Can I Give My Husband Back?: A totally laugh out loud and uplifting page turner

by Kristen Bailey

  I laugh and point down to my neck. ‘You’re such an idiot. I believe this is your dress that you’ve just ruined.’

  I wear ganache like a face mask and feel some sort of liquid seep in between my breasts. I scoop a lump of chocolate off the front of the dress and sling it back at Lucy, only wishing it was a fresh turd. It catches her hair, which I know she would have spent ages getting just right. She shrieks, shrill like a harpy, looking for other things to throw at me.

  ‘Go on then, little Lucy reacting by throwing her toys out of the pram again. You’re such a spoilt brat!’

  ‘Emma, don’t goad her…’ pleads Beth.

  ‘Good job that dress is wipe down, eh? You can invite the next bloke along for a go? There are two other Batmans here tonight. I can go find them… ’

  She seethes with anger. ‘Now we know why Simon cheated on you, maybe it’s because you’re such a bitch,’ she says drunkenly. Picking up the next thing on that counter, a bottle of Jägermeister, she missiles it in my direction. I duck. The next person walking through the door gets hit square in the head and falls to the floor. Lucy cups her hands to her mouth. You didn’t. You’ve just killed Barack Obama.

  Eleven

  649 days since my mum told Simon she’d kill him if she could get away it

  It’s 1 a.m. Lucy has thrown up five times since midnight and is currently asleep on my sofa wrapped in a kid’s giraffe-print blanket. Beth marched upstairs after we threw her cake around and refused to talk to anyone. I don’t sleep. I think it must have been that Red Bull shot so I eat all the canapés to sate my inevitable hangover and because I don’t like to see things go to waste. In my kitchen, Barack Obama lies on one of the benches and his head is propped up on my lap. We didn’t kill him but that bottle sent him flying and left a significant bump on the head.

  Thinking she had killed him, Lucy flew into a panic and that was when she had her first spew, right into my kitchen sink, which then threw everyone else into a panic as it was bright red. Because of the punch naturally, but most presumed it to be blood. As you can imagine, that really put a dampener on a party so that was the point when people started to take their leave. Maddie escorted some of the stragglers but she didn’t look too impressed with me. She didn’t need words. He drove you up north and you slept with someone else while you were up there. Pay your penance and look after this man, now. Jag flits in and out of sleep. He occasionally looks up to study the underside of my jaw.

  ‘Well, I’m going to go all out and say this was better than our first date.’

  I laugh. ‘I told you I’d get one of my sisters to help out.’

  I uncover the tea towel stuffed with peas to see how that bump is progressing. Never mind that Lucy can sing and dance, she seems to have a hell of a left arm on her. Maybe she should be in cricket. I am reminded of a time at school when she hurled a can of Coke at a school bully and gave that girl a black eye. She was suspended for a week.

  As I cradled her on the sofa, she thought she was dying and through tears apologised profusely that she called me a bitch and that was why Simon cheated on me. I stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead. I also said I was sorry for calling her a slapper, telling her that she was much classier than the Beyoncé who’d been there that evening. I then let her pass out in my arms and put her in the recovery position so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit.

  I put a hand to Jag’s hair and he closes his eyes. ‘Is it painful? Did you take those ibuprofen?’

  ‘Just tender.’

  I hold some fingers up. ‘How many?’

  ‘Four.’

  I widen my eyes.

  ‘Two, I’m just playing.’

  I smile. I’m sat here in a dress smeared in red and brown like I’ve been stabbed and then defecated on, but he still chooses to rest his head here. I like the company, I like how easy it feels and that he’s come into my home and has been physically attacked but it hasn’t seemed to faze him. He feels close, physically closer than he’s ever been to me but I don’t mind. I’m not panicked. I stop stroking his hair in case it’s coming across as pet-like and instead drape my other arm across his midriff. He goes to hold my hand.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Depends what you mean by OK? OK on a scale of one to ten sits at about a five. Like if I was rating food, this burger is not great, it’s just OK.’

