Woman of a Certain Rage

by Georgie Hall

  Having finished their production critique at last – no turn unstoned, as Diana Rigg used to say – Mum and Miles are now the ones basking in Matteo’s spotlight, and competing for attention.

  ‘Of course, Shakespeare drew inspiration for As You Like It from the epic poem, Orlando Innamorato,’ Mum shows off, ‘written by a countryman of yours, Matteo.’

  ‘In fact, you might be surprised to learn that Shakespeare set a third of his plays in Italy,’ Miles tells him.

  They look suitably discomfited when Matteo proceeds to reel off all thirteen titles, laughs affably and complains, ‘And not one set in Puglia!’

  Behind him, Lolita is throwing eye daggers at her boss/husband/lover while holding the card machine out at Dad.

  I’m sweating from my eyeballs; I step outside to try to cool off and wake up. Paddy nips out after me, intent on a clinch. Oh hell, I’d forgotten about his sex mission. I’m far too hot for the overture to start. We can do all this at home. With luck, I’ll sleep through most of it.

  But he loves a spot of pavement necking and I don’t want to spoil his good mood, so we indulge in a quick nostalgic kiss in the shadows of a neighbouring shop doorway, not realising there’s a homeless man in there until we fall over his dog. It’s a serious passion-killer. The man’s asleep. I stoop to stroke the dog apologetically, a collie with odd eyes and one ear up and one down. Arty looks back at me, saying she’s sorry too. Sorry I died. I fish in my bag for a tenner and fold it into the man’s hand, ignoring Paddy’s disapproval.

  Back in the restaurant, Mum has got in a muddle with her jacket which Matteo is helping her put on. She’s so thin it frightens me, that beautiful death dance between age and beauty. I step in to help, but she bats me away, insisting, ‘Matteo can do it!’ He flashes his big smile, calling her ‘Bella’ and ‘Dolcezza’ and she giggles coquettishly. I can see how much the attention lifts Mum, but it still makes me uncomfortable. In a surge of bad temper, I remind myself that beneath the overplayed charm, this foxy silver-tongued flatterer is a road-rage despot who wouldn’t lift a finger to help a sheep in distress.

  Catching me watching him, Matteo leans across, dark eyes smiling into mine. ‘You OK, beautiful crazy lady?’

  I don’t let myself react, although my heartbeat goes from seventy to 110 like a Ferrari in a police chase. When did he recognise me? Right from the start? Bastard.

  There was a time I’d have found the perfect witty put down in a breath – assuming I’d resisted the headstrong temptation to name and shame him – but I am tired, sober and humourless. I turn away, ignore Paddy’s curious look and walk back outside without a word.

  I want Antonio back. I want Arty back.

  I want me back.

  6

  Bedtime

  We’re back home. It’s the first time we’ve had the place to ourselves in years. And I don’t want to have sex. Not remotely.

  Paddy is happy drunk and pulling out all the stops. The mood lighting’s on, the smoochy playlist selected on Spotify (I take a quick look and it’s actually called Music for Making Love), the wine uncorked (he’s no fool – he knows I need my engine priming) and the suit is staying on for now, doing its magic aphrodisiac thang.

  My eyes do their looking-for-Arty thing even though I know she’s not here. Why can’t I shrug off the weight of homecoming sadness each time there’s no big welcome?

  How I long to feel as drunk and horny as Paddy. I swig wine as we do-si-do around the kitchen island.

  His voice is seductively low… ‘Tell me about these sexy books you read out.’

  Yes, he can clearly see a positive in tonight’s surprise revelation.

  ‘Do they ever turn you on?’

  ‘God, no!’ (That’s not strictly true. One I narrated recently set amongst Venetian courtesans had me so hot under the collar I had to slip off for a discreet loo break, but it’s definitely not a mood we can recreate here, so I’m not about to tell him.)

  Over the speakers, Ginuwine is singing ‘Pony’, the bass vibrating with burpy percussion as he promises to throw out his party guests and wreck my body. I’d rather have Dean Martin and his big pizza-pie back.

  ‘Let’s go up to bed.’ Paddy gives me his hard, horny stare, only slightly boss-eyed from tiredness and Dad’s largesse.

