gingerly along the hallway, towards the front door.

  Rosie laughed as she rattled down the wobbly steps, off to tend to 9B, where she would make a much more thorough job of checking whether it was occupied. She hoped she might bump into Mel. Working opposite shifts meant this didn’t often happen, but she couldn’t wait to tell her, knowing her friend would find it hilarious!

  She was all done by midday and after hanging up her overalls and placing her bucket in the cleaning cupboard, she said her goodbyes and started down the hill for home. Her phone rang.

  ‘Daddy is taking us to soft play and so we won’t be home!’ Naomi shouted, her haste and volume a combination of excitement and lack of telephone skill.

  ‘Oh, right! Put Daddy on, Nay.’ Rosie listened to the clunks and rumble as Phil was passed his phone.

  ‘Hey, love.’

  ‘I hear you’ve been badgered into taking them to Barnstaple.’ She laughed.

  ‘I don’t mind really.’ He sighed. ‘I mean, it’s not like I was actually looking forward to putting my feet up and watching a bit of sport on the telly.’

  ‘Oh, love, look, hang on five minutes and I’ll come home and take them if you want a rest.’ She knew he’d had a busy week.

  ‘No, you’ve just finished work and I am kidding, kind of. It’ll be nice to spend time with them and if I’m lucky we’ll get to put the One Direction CD on repeat all the way there and all the way back!’

  ‘Well, look, have fun, drive safely and I’ll see you when you get home. Love you.’

  ‘And we love you. Say goodbye to Mummy.’ Phil held the phone out and it was hard to believe that it was just her two little girls who screamed and shouted words of farewell and not a football team. It made her smile, imagining the girls hounding him into taking them. They would all be exhausted by the evening. Poor Phil. She vowed to cook him a nice supper and spoil him a bit.

  The day was too nice to waste and Rosie decided that rather than hide from the sunshine at home, alone, she would walk the long way round and stop for a while on her favourite bench. In fine weather, the view over Combesgate Beach and beyond was especially lovely.

  The Esplanade was busy. Converted vans and campers were parked side by side, with wetsuits hanging on airers hooked to windows and the aroma of bacon sizzling in pans mingling with the whiff of gas that crisped it just so. Rosie always thought the vans looked very cosy. She smiled and nodded at the blanket-wrapped adventurers with pruney toes who sat close together, huddled inside with camping mugs full of tea, looking cold and tired, salt water dripping from their hair, but slowly warming as they stared out over the rolling waves they tried to master.

  Rosie felt her chest tighten and she huffed and puffed as she picked up the pace. Wishing she was fitter, her thoughts turned to the cheese on toast she would devour as a late lunch when she got home. It seemed that a picture of the grub she loved almost instantly replaced every thought of dieting or healthy living.

  With her bench in sight, she pushed on. Reaching it finally, she peeled off her jacket and placed it on her lap, partly to cool herself down and also using it as a cushion to cover her pouchy tum. She closed her eyes briefly and threw her head back, feeling the scorch of early spring sunshine on her cheeks. It was lovely. The sound of circling gulls echoed overhead and the distant giggle of a child rock-pooling below made it perfect. She placed her left hand on the bench and wondered if her mum’s fingers had touched the same spot.

  And there she was! Laurel, sitting on the bench, smiling, as if to say, ‘There you are, Rosie. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  She imagined her mum’s face, lit up with happiness at the sight of her, as the comforting scent of apples filled her nostrils. She pictured Laurel turning in her direction, her expression quizzical, as if enquiring about her day.

  Rosie beamed and spoke out loud. ‘Funny thing, actually, Mum, earlier I nearly half scalded a man to death and then he ran out in his towel. Didn’t know where to look!’

  Her mum tipped her head back and smiled.

  ‘I know!’ Rosie grinned. ‘I’m a little pickle. No wonder my girls are always up to mischief – they take after me, don’t they!’ She looked at her mother and swallowed. ‘Am I your best ever thing, Mum?’

  Laurel nodded.