  He smiles at me. ‘Are you the burger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like are you a traditional beef burger? How many patties? Are you in one of those newfangled brioche buns?’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite traditional. The buns are a bit misshapen though.’

  He laughs. I realise I’ve taken to innuendo here. Do I mention sauce? Being messy to eat?

  ‘I like a traditional burger. Burgers comes with bells and whistles these days. It really is too much,’ he says.

  ‘But what if I said I’m not just a burger? I come as a meal deal. You can’t just buy the burger.’

  ‘Then I think that’s a bonus?’

  I look at his face to see if he’s understood the analogy. I come with all the sides on the menu. Is that too much? Would he be willing to take it all on? It’s too early to say it out loud. He may not understand this and still just be talking about food. He circles his thumb into my palm.

  ‘I thought you got on with your sisters?’ he asks.

  I look over at Lucy. For the love of god girl, close your legs.

  ‘I do but it’s siblings, isn’t it? It’s that unique relationship where you’d stab someone for them but also have moments where you’d easily stab them yourself.’

  He laughs. I hope that doesn’t make me sound sinister. I reach over to the table and grab some cheese things wrapped in pastry. ‘Do you want one?’ He nods and I place it in his mouth, my fingers grazing his lips slightly. Crikey. That was a bit sexual for me. He kisses my finger and looks me straight in the eye. Not now. We’re in costume. That’s role play and I haven’t done that before. The doorbell suddenly goes and he sits up, a little woozy.

  ‘Shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Yes, lie back down and let me investigate.’

  For some reason, I take my fake crook with me and head for the door. It’s most likely someone who has forgotten something but then I think back to Mrs Phelps snitching to Simon the other day. This better not be him. Or is it the police? The music was quite loud, wasn’t it? I open the door tentatively then swing it open fully to see who stands there.

  ‘Mother?’

  She stands there with my inflatable sheep and hands it to me. ‘I found this in a planter in front of your house. It explains the bonnet.’

  I put a hand to the top of my head. This whole time I left it on. ‘It’s one in the morning, mother. Did you come alone?’

  She stands there shivering in the cold autumnal air. ‘Well, yes. Why would I drag your father along too? You should take that dress off and let it soak at least. It looks like you massacred one of your poor sheep.’

  I glance down. It’s not a pretty sight. She walks in and gives me a half hug, surveying the damage. It wasn’t a wild party but there seems to be a cup left on every flat surface and what looks like a sausage roll embedded into my hallway rug. She opens the door of the downstairs toilet and closes it again.

  ‘We can tackle that in the morning. Lucy?’

  I gesture into the living room. She takes off her parka and puts down her tote handbag to reveal a pyjama top underneath with bootcut jeans and the same Reebok Classics that she’s worn since I was a child. As it seems to be my job today, I take said coat and place it on the bottom of the stairs. She heads into the living room picking up cups and cushions as she goes. When she sees Lucy, she sighs and rearranges my sister’s legs and hair.

  ‘I am going to assume that this was her idea?’

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t mine.’

  ‘Your father was upset we weren’t invited. He wanted to come as Björn Borg.’

  ‘And
you?’

  ‘Barbara Cartland, obviously,’ she replies a little deadpan. ‘Don’t enable this one. You know what she’s like. Tell her to have her parties elsewhere. It’s what I did for years and why we’re banned from the community centre.’

  ‘I think she thought she was doing something nice.’

  Mum raises her eyebrows. She gets a shock for a moment spotting what she thinks is a live animal on the floor but is actually Brian May’s wig. She stops when she sees Lucy’s decorations – photos of Beth from through the years hanging around as bunting – and smiles at a favourite memory. She pauses when she sees a certain photo on my mantlepiece. She turns to look at me.

  ‘Did Lucy throw up when she saw this picture?’

  Out of all us Callaghans, my mother was on par with Lucy in how much she hated Simon. She proved it on that Christmas Day when Lucy outed him and Mum swung for him and dislocated a thumb. It was the beginning of the end. Her and Lucy had that much in common at least.

