Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

Saturday:

  The date for shopping with the Bunny Boiler was upon me. I’d exchanged a few texts with her and arranged to meet her and Georgia (oh God) in town at 10.30, outside a shop called Something Borrowed. I could only assume this either sold second-hand wedding dresses, or ones that had fallen off the back of a lorry.

  I ate my porridge like a condemned prisoner, whining to The Husband that the whole outing was pointless. The wedding was probably never going to happen anyway, and why was I having to spend an entire day with someone I didn’t want to spend time with? I’d had to spend the whole week working with people I didn’t particularly want to work with, the weekends were too precious to waste. He told me that if it was any consolation, Georgia didn’t want to go either. She’d put on Facebook “How lame is my life - a day of looking at stupid dresses with the wrinklies, kill me now.” Ouch - a wrinkly! Is that what I was now? I suppose that’s how I appeared to a fifteen year old.

  “I didn’t know you and Georgia were Facebook buddies.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied, a bit vaguely, and studied his paper.

  Hmmm. I was going to have to take a look at his Facebook site; it seemed a bit odd that a 46 year old man would have teenagers as Facebook friends. I wondered if he’d used the same password we used for everything “Bollocks1” or if he’d set up a different one. If it was a different one, then clearly there was stuff in there he didn’t want me to see. I’d have to try and hack in. If it was Bollocks1, then obviously there would be nothing worth reading. I didn’t have time to think about that now, I had to go and meet the BB and the Baby BB.

  I found the shop tucked away in a side street. It had a massive, white, tiered wedding dress displayed on a dummy in its window, made of a horrid shiny, crinkly material - even the dummy looked embarrassed to be seen in it. As I got there, I received a text from the Bunny Boiler which read: “Georgia bein a bitch. c u l8r 11.30?” I’m not sure what was more depressing - a mother that refers to her daughter as a bitch or that awful text-talk from someone who’s almost forty. But on the bright side, that was an hour less in their company - hooray! I went to Starbucks and treated myself to a cappuccino with an extra shot, just to caffeine myself up for the day. I then went to Boots to have a look at their anti-wrinkle creams - my God they’re expensive! I didn’t get any. I’d just have to try going bra-less and hope that pulls the wrinkles out of my face. I spent a very pleasant half hour in Monsoon, looking at all their lovely clothes, stroking the faux fur shrugs and trying to work out, if the wedding was to go ahead, which dress I’d opt for. I found myself about to purchase a caramel-coloured cardigan but stopped myself just in time. Let’s face it, the label may have said caramel but it was actually beige. I’m not ready for beige knitwear just yet. But it’s a worry that it’s started calling to me.

  I went back to Something Borrowed at 11.30. The Bunny Boiler was there, looking harassed. She was stood texting furiously, pushing her blonde hair away from her face, exposing dark roots underneath. She was wearing a navy maxi dress, which was a bit too tight up top. Her breasts looked in danger of spilling out. I didn’t mean to look at them as I greeted her but I couldn’t help it - my eyes were drawn to them. Oh Christ, she probably thinks I’m a lesbian now.

  “Sorry Kate,” she said, her face flushed, “but Georgia threw a right bloody strop and refused to come.” Result! “She’s been an absolute nightmare. She was really excited about being my bridesmaid, but I’m sure that idiot-arsehole has been winding her up about the wedding, and now she says she’s not even going to come, says marriage is a waste of time.” I assumed the idiot-arsehole was the ex-husband.

  “I could kill him, I really could, and as for that tart,” she spat the word out, “always sticking her beak in where it’s not wanted, I know she doesn’t give one shit about Georgia, I’ve tried to tell Georgia that over and over, but does she listen to me, no of course not, I’m only her bloody mother.” Yes, I’m sure you are Mother of the Year - that’s why Georgia lives with her father.

