Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

All the managers had sent their forms to HR. I sat with Big Andy and The Shark in the canteen and had a good old moaning session. We’d all spent our Sundays completing the bloody form. Cruella was off sick, which was most unusual.

  Big Andy boomed: “Well it can’t be from stress, she’s got nothing to be worried about!” and dug me in the ribs. Cheers mate. It was alright for him, nothing ever fazed him. The Shark was worried sick. He looked completely grey and he said he’d put his CV onto some job websites; he reckoned he’d be out of here soon. I made myself a note to do the same when I got home.

  I asked if they knew when we’d hear anything, and Big Andy said that HR had told him the 23rd, which was weeks away.

  “No point in worrying about it,” he reckoned, “nothing we can do now. Just got to get on with it.” He was right, but we all agreed it was so difficult to focus on anything with this bloody great thundercloud hanging over us.

  The Husband called and left a message. Bruce was returning over the weekend so he would be back home on Saturday morning. He hoped that was ok with me. He suggested we went out for a meal on Saturday night so we could “have a talk”. The arrogance of him, just assuming I didn’t have any other plans! I didn’t as it goes, but I decided I would do now. The Climber was having her leaving do on Saturday night, and although I hadn’t been intending to go - I could hardly think of anything worse - I thought it would be a good reason to get out of the house for the night. I phoned Karen. She said:

  “So, you’re just going to let him waltz back in, are you? At least kick him out of the bedroom for a while, make him suffer. Don’t let him back in until he’s taken an aids test.”

  “What?”

  “He may have picked up an STD. You can’t be too careful Kate, you don’t know where he’s been.”

  Oh God. I could just imagine having that conversation with him, he’d go loopy. It was a good idea about separate bedrooms though, at least initially - it would seem a bit weird getting into bed together when we’d barely spoken in weeks. For some reason, I felt the urge to make sure the house was immaculate. I had been keeping it tidy anyway - it’s so much easier with just one of you - but I wanted to show him how well I’d coped. I dusted, hoovered, and shiny-sinked as if my life depended on it, and put fresh flowers in vases around the house. I moved the clothes that he’d left behind into the spare bedroom and made up the bed. I was sure he wouldn’t be very happy with this arrangement, but tough titties.

  I didn’t know what time he would be home on Saturday, but I went out early into town, so he wouldn’t think I had nothing better to do than to wait around for him. I left him a curt note saying I thought it was best if he slept in the spare room for now and that I was going out this evening. I spent the morning window-shopping in town, which was crammed full of Christmas shoppers how utterly depressing and then went to see my parents in the afternoon. I got home around four, thinking I would breeze in, get myself ready to go out and breeze out again. Nonchalant; that was the impression I wanted to give.

  His car was in the drive. I opened the front door, and the hall was already in a mess - he’d left several bags and pairs of shoes lying around, and his wash bag was sitting on the stairs, waiting for the magic stair-fairy to carry it up. I found him in the study, hunched over his laptop.

  “You’re back,” I said, not smiling.

  “Yes, hi,” he said, rising to give me an awkward dry peck on the cheek. “I found your note. Actually, I found it after I’d put all my stuff back in our room, so I had to take everything back out again.” Ah, poor you. Your first sentence since you arrived back home and you’ve already blamed me for something.

  He gestured towards the laptop. “I thought as you were going out tonight and we won’t be able to talk, I’d start on a list of things I wanted us to cover.” You’re not serious? “When I’ve finished, I’ll print it out so you can have a read and we can discuss it, you know, when you’ve got the time.”

  I looked at the screen. I could make out the title at the top which read: “Things I’d like us to change”. The list looked pretty long already.

  “Right, well,” I said brightly, “I’ll look forward to receiving that then. I might make my own and then we could compare. I daresay I’ll see you sometime in the morning, but I may be feeling a little rough. I’ve got a big night out planned.”

  “I’m playing golf in the morning,” he said, turning back to the lap top, not interested in my arrangements. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

  I didn’t say anything else. I made myself a cup of tea without offering to make one for him, which I’d never done before. Had I expected him to slink back into the house with his tail between his legs, declare his undying love for me and beg for forgiveness? Perhaps I had expected that. Instead he’d swaggered back into town like a gunfighter in a bad western, declaring “Things are gonna change around here.” The note had obviously got up his nose, but I’d intended it to. I knew I wasn’t helping myself, but I wasn’t going to be a bloody doormat. And now I had to go and spend the evening with The Climber and a load of my pissed-up staff. Nose, Face, cut off.