  My wine catch-up is waking me up. I’m not ready for bed; I’m buzzing, I need to defuse. Avoid having sex.

  ‘I know, I’ll write a restaurant review on TripAdvisor!’ I announce.

  Paddy tries to talk me out of it, but I already have the laptop out on the kitchen table.

  *

  I like writing reviews; I try to find a positive in everything. It’s karma. I’ve been on the receiving end of some scalding invective (the Birmingham Post calling my Celia in Calendar Girls ‘flaccid’ was a low point) and it’s my way of making peace.

  To balance the planet, for every bad review I receive, I post a good one.

  Unless it’s for Russo’s.

  I complain that I still can’t feel my tongue after that arancini removed most of its surface, the wild boar ragu was stodgy, the pudding almost took out a tooth and the service was invasive and – checks online thesaurus – oleaginous. Which, let’s face it, is a light grilling for an overbearing restaurateur whose nubile waitress has given my husband an inconvenient hard-on he refuses to give up hope on.

  ‘You go up and get into bed,’ I urge him. ‘I’ll join you up there.’

  But he’s not falling for that one.

  I post the review before I’ve double-checked it because he’s come round to read it over my shoulder and I hate that. The tone of bitter disappointment might be slightly darker than intended, but I have promoted it from one to two stars – doubled the score indeed! – so what you take with one hand…

  Paddy has changed the Spotify playlist to one more age-appropriate. The Blue Nile are singing Saturday Night, a throwback from student days. If ever there was a make-out track it was this one.

  I can’t put this thing off any longer. We’re going to have to have some sex. It’s either that or I’ll be up against that wall of angry husband back all night, sleepless with guilt and self-loathing, convinced Paddy’s going to leave me/start going to hookers/develop a rampant porn addiction because I’m not giving him what he wants.

  I wish with all my heart that I could feel more enthusiastic about it, but the truth is I feel the same sense of dutiful weary dread that I do when the bed needs changing. It’s lovely afterwards, but what an effort.

  *

  Making love with Paddy was once the best sex I’d ever had. That’s not necessarily as good as it sounds because, while I’d had quite a lot of sex up until he and I made it official, the standard hadn’t been all that great. Orgasms had been a distinct rarity; I was much better at doing those myself. With Paddy, the average briefly shot up, but the numbers all too swiftly fell away again once the novelty wore off. After the kids, it would have taken EST to get these nipples hard.

  But I liked sex with Paddy. I liked the performance of it, the power, the closeness afterwards.

  I miss wanting sex with my husband just for the sake of it.

  *

  I hope whoever came up with ‘the older you get the better you get’ isn’t watching us from up high tonight. There’s nothing quite as passion-killing as waiting through both two-minute toothbrush timers, then flossing and rinsing.

  We could do this afterwards, I know, but we’ve started now so we might as well get it done, more comfortable with this familiar bedtime routine than with sex, which we haven’t done for months.

  We both end up in our pyjamas, which is a bit strange, but at least it gives us something to work on to get the party started.

  We try for a tentative kiss that tastes of toothpaste and inhibitions.

  ‘Just popping for a wee first!’ I say brightly.

  In the bathroom, I fish around in the cabinet for the Vagisan. Tackling the desiccation of my once-welcoming pink bits is su
ch an unsexy stage of foreplay, I’ve secretly taken it on myself. I know I should probably share what’s happening to my body with my husband, but somehow the ‘let’s talk about vaginal dryness’ moment slipped by.

  We get down to business, lights off. I hurry him past foreplay and now we’re away. He’s doing long, steady strokes incredibly slooooowly, which I hope isn’t for my benefit because it’s very hot down here, and I think I might be getting cramp.

  I wish, wish, wish I could get in the mood. Not feel panicked.

  ‘Oooooh yes, ooooo yes that feels good,’ I offer some encouragement.

  Oh God, he’s going even slower now.

  I’m feeling emotional for all the wrong reasons. And sweaty. I want to love this. I love this man, don’t I? Where’s my on button gone?