  I suggested, hopefully, that we went for a coffee so she could calm herself down but she was determined to start looking for a dress. I told her I’d seen some gorgeous ones in Monsoon, but I was talking to her back as she was already entering Something Borrowed.

  It was, as I thought, a second hand shop; not that you’d know it from some of the prices I could see. It was a long thin shop with rows of wedding dresses on either side. The Bunny Boiler told me, very loudly, that she’d sold her own wedding dress to this shop when “Fuck-Face” left her. She started to manically pull out some dresses from the racks saying “Let’s see if we can find it Kate, it might still be here.” One of the assistants started to approach us, but when she heard The Bunny Boiler say “When I find it I’m going to stamp all over it and kick it to kingdom come just like I should have done with his dick!” she thought better of it, swerving past us and going to help another customer.

  I wasn’t sure what to do - clearly the Bunny Boiler was not in the right frame of mind for this expedition (or for anything else come to that). I managed to distract her from the task of hunting down her first wedding dress by showing her some pretty bodices and long floaty skirts. She liked the idea of a bodice, as she would be able to “flash a bit of tit” which seemed important to her, but she didn’t think they were “bling” enough. When I asked her what she meant by bling, she replied “you know, dee-amont-ee”.

  We found an ivory dress which had a sparkly bodice and a big puffy skirt. She quite liked the look of it, saying she could always “bling it up some more”. We were pointed wordlessly to a changing room by one of the shop assistants, or “that frigid cow” as the Bunny Boiler put it.

  She sat down on a chair in the changing room and produced a small bottle of coca cola from her handbag. “Let’s have one for the road shall we?” she said, taking a few gulps. A strong smell of alcohol filled the small room.

  “Bloody hell Kirsty, what have you got in there?”

  “Just some coke,” she giggled, taking another swig, “But mainly Bacardi.” She offered me the bottle, but I declined, pretending I didn’t like Bacardi, so she wouldn’t think I was a boring, disapproving old fart.

  I helped her into the dress. It’s funny, you see this moment so often in films: the bride-to-be tries on a wedding dress and her friends and family are reduced to tears because she looks so lovely. The Bunny Boiler didn’t look lovely. The bodice was far too tight, and flesh was spilling out all over the place, great big squashy bits under her arms and across her back and as for her chest, well, you could balance your dinner plate on her breasts. The bodice didn’t come down far enough, giving her a very noticeable pot-belly. She considered herself in the mirror, turning this way and that.

  “Mmmm, I do like the bodice,” she said. What??? You look like you’re being squeezed out of a sausage machine! “But I don’t like the big skirt thing, it’s way too plain and boring.” She took another swig from her bottle, some of it escaping her mouth and dribbling down onto the dress.

  I had to get out of there. I said I knew it was early, but suggested we went to get some lunch. She readily agreed and we peeled her out of the dress. Handing it back to the assistant, she told them that if she decided to have a “dull as shit” theme for her wedding she would be back. Cringing, I quickly led her out of the shop.

  We went to Woody’s Wine Bar for lunch. It was nearby and one of my favourite places - I had to salvage something from the day. Although it was still early, Woody’s was very popular and it was already filling up. We found a table, and ordered a glass of wine each. I felt myself beginning to relax a little. I ordered a warm duck salad with a pea puree and the Bunny Boiler went for a penne pasta. I tried to keep the conversation light and cheery, and succeeded at first, but after the first glass of wine she was back onto the topic of her ex-husband and I was doomed. I looked into my Sauvignon Blanc and could see myself floating down a river. The river was called Shit Creek. There was a sign on the riverbank. It
said “Paddles - sold out”.

  “The day he walked out,” she was saying, “that very day, just after he’d left, a stray cat came into the garden.” Pause, gulp of wine. “That cat was evil-looking, big and black and had this look in its eyes, like the devil. It came right up to the patio windows and looked right at me, right into my soul.” Oh my God, nutter alert. “It wouldn’t go away. Do you know what I think?” No, and frankly I’m scared to ask. “I think the cat was possessed by the spirit of my husband.” But he wasn’t dead was he? She sat back to let the drama of her statement sink in. I noticed that one of her eyes was beginning to wander. “I mean, it’s just too much of a coincidence isn’t it? That cat was possessed and came to taunt me, to mock me, I really think it had the devil in him.”