  ‘It’s for the girls.’

  ‘Just a shame we all have to look at it. I heard he’s impregnated one of his whores?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘I haven’t asked.’

  ‘Have you warned her about Simon?’

  ‘I have not. It’s none of my business.’

  She knows better than to start a fight so she gets the brush off my fireplace set and gathers crisp crumbs into a pile.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Beth called. I couldn’t make head nor tail but she was in a bit of a state so I thought I’d double check she’s fine and Joe is also upstairs so I thought a sober adult in the vicinity may be useful.’

  ‘I’m sober,’ someone pipes up from the doorway. Mum’s head swings around to see Jag. He shouldn’t really be standing or here at all, come to think of it. I should have ushered him into the garden. Darn it.

  ‘I don’t get the costume.’ He holds his mask up to his face and she laughs. ‘I like that. I’m Fi Callaghan.’

  Jag tries his best to stand to attention.

  Mum points to Lucy. ‘Were you shagging this one in the utility room?’

  ‘No, I believe that was Batman. I have a reputation to uphold as a former commander-in-chief.’

  She pauses for a moment at his humour. Most men wouldn’t dare, especially ones she’s found in her daughter’s house. The normal go-to stance is reverent and nervous.

  ‘What happened to your head, Barack?’ He points to Lucy. ‘Oh, you’re that one,’ she replies, looking scornfully at her daughter as she still continues to snore peacefully. ‘I apologise for that. She’s always had a reactive streak. And you are here because…’

  Jag looks at me. How are we playing this? There is no definition to what we have just yet and I hate to put it in strange youthful terms that one would find on a social media status.

  ‘Jag is a colleague at the hospital, a friend. I told him to stay here for a while in case Lucy gave him a concussion.’

  ‘That’s good advice. Go and lie on the other sofa, Jag. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I would and thank you. It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’

  Mum looks at me but doesn’t say a word. She heads into the kitchen where she sees the remnants of thrown cake on the counter and the smell of Lucy’s vomit taints the air. She sighs heavily, heading to the cupboard under the sink to find bleach and black bags. She fills the kettle and puts it on to boil.

  ‘Why is your sink pink?’

  ‘Lucy made a punch.’

  ‘Of course she did. I can’t believe you just left the cake here like this,’ she says, as she stabs at bits of melted chocolate with a fork. ‘Did you even get the chance to sing to her or make a fuss?’

  ‘Umm, no. This isn’t just us though. Will left the party early.’

  ‘So I gathered. Still, both you and Lucy making a scene can’t have helped. ‘

  ‘It was Lucy’s fault.’

  ‘You are not six years old and fighting over toys, Emma. Beth didn’t want a party. Did anyone ask her if she actually wanted a party?’

  ‘Well, no but—’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Upstairs. I haven’t been up there.’

  I let Beth storm upstairs after the cake and bottle slinging and haven’t checked on her since mainly because I was trying to tend to the wounded and ensure that Lucy threw up in a receptacle as opposed to over any soft furnishings.

  Mum doesn’t respond to me but chucks half a bottle of bleach down my sink and proceeds to scrub away. It’s very much my mother’s way. All her words are cast in judgement, she always expects and wants better for us. There are a lot of ‘shoulds’ in her vernacular.

  ‘Make some tea for your friend and for me too. Is Joe OK?’

  ‘I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  I throw my hands up in the air.

  ‘Why are you being like this?’

  ‘Because Emma, it is fucking one o’clock in the morning.’ I cringe. ‘And I have five daughters over the age of twenty-six and I am still out here in my pyjamas looking after all of you. Never mind the two who I can’t keep track of because they moved away but you, Lucy and Beth… It was easier when you were all children.’

  ‘I am sorry for the inconvenience,’ I mutter under my breath. I’m under no doubt that Jag hears this all from my living room and is wondering whether the easier option is just to run into the night.

