Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

  Part of me felt she must be right. But part of me just couldn’t accept that The Husband could lie like that to my face. We’d been married for almost twelve years, he wouldn’t treat me like that, would he? How could he face me every day, sleep in the same bed, talk about fence panels if he was at it with someone else behind my back? And what about her, married with a young (devil) child. We’d shared meals, nights out, a weekend away together - surely you wouldn’t do that if you were secretly bonking someone else’s husband? How could you live with yourself, wouldn’t you feel too guilty? I really didn’t know what to think, I just knew I was fed up with thinking. I knew Karen was right about one thing; I did need to get the address, so if he didn’t text it to me I’d have to find it out by other means.

  I phoned my brother and left him a message saying that the Husband was thrilled to be asked to do the reading, and how much we were both looking forward to the wedding next weekend. I said I hoped they both enjoyed their hen and stag dos.

  I drove over to see my parents. My mother opened the door, anxious to show me her outfit for the wedding. It was a pale green skirt-suit she’d bought in M&S. I told her it looked lovely. She said that Frank was very nervous about his speech. I asked her why Dad was making a speech - it should be the father of the bride not the groom. We both became terribly confused until I eventually realised she was referring to my brother, not my father. She’d just muddled up their names. I found my father in the greenhouse, shouting at a slug. There was a huge bird poo splattered on the roof of the greenhouse - it looked as if a pterodactyl who’d just eaten a vindaloo had flown over. It was a wonder the glass had stayed intact.

  I asked if he was looking forward to the wedding and set him off on a rant:

  “Waste of bloody money, why can’t they just live together, they’ve got no bloody sense, no bloody sense at all, he’s spent over a hundred quid on a bloody waistcoat! A hundred quid! They’re a couple of bloody fools, no bloody sense those two.”

  I changed the subject and asked him how Mum had been. He looked a bit cagey. He said she’d not had a good week. Apparently she’d put his gardening shoes into a hot oven because she thought they needed warming up: “could have burnt the bloody house down.” I looked down at his feet. He had his slippers on.

  “Dad,” I started, but he stopped me.

  “I’ve made an appointment with the doctor, Tuesday week. That’s the earliest they could do, the bastards, disgraceful, got to wait over a week to see a bloody doctor. This bloody government, a total disgrace.” Thank God, he’d finally made an appointment. I was relieved, but scared too, worried what the diagnosis would be, even though deep down, I thought I already knew.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, no,” he said, “we don’t want a fuss.” I watched him prodding about in his flowerpots and felt close to tears. Did he know he had some very difficult times ahead? He must do, he wasn’t daft. He was going to have to accept some help at some stage. I went inside to make them a cup of tea.

  I got home to an answer phone message from my embarrassed-sounding brother: “Hi Sis, great news about the reading, thanks a lot. Um, just so you know, Kirsty’s decided, at the very last minute that is, to have a hen night. Er, tonight. Be great if you could make it. Let us know. They’re starting off at the Red Square vodka bar in town at seven. Cheers then, bye.”

  Last minute my arse. Starting at the vodka bar, no doubt that was going to be a very messy evening. I deleted the message. There were no texts from The Husband - he still hadn’t sent me his address.

  Sunday

  Performed daily check on The Husband’s Facebook site. I saw a chain of messages about the stag and hen nights from different “friends”. I read through them all, piecing together the story. It appeared that my brother’s mates had got him a stripper. Someone took a photo and posted it onto Facebook. The Bunny Boiler had seen it, gone berserk and turned up at the bar demanding to see the stripper, whom she was going to “beat to a pulp”. The stripper had already left, so the Bunny Boiler had set about my brother, whacking him with a large glittery pink stetson and then attempting to strangle him with a pink rope lasso. They’d all got chucked out. The Bunny Boiler had posted a message this morning which read: “To my ex-fiance have a nice life arse hole”. I couldn’t help noticing she’d missed out a comma, but her spelling had improved. Was the wedding off again, then? What a nightmare.

  Still no text from The Husband.

  Monday evening

  My brother phoned to say that the wedding was off. I said “Are you sure, Stu?” and he replied “Yes, definitely,” then “hang on, she’s just texted me.” Pause whilst he read it. “Actually, I’m not sure now.”

  I told him not to tell my parents anything until he was completely sure. No text from The Husband.