  I got dressed up in the ‘youngest’ outfit I could find, a black tunic (or it might be a dress) with a purple paisley pattern on it (Monsoon, where else? I really ought to broaden my horizons a bit), thick black tights and black stilettos. The tunic/dress felt a bit too short, so I slipped a short black skirt on underneath. I tried to make my hair look a bit funky by scrunching up the ends using some ridiculously expensive moulding gunk I’d bought on a whim from the hairdressers. It looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards - then forwards, then backwards again. I blasted it with hairspray. If anyone struck a match near me I’d be lit up like a fecking Christmas tree. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Had I achieved a young funky look? Had I buggery. A crazy-haired, forty-something peered back at me through tired eyes, which had far too much eye liner round them. God, I looked knackered. I applied another lashing of Touche Éclat under my eyes, then another. I wouldn’t be able to afford this stuff when I was out of work. I’d have to make eye liner out of bits of charcoal found at the bottom of the barbeque and use red Smarties as lipstick.

  I ordered a taxi to take me into town, which was decadent, but it was bloody cold out. I went to the loo before I left, noticing too late that the toilet roll had run out and not been replaced. Typical. I left the house without saying goodbye. Sod him. As I entered the pub, I instantly felt over-dressed. Two girls pushed past me, both dressed in very short denim shorts, bare legs and huge great block-heeled shoes they could hardly walk in. Another girl stood at the bar wearing a jazzy-patterned pair of leggings and tiny cropped top. She’d catch her death of cold, surely. The Climber was sat at a table with about ten others from work. Although it was only six thirty, I’d say they’d made a very early start. My arrival was met with the roar “The manager gets the drinks in!” so I went to the bar to get a couple of bottles of wine for the table.

  The pub was very busy with most tables already full. As I waited at the bar, I saw a young guy seated at a table to my left put his head down on his arms and throw up on the floor. His vomit was completely blue. I looked away, feeling queasy. I ordered the wine - unbelievably it was buy one bottle get the other free. The miserable barman said it was happy hour until seven. That explained why the place was packed. The blue-vomit guy had been quickly marched out of the pub by his friends. A group of girls came over and quickly sat down to nab the table. They obviously hadn’t seen. As I walked past, I heard one of them start squealing in disgust. What a classy place.

  I put the wine down on our table and poured myself a large glass. It was a bit vinegary, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t get through tonight sober. I poured a glass for The Climber. She was full of herself as usual, telling us all about the amazing nightclubs in Manchester she would soon be going to and how she would be rubbing shoulders with footballers and celebrities. As well as wine, they were all drinking someth
ing called Jäger Bombs. They tried to get me to have one, but I refused after I got one of them to look up the number of calories on their iPhone. 158!

  I asked The Climber if any of the others were coming. She said that Martin couldn’t make it as he was at a 50th birthday party at the community centre, Cynthia couldn’t make it as she had “one of her groups”, whatever that was and Jan couldn’t make it as she’d said she was too old to be out on the town. I knew what she meant. I asked about George.

  “Oh yes, he’s here somewhere,” said The Climber, reaching out to pour herself more wine. I looked round and saw TLS George stood at the far end of the bar, passionately snogging a young girl. I squinted at them.

  “Who’s that he’s trying to eat?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! He’s always at it with some little tart or other. Someone else’s girlfriend usually.”

  I looked a bit closer. Was that... no surely not. It was, it was Georgia! For Heaven’s sake, she was only fifteen! She shouldn’t be in here. Was she drinking? It looked like it. What should I do? Should I go and break it up and tell George how old she was? Phone the Bunny Boiler, or my brother? I had to be careful, Georgia was capable of making a right old scene when she was drunk. I decided to text my brother. He texted back saying that the Bunny Boiler was in town too and he’d let her know. I kept my head down.

  Ten minutes later, the Bunny Boiler came storming in. She picked out her daughter and pushed her way through the crowd at the bar, grabbed Georgia by the hair and wrenched her backwards. Georgia shrieked and tried to wriggle free. TLS George looked stunned. The Bunny Boiler aimed a punch at George, screaming “Paedophile!” and wrestled Georgia out of the pub to general hoots and cheers. I sincerely hoped Georgia didn’t find out it was me who’d dobbed her in. George and Georgia. Oh my God. What a pairing that was.