  “What happened to the cat?” I asked, just for something to say really.

  “Eventually I held an exorcism. It never came back.” Of course, a perfectly normal way to deal with a stray cat.

  “Unlike that tart who never goes away-” To my horror she started to cry. “That bitch took everything from me, everything!” She slammed her hand down into the table, her fork leaping into the air. Heads swivelled in our direction.

  “Well, look, don’t upset yourself,” I tried to be consoling, but it’s not one of my strengths. “You’ve got Stu now, a wedding to look forward to-”

  “You know she’s pregnant, don’t you?” The Bunny Boiler was mopping her eyes with her napkin. “He told me this morning. As if he wants to be a father again. She won’t give a toss for Georgia when she’s got her own kid, not a toss. Nor will he, he’s so under her thumb, he just does whatever she tells him to. They’ll want rid of Georgia, I know they will. That, that, that... oh.” She seemed to have run out of names for her ex’s partner, and picked up what she thought was her wine glass. It wasn’t. It was a cocktail glass full of water which contained a floating candle. She didn’t seem to notice and took a large slurp. Luckily, the candle was unlit. People on the other tables were shooting sympathetic glances at me.

  I didn’t know what to say. At least I knew now why she was having a mini-melt down today, but I wasn’t sure if it was the news of the baby that was upsetting her or the possibility that she may have to live with Georgia. The meal arrived and I tried to get her to eat something, but she was only interested in more wine. I cheered her for a brief moment by saying that the tart would get really fat and have horrid swollen ankles, but she was soon crying again, big splodgy tears falling into her penne. Her nose was running too. I couldn’t face my pea puree.

  When our plates were cleared away it was to my huge relief that she phoned my brother and asked him to come and pick her up. I ordered some black coffees while we waited for him. He didn’t seem surprised by the state she was in, he must be used to it. Poor Stu. I could understand why their relationship was always off and on. Would he really marry her? Surely she had too many issues, she couldn’t possibly be ready to get married again.

  I said goodbye and found myself going back to purchase the beige cardigan. Possibly the last couple of hours had aged me - the rot had started. I had to rally against it. As I made my way home, I made a mental list of the de-aging “maintenance” activities to undertake:

  Teeth whitening. I hate the dentist, but don’t trust the do-it-yourself kits.

  Colour hair. Have never had to do this before, but white strands are now clearly visible and impossible to pull them all out.

  Get my colours done. Had a quick look on the Internet, but I’m not sure if I’m a spring or an autumn and I’m slightly colour-blind anyway.

  Re-vamp wardrobe. Buy clothes that actually co-ordinate, not whatever mismatched pieces I take a fancy to.

  Lose a stone in weight. Do not lose any more than this or face will age - it will become haggard and drawn.

  Use fake tan? Not sure about this one, as a tan can be quite ageing. However, would make teeth look instantly whiter without having to go the dentist, so should consider.

  Drink green tea instead of coffee. Yuk, yuk, yuk but might get used to it if I can get through the caffeine-withdrawal headaches. Will start tomorrow.

  Sunday:

  It had been a horrid day - one of those where it had rained virtually non-stop. The Husband was out playing golf, although I don’t know why anyone would want to be out in this weather. He hadn’t been in the best of moods when he left, having broken a piece of tooth whilst eating his breakfast cereal. He seemed to blame me because I’d bought a cereal that we hadn’t had before and it was harder than he was used to. I’d thought the name “Granite Crunch” would have given him some warning. I had suggested, quite mildly I thought, that he was more than welcome to do the weekly shop himself. That put him in an even bigger strop, and he tetchily reminded me that he had put the bin out in 1938 and mown the lawn in 1955 - did he have to do everything?

