Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

Saturday

  I awoke just before nine and dragged myself out of bed, even though I felt I could have slept for another eight hours. I could hear the Husband downstairs clattering around the kitchen. Strange, I thought he was off out early to play golf. I padded downstairs in my dressing gown and slippers.

  “Morning love” I said rubbing my eyes. “No golf today, or are you going later?”

  “No, I’m not playing today,” he said. He stood rather awkwardly by the kettle. “Er, do you want a coffee? I thought we could have a talk.”

  My stomach lurched. Not “the talk”. Please let it be about something mundane, like sorting out the garage, or clearing the guttering. But I could tell from his face it wasn’t going to be anything like that. I sat down heavily at the kitchen table, feeling sick. He was making us coffee, and the kettle took an age to boil. He’d overfilled it as usual. Neither of us spoke; the silence between us oppressive. At last he sat down at the table and slid a mug over to me. It was a mug I’d bought for him which had “Trophy Husband” written on it. He stirred his coffee, still not saying anything and not looking at me. I wasn’t going to help him out, so I kept quiet, waiting. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, I’m sure you’d agree that things haven’t been great between us recently,” he said, glancing at me to gauge a reaction. He didn’t get one. He took a deep breath “And I’ve not been that happy for some time.” What? How long is some time? “So I was thinking it might do us both some good if we took some time out to, you know, give ourselves some breathing space, and, well, find ourselves again.” Find ourselves again? Why are you talking bollocks? He was looking at me now.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” I asked, aware that my voice had gone a bit squeaky. “Do you mean you want us to book a holiday?” I knew he didn’t mean that, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Well no,” he said, stirring his coffee again. I wanted to grab the spoon and shove it up his nose. “I didn’t mean a holiday. You know I’m looking after Bruce’s house while he’s out in Hong Kong. I thought I would stay there for a bit, you know, just for a few weeks to give us a break from, from, well everything really.” You mean from each other.

  “You’re leaving me?” I think it must have been the manager in me, but I felt I really needed to be clear on what was actually happening here. I felt as if I was undertaking a factfind with a colleague at work.

  “No, no,” the Husband replied, but I noticed he did not look me in the eye. “Just a temporary break, just a few weeks to give ourselves a bit of head-space, and time to think and...” he tailed off. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Won’t you have to clear it with Bruce first?” I asked, ever-practical.

  “He’s fine with it,” The Husband said, too quickly. So he’d been planning this. He realised he’d given this away and pathetically tried to cover it by adding, “Bruce said before he went away that if I needed to stay there it was no problem, in case I had a late appointment in that part of town, or something like that.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt numb with shock - there must be hundreds of questions I should be asking, but I couldn’t think what I should ask, or know how I should behave. Should I be angry? Sad? What would Madonna do in this situation? She’d probably throw her mug at his head and yell “Well get out then you mother f***** and don’t come back. You wanna find yourself? Well find this!” and would pelt him with the Denby dinner plates as he ran for his life. But I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel anything.

  “Well,” I said, needing to break the silence. “You’ve obviously made your mind up. When are you going?”

  The Husband looked hugely relieved.

  “I thought I would get a few things together now and get off this morning,” he said. Bloody hell, don’t hang about will you - can’t wait to get out of here? “I’m glad you’re taking it like this, I knew you’d see it’s for the best too. The best thing for both of us.” You justify it how you like mate, this is your decision and yours alone.

  He got up from the table. He looked about to say something else, but thought better of it and decided to quit whilst he was ahead. I heard him upstairs starting to pull drawers out, getting his things together. I stayed seated at the table, with my hands clutching my Trophy Husband mug. I hadn’t drunk any of the coffee, I felt too sick. A thousand thoughts were whirling around in my head. Shouldn’t I have seen this coming? I knew he was unhappy didn’t I? Did I? I must have known, I just hadn’t faced up to it. But I thought we were ok. Was this it, was it over or was he intending to come back like he said? What would I tell my parents, I was seeing them later. They’d be so upset, so worried for me. They had enough worries of their own.