  The evening limped on. I had hoped we might go somewhere for a nice meal, but none of them showed any signs of wanting to eat anything. All I wanted to do was go home, but I couldn’t face going back early. I was determined to pretend to the Husband that I was having a great time without him. I ended up playing chaperone to the seriously drunk Climber. She was making a right show of herself, stumbling around knocking into people and getting very lairy when they protested. She fell right over at one point, and I had to help her up, which wasn’t very easy. She was also attracting a great deal of predatory alpha male attention, and I was constantly swatting groping hands away from her. She missed a call on her iPhone at one point and squinted at the screen.

  “Oh look, it was Brett. Shall I call him back and tell him what a tosspot he is?” When I told her that wasn’t such a great idea, she passed the phone to me and said, “You tell him Kate, go on, call him and tell him he’s a tosser!” I would have loved to have made that call. Still, probably not a good time, with my job still hanging in the balance. I told her I’d do it after the jobs had been announced. She said “Oh you’ll be fine, Brett really fancies you. He told me.” Really?

  “Well, he said if it was a choice between you or Clare he’d do you.” Charming. How professional. To my shame, I felt a stab of happiness that Brett found me more attractive than Cruella. I really was a very sad individual.

  It was almost 2.00 am before I managed to get The Climber into a cab and persuade TLS George to go with her and make sure she got home safely. He wasn’t keen - she was almost certain to be sick on him. I gratefully got into my own taxi, not feeling a bit drunk, just worn out with playing the mother-hen all evening. I wasn’t cut out for a nurturing role; that’s why management suited me so much.

  The house was in darkness when I got back and I made as much noise as possible when I got in. Childish I know, but small victories.

  I got up extremely late on Sunday morning. The house was quiet, The Husband had gone out to play golf. I munched a bowl of cereal as I drifted through the downstairs rooms, which had been in pristine condition yesterday, but were now a complete mess again. In the spare bedroom - The Husband’s room as I could now call it - he had bags and bits of clothing strewn everywhere. Yesterday’s socks lay on the floor. That always drove me mad. Why couldn’t he just pick the bloody things up, it only takes a second. Oh dear - had I become a nagging wife? Is that why he’d had to get away?

  I went into the study, and saw on the printer a page listing the things he wanted to talk to me about. I had a read:

  “Things I’d like us to change - a discussion document”:

  Work life balance - a maximum of one hour per evening to be spent on work, and two hours at the weekend. It is not acceptable to ‘build up’ credits, i.e. if you do not work on a Monday evening you cannot carry this hour forward, you lose it. So you’re dictating how I should spend my evenings and weekends? Are you going to be stood over me with a stop watch?

  Holidays - each to have one separate holiday/weekend during the year when we are free to go away with friends, or on our own. One joint holiday which will be a two week block. During the joint two weeks, we must experience one new activity i.e. sky diving, white water rafting, sailing etc. You’re having a fucking laugh.

  Going out - we will try one new restaurant each month, and use this as an opportunity to discuss how things are going and air any problems or issues. Ooh, that will be fun.

  Washing the cars - we are responsible for washing our own. You lazy bastard! That’s the only thing you do for me! Why haven’t you mentioned the housework, the gardening, the weekly shop? Shall I just mow one half of the lawn next time? Clean half the bath? Just shop for myself? Cut the soap in half?

  Car maintenance - we are responsible for maintaining our own. Oh great, I’ll probably put oil in the screenwash again.

  Use of the study - it is not practical for both of us to use the study at the same time, so a rota needs to be drawn up - and kept to. I hardly ever use it! You’re always in there. You’re just referring to the one time about a year ago when I was in there and you got the hump because you couldn’t play online carting with James.

  Finances - 25% of any bonus or additional earnings to be placed in a joint savings account to be used on house/garden repairs. That’s hardly fair is it? You know I get more bonuses than you do.

  Maintaining a healthy size and weight - we are responsible for ourselves, but should consider our diet - suggest two meals per week protein only (no carbs) and no chocolate to be kept in the house. Now you’ve gone too far. And is that a dig at my protruding stomach and mysterious back fat? I can still get into my size 12 clothes you know, the same size I was twenty years ago. Perhaps they do make the sizes bigger now, but that’s not the point.