  Paddy isn’t a great talker during sex. I think it puts him off. I really like it – a bit of ‘you’re so hot’ goes a long way (although perhaps not when I’m literally this hot) – although the first time I suggested we jazzed it up a bit with some dirty talk, he sounded like a hostage being made to read out a kidnapper’s demands. He got better at it, but his relief was obvious when parenthood brought with it a need to keep quiet. Now it’s a force of habit.

  Right here, right now, with him inside me, I hate the silence. It feels like a criticism. It feels lonely.

  ‘Faster!’ I beg, upping my performance to get things moving, fingers through his hair, across his back. I love Paddy’s back, which is broad and freckled. He ramps it up gratifyingly, but I think that last glass or three of Barolo might have been a mistake. He goes a bit soft and slips out a couple of times, which we both pretend not to notice as we regroup.

  Why, why, why can’t I enjoy making love with my husband? Lou says she thinks about David Beckham and it works every time, but I’m no good at that. It feels like being unfaithful. (And I’ve always thought Goldenballs overrated. I mean, that voice! You’d definitely want him to keep schtum in the sack.)

  Overthinking again, Eliza.

  I reach down to coax him back into play, gratified by the response in my hand, less so by the strange groans he’s emitting. Either he’s got a sinus infection or there’s some serious passion going on here. It throws me off my stride.

  I find myself wondering if Paddy is thinking about our Lolita waitress. Jealousy hollows me out, but I talk myself round. This is about Paddy and me, a husband and wife making love. Leave the pouting temptress to her Matteo in the little flat above the restaurant, her worldly-wise Don Giovanni talking her through their mad, passionate Italian lovemaking: ‘La tua pelle sembra seta, il tuo corpo e’ perfetto, sei bellissima!’ (I speak no Italian whatsoever bar those phrases I researched how to pronounce when narrating the Venetian courtesan book – my favourite was ‘il tuo corpo e’pazzesco, viene per me’, ‘your body is insane, come for me’, oh YES!) Afterwards, unable to sleep, Matteo will set out alone to drive like a maniac around the British motorway network, listening to Italian opera at top volume in his sports car whilst searching for something more fulfilling, something that makes him feel, something that reminds him what it is to be human.

  Suddenly I am shame-drenched with desire. For the first time in forever this old mothership is bursting up through the waves. The nipples are zeppelins, the libido flying out of its deep dark lair. I join in, greedy for more, deeper and quicker, that all-consuming need.

  But Paddy’s shrinking away as fast as I try to draw him further in.

  ‘Sorry, love. Too much wine.’

  I get a peck on the cheek and the big freckled wall of his back. He is mortified. I put my hand on his shoulder and it’s gently brushed away.

  The mothership sinks without trace, libido lost at sea. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, because I know without doubt that it’s my fault, it’s me. I’m not sexual any more. Then, when I am, I’m a flailing madwoman.

  It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.

  God, I miss having Arty to hug. I’m so unhappy. I want a hug.

  Guessing Paddy needs a hug too, I wrap an arm around that big back, press my face to its warmth.

  He shrugs me off.

  I move as far across the bed as gravity allows and cry very, very quietly.

  *

  Somehow sleep briefly mugs me before the familiar eyes-wide of the just-before-dawn insomnia shift.

  Oddly, my first waking worry is not that my marriage is in a bad place. No, my first conscious thought, along with a twinge of full bladder, is that rescuing a sheep is not a very valiant boast. I’m going to die of one of my multiple lifestyle-inflicted diseases without doing anything in this ever-decreasing mortal coil that stands out as courageous or selfless or even wildly reckless. Apart from rescuing one sheep. That I thought was a dog.

  Everyone should do something to be remembered by, something to make them immortal.

  Listening to the day breaking, craving more sleep, my mind whirs with all the life-changing challenges, dares and noble deeds I may never achieve.

  With effort, I talk my insomnia off its ledge by reminding myself that I can get started on immortality after the alarm goes off.

  Then the alarm goes off.

  Hitting cancel not snooze because it’s still set to the weekday early shift, I spoon Paddy whose hand reaches back to pat my leg, like I’m Arty. I want to say that I’m OK with the idea of getting a puppy if it makes him happy, that I want Paddy to be happy again. But I can’t speak because thinking about Arty has made me choke up too much.