  I thought I’d keep out of the way whilst he packed. I wished I was washed and dressed and had put my make-up mask on so he’d at least think he was leaving behind something decent, not a mop-haired frump with morning-breath, wrapped up in a shapeless M&S dressing gown.

  I heard him coming downstairs and going into the study. My God, was he humming? He was! The callous bastard, he was actually humming to himself, he was happy to be going! Was I that awful to live with? He’d been happy enough eating all the meals I cooked for him, or putting on a clean shirt that I’d ironed, or sitting in the garden that I’d weeded, and mown and dead-headed. I was angry now. A churlish thought struck me. He was bound to want to take the iPad with him. It was his after all, I’d bought it for his last birthday, partly because I couldn’t think what else to get him and partly because I’d wanted one too. I’d make him beg for it, though. The iPad was in the lounge so I went and got it, and sat back at the kitchen table pretending to use it. I heard him moving around upstairs and then saw him start to load up his car. From the mountain of stuff he was taking, it didn’t look like he was going for “just a few weeks”. I heard him go back into the study then into the lounge. I was sure he was looking for the iPad. He came into the kitchen and saw me with it. Go on then you bastard, are you going to have the nerve to ask me to hand it over?

  He hovered for a moment clearly not knowing what to do. I ignored him, and focused on the iPad screen. I could almost hear his brain ticking over trying to decide what he should do.

  “I’ll be off now,” he said. I looked up and nodded. “Right,” he said, looking at the iPad and not at me. “I’ll, um, I’ll call you later. Is that ok?” I nodded again. “And I don’t think we should tell anyone about our, er, our arrangement,” he said. “No point upsetting everyone is there?” He paused. “Not when it’s just a temporary thing.” Temporary is it? You’re a lying bastard. Still, I wasn’t sure how or what I was going to tell people - how humiliating to have to tell your nearest and dearest that your husband has left you because he was so unhappy - so I agreed I wouldn’t say anything. He stood there for a moment, then turned and left. The front door closed behind him. I heard his car start up, and accelerate as he drove away. Then it was very quiet.

  I walked round the house as if in a trance. I went upstairs to see what he had taken with him. There were a lot of empty hangers, all his best shirts had gone. Was he planning evenings out? Going to parties? I realised I didn’t even know Bruce’s address. From what he’d said about Bruce’s house, it was a real bachelor’s pad, with all the latest gadgets and gizmos and it had a hot tub. Had he taken his best swimming trunks, his stripy ones that I’d bought him from Quicksilver? I rummaged through his drawers but couldn’t find them. Was it possible he was having a sort of breakdown, or mid-life crisis perhaps? Is it that he wanted to live like Bruce did; a single life with big butch brown leather furniture from John Lewis and a zillion-inch plasma television?

  I went back to the iPad and tapped into History. The last items The Husband had looked at, apart from his infernal bloody Facebook, were:

  Various different sunglasses sites. Why? It’s virtually winter.

  A site which converted units of alcohol into calories. That’s interesting, I should look at that myself later.

&nbs
p; Mobile phone tariffs. Snore.

  eBay search for tents. Was he planning on going camping?

  Wikipedia search on the lead actor from Bugsy Malone. Is he going camp?

  A website for protein shakes. Building himself up? For what? For whom?

  And NHS Direct - Haemorrhoids, how you get them. Oh no, that had been me, worried after I’d been sat on a cold stone bench for ages at the garden centre waiting for my mother to come out. It turned out she’d forgotten I was there and had gone for a cup of coffee and a sit down.

  I tried to log into his Facebook page. I’d never looked at it before. Our usual password “Bollocks1” didn’t work. He always used that. He must have something to hide. I tried “Bollocks2”. It worked. God, he was lazy. He had 178 friends! Who were they all? Lots of women I’d never heard of. An endless stream of banal comments “I’ve just finished scratching my arse and now I’m thinking about picking my nose” etc. Why did people feel the need to share such boring trivial crap about themselves? Nobody cares!