  Tuesday evening - phoned my brother, but no answer. Texted The Husband “Please send me your address.”

  Wednesday evening - my brother phoned - the wedding was back on! I tried to sound thrilled and asked him to email the reading to me so The Husband could prepare. No reply from The Husband.

  Thursday evening - popped into the hairdressers during their late night opening to see if they could fit me in Saturday morning. They couldn’t. They could do Friday afternoon. I’d taken Friday off to get an outfit/gift/card/confetti, so this was a bit of a nuisance but I had to go for that. No reply from The Husband.

  Friday morning (Wedding Eve)

  I received a response from the Husband which he’d sent very late last night - he’d sent me his address! It was in the posh part of town and I forwarded it straight to Karen, just in case she had time to do any surveillance. I phoned my brother to remind him to email the reading to me. I could hear Georgia and the Bunny Boiler having a screaming row in the background, and my brother sounded extremely harassed. I asked if everything was ok, and he said “No” but he couldn’t talk. Oh God, was it all off again?

  I decided not to go and spend money on a new outfit, but instead spent a very pleasant morning with my nose in my wardrobes, and trying on lots of clothes to find something suitable just in case the wedding did go ahead. I eventually settled on a mid-length cream and brown silk dress, and a chocolate brown fluffy cardigan. Despite my recent worry-related weight loss, the dress was a little tight (my God, I must have ballooned into a whale) so I resolved not to eat any carbs or drink any fizzy drinks, caffeine or alcohol for the rest of the day. I’d get them a gift card from M&S on my way to the hairdressers later.

  I decided to go for a “power” walk at lunchtime to try and chisel off a few extra pounds. I set off briskly towards the village, swinging my arms to burn off more calories. It was a lovely day - a beautiful blue sky, warmish sunshine and the fields a lush green. I saw a horse rolling around happily, waving its hooves in the air, as I passed the farm. It made you glad to be alive - I told myself that I really must do this more often. There was nothing to hear except bird song, until a large truck came up behind me and braked to a halt, noisily ripping through my solitude. Two men jumped out and jogged past me. Oh great, it was bin day. I tried to speed up to get away from them, but they kept pace: each time I overtook the smelly dustcart it would start up and go past me again, and I had to dodge the bin men who kept leaping on and off the truck, and rolling wheelie bins into my path. Why does nothing ever go right for me, why? There was no escape on the long road to the village, so I turned round and walked dejectedly back home.

  I drove into town for my appointment at the hairdressers, stopping at M&S to purchase a £100 gift card. It would serve as a wedding present, or I could spend it on food if the wedding was called off. The hairdresser’s was extremely busy, and they whizzed me through, washing my hair so violently that my brain rattled from side to side and I became quite dizzy. I hadn’t felt like that since head banging to Status Quo at the youth club disco. I automatically said “yes please” when offered a coffee, but remembered I mustn’t drink any caffeine in order to av
oid bloating, so I had to sit there with a lovely fluffy cappuccino under my nose and I could only suck up the froth.

  The Rock called me several times whilst I was having my hair done: once to tell me we’d stuffed up a customer’s policy and it was likely to cost us “the best part of £15k in compo,” then to tell me some of the systems had gone down, then to tell me that there were rumours of a major announcement next week - did I know anything about it, because everyone was asking? I didn’t, so I told her to find Big Andy, he always seemed to know what was going on. I’d worry about all that on Monday. Well, Sunday night probably. My hair looked ok though, much tidier and nicely blow-dried. I’d have to sleep sitting up tonight so that it stayed like that for tomorrow.

  When I got home my brother had emailed the reading. That was a good sign - perhaps all was ok again. I opened up the attachment and he’d sent a poem. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d have at a wedding. Thinking he’d sent me the wrong thing, I phoned him.

  “Er Stu,” I said, “Just a quickie. This poem you’ve sent over - are you sure you got the right one?”

  “Yes I’m sure, it’s Kirsty’s favourite,” he replied, sounding defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Oh, nothing’s wrong with it,” I said quickly, not wanting to cause any upset. “I was just checking; don’t want anything going wrong on your big day!” I wished him luck. You’re going to bloody well need it, bro, and we said our goodbyes. I forwarded the poem to The Husband without adding a comment, and enjoyed thinking about his face when he opened that email.

  Cold chicken salad and no booze for supper. Sat upright in bed, starving.

  Chapter Twenty-Four