  I was also feeling depressed, having put on a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn in a while. My bum had immediately tried to escape from them. Once I’d managed to re-capture my bum, bits of side flesh had got out. I tried to examine my reflection from behind in the full length mirror, but it was really difficult to do. In the end, I’d set up my camera on self-timer, balanced it on the chest of drawers, turned my back on it, and waited ten seconds for the picture to be taken. I examined it. Oh my God. That was definitely not one for the album. Where had my bum actually gone? There it was - not where I’d expected it to be. It was a lot closer to my ankles than before. Didn’t it used to stand to attention a bit more? My buttocks seemed to be looking dejectedly down at the carpet, like I do when the hoovering needs doing. I was shapeless - I couldn’t tell where my back ended and my bum began.

  I deleted the picture with a shudder. I had to do something, get back on the diet. I’d revisit the ‘pledge’ I’d made to myself and try really hard this time. It was just so bloody difficult to keep count of the calories each day. I Googled “bum-lifting” exercises and vowed to do a hundred each morning and each evening. This time I would really be strict with myself and cut out all the crap. I decided I would start from tomorrow as I’d promised myself a cheese toastie at lunchtime.

  I spent the rest of the day pottering about, making half-hearted raids on the house-work and work emails, distracted by, well, just about anything really. I was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to watch the Emmerdale omnibus, and became gripped by Ski Sunday. I’d had a long conversation with my mother, who’d phoned whilst I’d nipped out to get a paper and had got confused by the answer phone. When I’d got home, the message light was flashing. My mother’s voice had recorded saying “Hello, Kate? Hello, are you still there love? Can you hear me?” I then heard her saying to my father “She is there Frank, because she answered. She can’t hear me. It must be a bad line or something. It could be our phone playing up again.”

  I called her back and tried to explain that the answer phone message was a recorded message from BT. My mother then wanted to know if the lady from BT always answered our phone when we were out. I tried to explain again that it was a recording, but she didn’t understand, convinced she’d spoken to an actual person. At one stage, her voice became very faint and distant and I could hardly hear her. I shouted “Mum, Mum, can you hold the phone a bit closer? I can’t hear you.” Dad eventually came on and said she’d been trying to change the TV channel with the telephone and talking to me on the TV remote. It was all quite exhausting.

  I’d made myself a cup of green tea - shudder - and read the Sunday papers, starting with the magazines, then the gossipy articles, eventually moving onto the real news when I’d run out of all the shallow, interesting stuff. I turned a page, and there in the finance section was a huge headline which read: “Perypils Lets Down its Customers Again”. There was a picture of a miserable-looking couple stood in front of their house, which was missing a large section of its roof. The story, which took up an entire page, was that the couple, who’d been “loyal customers” of Perypils Insurance for over twenty years, had suffe
red damage to their roof following a storm. They tried to claim on their buildings insurance, but Perypils had deemed that the bad weather did not meet their definition of a storm. Apparently, the wind speed hadn’t been strong enough. I looked at the picture - there was a bloody great hole in the roof! That must have been one hell of a stiff breeze! There was a smaller caption which read “When is a storm not a storm? When it doesn’t suit Perypils.”

  The couple’s house was uninhabitable because of the damage and they were living in a caravan in their front garden. There was a picture of their caravan. It looked like a rusty, upside-down pram standing in a swamp. I read on. This “poor, unfortunate” woman suffered from arthritis, bronchitis, caravan-itis and every other itis the reporter had prompted from her. She said the stress was causing her hair to fall out. Was that why she hadn’t washed it? There was another caption at the end of the story which read: “A customer in need is no customer of mine”, positioned next to a picture of the smiling Big Cheese Chief Exec. It was a real hatchet job. I wondered how many people would read the article - millions probably. The Perypils Publicity Machine would have their work cut out spinning this one.

  Chapter Nine