  I had a good poke around, but there was nothing particularly telling. I was surprised that he was friends with the Bunny Boiler; he’d never said. There was one message from her dated a few days ago that said:

  “Hope u r lookin ford to the wedding not long now!”

  He’d replied “Yes, me and the WOW are very much looking forwards to it!” Who was the WOW? Was it me? What did it stand for? I kept trawling through other messages and found one that he’d sent to Debbie referring to “The WOW”. The message said: “I’ll ask the WOW when I get home.” That was it. What did it mean? Something nice or something nasty? Clearly both Debbie and The Bunny Boiler knew what it stood for. Were they all poking fun at me behind my back? Debbie’s reply had simply said “Ok Goofy!” There wasn’t much to go on.

  The weekend stretched ahead of me, suddenly very long and very empty. I tried to process how I felt but I just didn’t know. I didn’t feel emotional or weepy, I just felt numb. Either I was cold and unfeeling or I was in shock. I felt very sick and couldn’t face eating anything, which was most unlike me. Although it wasn’t even midday, I had a large brandy. It was supposed to be good for shock. The burning liquid helped me pull myself together, and I decided I wasn’t going to mope around the house all day like a sap. What would Madonna do? Get dressed up in her best gear and hit the town. Good idea. I phoned my parents to cancel, saying I thought I was coming down with a cold, and then I showered and dressed. I was going to go to Monsoon and spend a bloody fortune on a new outfit. Sod the Husband, sod bloody everyone.

  Sunday

  I woke with a headache having only managed a couple of hours of sleep. My kick-arse-Madonna-mood had been short-lived yesterday. I hadn’t been able to find anything I liked in Monsoon, or anywhere else in town and I’d come home to an empty house feeling very sorry for myself. Even though I’d agreed not to say anything to friends and family, I’d phoned Karen and told her what had happened. I had to talk to someone. She’d come straight round and we’d gone to the pub. She thought it was possible that The Husband was having a mid-life crisis, so she Googled “the top tell-tale signs that your husband is having a mid-life crisis” on her iPhone. The responses were:

  1.He says life is a bore. Hmmm. He had asked if there was more to life, so I think this is a tick.

  2.He is suddenly making impetuous decisions about spending money. He only makes impetuous decisions about spending my money, so I don’t think this is a tick.

  3.Dramatic change in his style or appearance. Nothing dramatic, although I had seen a tub of hair surf wax max appear in the bathroom.

  4.Drinking too much or abusing other substances. Does Nightnurse count?

  5.He is thinking about or is having an affair. He thinks about it every time he watches Hollyoaks.

  Karen had honed in on the last one and asked me if I thought he was seeing somebody else. That hadn’t occurred to me, and I’d dismissed the idea when I’d been talking to Karen, but it had gone round and round in my head last night. Could he be seeing someone else? He’d had lots of evening appointments lately, but that happened in his line of work. Surely he’d have behaved differently, I would have noticed.

  I couldn’t get to sleep, looking at my alarm clock on the hour every hour, until 5.00 am when I think I must have eventually dropped off. The Husband hadn’t called me like he’d said he would, but he had texted to ask if I was ok. I’d just texted back “I’m fine.” What more was there to say?

  I’d been onto his Facebook site again, but he hadn’t updated anything or added any comments. Karen didn’t know what “WOW” stood for. She told me that I must talk to him, openly and honestly. She’d offered to referee if I thought that would help. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t face it yet. I was too much in the dark; I hated walking into situations unprepared. I wanted to talk to his friends, to see if he’d confided in any of them. I bet he’d spoken to Debbie and Paul but would they tell me anything? It would be unfair of me to ask them, not to mention humiliating.