  ‘I knew it!’ Rosie smiled, beyond happy. ‘I would have liked you to brush my hair,’ she confessed, as her mum leant towards her with her hand reaching out—

  There was a jolt and spring to the wood, as someone sat on the other end of the bench. It pulled her from her daydream. She smiled, opened her eyes and tried to look delighted, swallowing the mild irritation that a stranger was robbing her of her brief time of solace and her precious time with Laurel. That was the trouble with a special place like her bench with the view: it tended to be special to a lot of people.

  Rosie glanced to the left. Oh shit! It was the American! She turned her head sharply to the right, looking over towards the Watersmeet Hotel, trying to ignore him, wanting to budge up and fill the spare two inches to her right, putting as much distance between them as possible but without him seeing.

  ‘Hello there.’ He craned his neck, trying to catch her eye.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ She looked over her shoulder, making out she’d only just noticed him.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit here? I know it’s a drag sometimes when you think you’ve got the place to yourself and along comes a random stranger.’

  ‘No, not at all!’ You big fat liar, Rosie.

  ‘Although we’re not complete strangers, are we? I thought it was you – it’s the big hair.’ He twirled his finger near his own. ‘You have lots of it!’

  She nodded. Yes she did.

  ‘You gave me quite a start earlier!’ He laughed now, seeing the funny side.

  ‘And you me.’ She smiled.

  ‘Well, sorry if I alarmed you. Just a few more hours and the place will be free for you to come and go as you please.’

  She gave a small nod. ‘I left in such a hurry, I didn’t get to empty the bins or check you were all right for towels.’ She felt the creep of embarrassment, regretting mentioning towels, considering how he had presented himself earlier.

  ‘Don’t you worry. I am more than capable of dealing with both. This is a lovely place to come and sit.’

  She nodded, glad of the verbal change in direction. The wind kicked up and the sharp breeze grazed her face.

  ‘It’s where I come to think.’

  ‘And here’s me interrupting you.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ This was less of a lie. With the awkwardness now gone, she was happy to chat to the grey-haired man, who actually seemed quite pleasant.

  ‘I love the view from here. I like watching for tankers on the horizon – they fascinate me. When you first see them, you can’t tell if they’re coming closer to you or moving further away. Isn’t that something?’

  ‘Yes it is.’ She nodded, having never considered this b
efore.

  ‘Are you local?’ he asked, twisting on the bench to see her better.

  ‘Yes, I am. Born and bred, never lived anywhere else.’

  ‘What keeps you here?’

  She smiled at him, interested by his assumption that she wasn’t anchored to one place, that she could just up sticks and follow the breeze and live anywhere! Even the idea of it made her laugh. ‘Love keeps me here.’

  ‘Ah, that magic potion.’ He studied her grin.

  ‘Yep. Married for nearly twelve years now, two girls. So, yes, it’s love that keeps me here.’ She pictured the three people she loved most in the whole wide world and her heart soared. She couldn’t wait to see them later.

  ‘So, safe to say you like it here?’

  ‘Is this twenty questions?’ She watched his face turn puce. ‘Oh! I was only joking.’

  ‘No, you’re quite right, I do ask a lot of questions, I know. I’m sorry.’ He placed his palms on his thighs.

  ‘I’m only teasing. I do like it here very much.’ She shrugged, thinking how best to describe her relationship with Woolacombe. ‘It’s where the only people I know live. I can’t picture being anywhere else. I’ve been coming to sit on this bench for longer than I can remember and my mum used to do the same. I think that’s what first drew me to it.’ She smiled. ‘I used to bring my girls and their friends up here when they were toddlers. It was like trying to herd cats. They’d dart all over the grass and dip into the picnic bag and one of them would need a wee the moment we arrived, usually Naomi. They’d be dancing and laughing one minute, falling over and crying the next. I loved it, though: the mayhem, the busyness.’

  ‘What a lovely thing.’ He gave her a warm, genuine smile.

  ‘I’m lucky,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Yes, you are, for many reasons, not least for having this, the most perfect spot to come sit. Especially today when we have been given this little gift, a bit of sunny residue, warm crumbs that the weather gods found in their pockets and decided to lob in our direction. Lovely.’