  ‘You are all old enough to be making better choices. I have no idea what I did wrong here.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve disappointed you with our string of failures as grown adults. Are you talking about Simon? I’m sorry I chose such a shitty person to be married to.’

  She rolls her eyes at me. ‘You know what I mean. You’re a smart girl.’

  ‘But obviously not that smart.’

  I don’t doubt that this was also a common thread of reasoning in my family; that I was clever and educated but chose to remain married to someone so venomous. It defied belief that I tried to flog my marriage for as long as I did. That I continue to self-flagellate beyond my divorce. Maybe the difference is that divorce wasn’t medicine. There are no right answers or ways to do anything, there was no course to sign up to and ace the exams.

  ‘Don’t twist my words, Emma.’

  I let her clean my kitchen and open the utility room door slowly, almost checking to see if Batman is still in there. He’s not but I see a condom wrapper on the floor that luckily my mother doesn’t clock. For lord’s sake, Lucy. I’ll have to rewash those hand towels on the side.

  I finish making my tea and go to the living room to put a cup next to Jag, now soundly asleep. I check his pulse anyway in case Lucy hit him harder than we thought then cover him with a throw. I like that he’s here. I like that he didn’t come to this party as Boris Johnson. As I tuck him in, my mother gestures that I come upstairs with her. I do as I’m told.

  Is it too early to make amends with Beth? I’m still a little bitter she outed me for sleeping with Stuart Morton but there is also a tiny baby upstairs whom I should check on. I notice my bedroom door wide open and see that the bed has possibly been slept in which means more washing for me. Did someone have sex in my bed? I don’t even want to know.

  I take off my dress and catch my reflection in the mirror, a thirty-five-year-old woman in flats, pantaloons, a Marks & Spencer bra and bonnet. It’s certainly a picture. I finally relinquish the bonnet and throw a T-shirt on.

  Mum pops her head into my room. ‘Where’s Beth? She’s not in Lucy’s room?’

  ‘Tried the girls’ room where Joe is?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We stand there for a moment. Did she actually leave? I’d have heard her go and she wouldn’t have left her baby, no? We scramble around until I notice the bathroom door is locked. My mum takes action.

  ‘Beth? Are you in there? It’s me, Mum. I got your me
ssages.’

  ‘Mum? What did she actually say? Is she alright?’ I whisper.

  Mum isn’t sure whether to divulge. ‘She just sounded upset and half of the messages didn’t make much sense but she said Will left.’

  ‘He did.’

  She looks at me and knocks again at the door. It’s not a complicated locking device so I try to twist it open with the nail of my finger. We finally get in and there she’s in the empty bathtub swathed in a nest of bath towels like the world’s saddest sausage roll and hugging her phone and a bottle of children’s bubble bath shaped like a sailor. It’s how one would have found Belle had the Beast died at the end of that film. I immediately feel guilt. This is my fault. It was her birthday, and we just went ahead and had this stupid party and spoiled even that for her. Her eye make-up is halfway down her cheeks. I scan the floor and find tablets scattered across the floor like polka dots. Mum’s face freezes as she sees them.

  ‘Are they…?’

  I quickly peel back the towels and get Beth to sit up. Beth? I climb in the bath to prop her up.

  ‘Beth? Beth? Come on B…’

  My sister opens her eyes but looks at us in confusion. Mum comes over and slaps at her cheeks with her hands which doesn’t help.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Mum…’ she mumbles.

  ‘WHAT DID YOU TAKE?’

  Panic strikes through me. The party wasn’t that bad. Is something else going on here? Little Bumblebee. She used to follow me around at primary school and is one of the sweetest people I know. What has she done? She tries to curl around me and fall back asleep. We need to make her throw up. We need to call an ambulance.

  ‘Oh, give over you two,’ she says, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I was so fat and bloody clumsy, I fell into the bath and everything went flying. I think those are vitamins. I didn’t take anything. I’m sorry I’ve made a big mess.’

  ‘Then why are you in the bath?’

  ‘Well, I found two teachers from my school in your bed for a start.’