  I kept walking round the house, I don’t know why. I wondered what The Husband was doing today. I was going to drive myself mad at this rate. There was nothing more I could do today, I needed to keep busy. My car could do with a wash and there was plenty to do in the garden. But what if the neighbours asked where the Husband was? Oh God, what should I say? I started to cry. I allowed myself a bit of a sob, then took a swig of brandy and gave myself a good talking to. No more tears you wimp, you weed. If anyone asks where he is just say “He’s recovering from a surgical enlargement procedure.” That should shut them up. I stood up with a sense of purpose and went to wrestle with the Flymo.

  I managed to hold it together at work. Just about. I was so busy, there was no time to think or to dwell on things. I did have one “episode” after I’d been to the canteen at lunchtime to fetch a salad. Walking back along the corridor, I’d dropped the plastic container with the salad in it. The container burst open and the salad fell out on the floor. I shouted “Oh fuck it!” and kicked it very hard. The contents, which unfortunately included quite a lot of beetroot, splattered up the wall. Luckily there was no one around so I legged it, and phoned facilities when I got back to my desk, telling them “someone” had made a right mess in the corridor. I spent the afternoon worrying about if I’d been caught on CCTV, even though I knew the building didn’t have CCTV. Must be a guilt-thing.

  I’d got home on Monday night to find that the kitchen door was open, when I knew I’d shut it before I left the house. I always closed it, The Husband always left it open. I figured he’d been back to the house during the day. That hurt - why couldn’t he have waited until this evening? He must want to avoid seeing me. I noticed that some things had been moved around - I bet he’d searched high and low for the iPad. Well, he wouldn’t have found it, because I’d taken it to work with me. Small victories.

  We hadn’t had any significant contact, just exchanged a few texts. I checked his Facebook site every evening but he hadn’t added anything at all and none of the messages he got from his 178 “friends” indicated that they knew about our situation. Karen called me frequently, wanting to know if we’d spoken and what I was going to do. She’d also asked what I was going to do about our bank accounts, and wasn’t I worried that he would clear the whole lot out? I hadn’t even thought about that. What should I do - wait for the two weeks that he said that he’d be away for to be up, or try and talk to him now? I was really torn. He said he’d needed some space, so perhaps I should give him that and leave him alone. But my mind was a complete whirl, I was struggling to sleep, and could hardly eat. At least some weight was coming off at last. I’m not sure I could go another week feeling this wretched.

  My brother had called me about the wedding. What was I going to do about the wedding? Would I be going on my own now? What would I tell everyone? He asked me if The Husband could do a reading at the registry office. Apparently one of The Bunny Boiler’s cousins had been going to do it, but no
w they couldn’t make the service. Something to do with the terms of a restraining order.

  I said I was sure he’d love to and that I would confirm in a couple of days. My brother was anxious to know straight away, and I could hear The Bunny Boiler in the background urging him to find out.

  “Is it a yes or a no? Can’t you find out for fuck’s sake, the only other person I can ask is Uncle Stanley and he’s got a stammer. The service will go on for fucking hours if he does it!” She was clearly feeling the stress of planning her big day. It was awkward, but I told Stu I’d let him know as soon as possible.

  Friday

  After a week of stomach-churning uncertainty and a totally scrambled brain, I decided I had to talk to the Husband. I started to text him, then scrapped the message and thought I’d call, but stopped myself. I needed to talk to him face to face. Neutral territory would be a good idea. He always finished work slightly earlier on Fridays and went to the gym without fail. His logic was he’d lose enough pounds during his Friday workout to counteract the excesses of the weekend. If I timed it right, I would catch him leaving the gym and we could go for a drink. If he had plans for the evening, tough luck, he’d just have to put them back a bit.

  I drove there straight from work, and found a space in the car park where I could see the front door of the gym. I waited. After twenty minutes had passed, I wondered if I had got my timings wrong and had missed him. I was thinking about giving up, when the door opened and he appeared, carrying his sports bag and wearing his awful mud-coloured shorts, which were a bit too tight and a bit too short. I didn’t know why he still wore them; I’d frequently made jokes about soldiers popping out of their barracks. I went to open the car door, but stopped. He was talking to someone, holding the door open for them. A woman appeared, dressed in gym gear. It was Debbie. I didn’t know she went to the gym too. I watched them as they walked slowly towards the Husband’s car. They were deep in conversation. Where was her car? He opened the boot and they both put their bags inside, then both got into the car. He must be giving her a lift home. The Husband drove them out of the car park.