  Eventually he starts snoring lightly, the moment passing.

  Seconds later, I’m deep in sleep.

  7

  No Time

  For the first Saturday in forever, Mr and Mrs Patrick Hollander have woken up alone in their home. At one time, lovemaking would be urgent and obligatory – after letting the dog out – but Paddy wouldn’t try again so soon after last night’s disaster, especially given I’m suffering a bad night sweat – a morning sweat? – when he delivers a cup of tea to the bedside, telling me he’ll be working on the narrowboat all day if I need him.

  ‘We’ll bring you some lunch,’ I offer, only half awake and wrung out. I peer blearily at the clock. It’s not yet eight.

  ‘If you insist.’

  It would be counter-intuitive to bad-temperedly point out that I don’t insist, I’m being conciliatory.

  I wave him away sleepily. ‘We’ll drop in after Ed’s swimming class.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ It pains him too, this conspiracy of niceness. He makes no comment on my glistening wet face, but he pulls open the sash on his way back out.

  As soon as he’s gone, I throw back the covers, peeling myself off hot sticky bedding and out of sodden pyjamas as I trail to the bathroom to shower, the pelting water clearing my head and reminding me that today is the day I’m figuring out a way to leave my mark in the world. Think positive! Eliza Finch is on a mission.

  This cheers me up enough to make the effort to see off the gonk hair with caffeine shampoo, run the Venus over my stubblier zones and even anoint knees and elbows with shea butter when I step out. Let immortality start with self-preservation. Hot flushes are just nature’s sauna.

  *

  The first few times I found myself drenched in sweat it was logical to blame cooking over a steamy hob, global warming, the increasing use of artificial fibre in Boden tunics, or just that I was ‘hot and bothered’ which, as is obvious, I am a lot. But it’s happening too often to deny there’s a connection to my age.

  The hot flush and the night sweat mark the high noon and darkest hours of menopause, ringing alarm bells every few hours now the biological clock has stopped ticking once and for all. It happens without warning, sometimes just once or twice a week, sometimes multiple times in a day or night. From nowhere I feel as though I’ve been sitting outside too long on a scorching day or exercising to boiling point, and yet it comes from within me, this white-hot dripping heat. I’ve mugged up on it online, and as well as caffeine, spicy food and alcohol
, one of the biggest contributory factors to hot flushes is stress and tension. Be happy, Eliza, or you’ll have to keep sweating it out!

  I’ve naturally also Googled all the other symptoms of menopause, and the checklist women of my age share includes vaginal dryness (tick), reduced sex drive (tick), low mood (TICK!), difficulty sleeping (tick tock tick tock) and problems with memory and concentration (or have I ticked that already?). Other changes include dizziness, headaches, gum problems and a metallic taste in the mouth, tingling feet and hands, itchy skin, hair loss and brittle nails, bloating, stress incontinence, allergies, body odour, palpitations, osteoporosis, dry eyes and weight gain.

  Call me shallow, but that last one is a particularly cruel blow.

  *

  My positive outlook fades to black when my favourite pair of cut-off jeans fails to do up, the stretchier reserves only obliging after a struggle that leaves a pie crust of doughy flesh spilling above the waistband.

  ‘No, no, no!’ I march despairingly to the full-length mirror in which a woman with my head and the torso of David Walliams in red bra and cropped jeans is looking furious. One blowout Italian meal and my midriff’s wearing a fleshy new stab vest. (OK, so there may have been a few barbecues and extra bottles of wine as contributory factors, but this is nevertheless an overnight discovery.)

  Hardly surprising poor Paddy lost his ardour with his arms wrapped round this. I push together the bulges to either side of my belly button so that it moves like a mouth shouting, ‘Somebody help me! There’s a woman in here!’

  I look round for Arty to share the joke. Remember. She’s gone. Like my waist and womanliness.

  I grab a pillow from the bed and scream into it, on and on, suffocating in my own noisy grief. The pillow smells of Paddy, which just makes me howl louder. If I used to think that finding myself drenched in sweat without warning was the most unpredictable menopausal symptom, I was wrong. Nor is it the inexplicable weight gain, the insomnia or low libido.