  As I couldn’t think what else to do, I followed them. Did this class as stalking? Possibly. It was hopeless though, in the busy Friday night traffic I soon lost sight of them.

  I made my way to Debbie and Paul’s house, not really knowing what I was going to do. Maybe see if he’d gone inside, but then what would I do, go and ring the bell? Embarrass them all? I didn’t know. When I reached the house, I pulled up outside. There were no cars in the drive and although it was a gloomy evening, there weren’t any lights on. A newspaper was stuck through the letter box. It didn’t look as if anyone was in. I waited for a while in the country lane, trying to think up an excuse for being there if they turned up. I decided I’d have to be honest. No one would believe I was ‘just passing’.

  I’m not sure how long I waited, but no one came. Where had they gone? Surely not for a drink, they were still in their gym gear; he had those horrid shorts on. And where were Paul & Chloë? Deflated, I eventually gave up and drove home.

  There was a note on my door mat which said “We are at the pub, come up when you get home. Karen and James xx”. I walked up the hill to the pub and found them sitting at a corner table. Judging by the tiny amount left in the bottom of Karen’s bottle of Chardonnay I guessed they’d been there some time. I got the drinks in and told them where I’d been, hoping they wouldn’t think I was deranged. I saw them exchange glances with each other.

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” said James quickly. “At least, it’s probably nothing.”

  “What’s nothing?”

  Karen leant forward. “Kate,” she said carefully, “do you think, I mean, could it be possible that there’s something going on between them?” She looked at me closely. “He didn’t drop her at home, so where did they go? He hasn’t told you the address of where he’s staying so you can’t go round there and check up on him. I’m sorry, but it all seems a bit fishy to me.”

  The Husband and Debbie? Together?

  “But they’re just friends,” I said, astonished, “as well as colleagues and anyway, she’s got a kid. He can’t bear children; don’t you remember when he was godfather to Ann and Dave’s kid? He didn’t want to do it, but felt he couldn’t refuse, and when he was asked to hold the poor thing for the photos he held it out at arm’s length looking like he was holding up a soiled pair of underpants. I can’t see him with someone who’s got a sprog.”

  Karen was looking at me like Father Ted looked at Dougal when he’d said something particularly stupid. Was I being completely naive and idiotic? I could see she and James clearly suspected the worse, but I just couldn’t believe it.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” said Karen, picking up her glass. “Call him, tell him you need to see him urgently and get the address. If he won’t give it to you, he’s up to no good.”

  “But it’s late,” I moaned. “What if he agrees? I don’t want to go round there now.”

  “You see,” Karen said to James. “She’s in denial.”

  “Oh alright,” I grumpily fished my phone out of my handbag. “I’ll call him.” The pub was noisy, so I went outside. I pressed his number, suddenly feeling nervous. Who’d have thought just a week ago I’d have felt nervous at speaking with my husband? It rang briefly, and voicemail kicked in. Hmmm, had he seen my number come up and not wanted to take my call? I left him a message saying I wanted to see him, could we meet up tomorrow and I suggested a coffee shop in town. I knew Karen wouldn’t be happy with that, so when I went back inside I told her I’d left a message saying I needed to see him urgently. I felt overwhelmed with fatigue, and didn’t stay at the pub much longer. When I got home, I received a text message from The Husband. It said: “Soz I missed ur call, ok 4 tmw, c u at 11.00?” I just replied “ok”. Was he there with Debbie? I felt sick again. I had a message on my answer phone from my increasingly desperate brother. I deleted it. I felt a bit of empathy with the Bunny Boiler, I could see how these sorts of situations could easily drive you round the twist. Yet another sleepless night was looming.

  Chapter Twenty-Three