  I sat and looked at the list. Separate holidays, sky diving for Christ’s sake, rotas, regimented work hours, protein-only meals - had our marriage really come to this? Plus it was all on his terms. I was surprised he hadn’t added anything about sex, such as “We’ll have one session on our own, or with friends and then one joint session which will be a two minute block. During the two minute block we must experience one new activity, such as muff-diving, donkey-punching, rimming etc.”

  I thought about creating my own list, but whilst it would have made me feel better, I knew it would be counter-productive. Instead, I phoned Karen and read the list out to her. I thought she’d be her usual militant self and suggest I ripped it into tiny pieces and stuff it into his big gob, but she was strangely reserved.

  “Well, it all sounds a bit self-centred, Kate, but at least you know what’s on his mind now, the things that bug him, and it seems as if he’s trying, well, you know, he wants to discuss them at any rate. Gets it all out in the open. That’s what you’ve got to do - if you want to carry on together that is.”

  I was silent.

  “Kate? Do you want to carry on with him?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “I just don’t know. I’m still suspicious about him and Debbie, I don’t know if something went on or not. He says not, but I don’t know if I believe him. And I think I’ve got quite used to bei
ng on my own over these last weeks, and you know what? It’s not that bad. I’ve been part of a couple ever since I was fifteen - once I’d discovered eye liner and push-up bras I was never short of a fella and I’ve been scared of being on my own. But I reckon it’s better than being unhappy. Miles better, in fact. I even managed to get a fence panel fixed within a couple of days. It would have taken him months to get round to it.”

  “Well, your head’s probably all over the place,” said Karen. “Don’t forget you’re worrying about work too, and your Mum. Best not to make any rash decisions. That would be my advice. I think he was doffing Debbie - the way she would turn up at the pub, pretending it was a co-incidence. What bullshit. They’d planned it, I bet you any money you like. But you need to get some real evidence. Have you managed to look at his text messages yet?”

  “That’s the point though, Karen, I don’t want to be in a relationship where I have to look at text messages, go through pockets and all that crap. I can’t stand uncertainty. And life’s too bloody short.”

  “Why don’t you see what happens with your job, and get Christmas out of the way? See how it goes and use the New Year to start afresh - either together or on your own. Don’t make a snap decision now.”

  She was right of course. But I liked to make snap decisions, I couldn’t bear indecisiveness. I wasn’t able to settle to anything for the rest of the day, and found myself continually glancing out of the front windows, waiting for his car to pull into the drive. I made up a beef casserole and put it in the oven to cook slowly - call it a peace offering. He arrived home just as it was starting to get dark.

  “Hi,” I called from the kitchen. “How was golf?”

  “Dreadful,” he said grumpily. “One of the worst rounds I’ve ever played. My back was aching very badly, so I couldn’t get my swing right. I think it’s because I had to sleep in the spare bed last night, that mattress is rubbish.” Yes of course, that would be my fault then.

  “Oh dear,” I said, feigning concerned sympathy. “Well, we can always swap the mattresses round if it helps. I’ve made us a nice casserole for tonight, and I thought we could open a bottle of red. You never know, that might help ease the pain.” He shot me a look to see if I was being sarcastic but I smiled warmly back. He went to select a bottle of wine and came back to the kitchen to open it.

  “I read your list,” I said, attempting a light tone.

  He looked surprised. “What list?”

  “You know, what you want us to change. It was on the printer. Where you left it.”

  “Oh, I must have printed it out by accident. That wasn’t the finished version, it was just a start.” Bloody hell. I accepted a glass of wine and took a big gulp.

  “So do you want to talk about it then? I mean, what you’ve written so far?”

  “Oh no, not yet,” he frowned. “No point until it’s finalised. Then we can have a proper chat about things. What time will the casserole be ready? I’ve got some stuff to do, I’ll be in the study.” Have you checked the rota, is it your turn to use the study? He was impossible to talk to when he was in a bad mood. However, three glasses of wine later and he’d mellowed. We sat down to the casserole and I told him all about work and what was happening with my mum. He was sympathetic, and halfway through the second bottle, he was getting a bit sentimental, saying that he was glad to be home and how much he wanted to make things work. He started rubbing at his back and making “ooh ouch” noises, but I stood my ground and said we should stick to separate bedrooms and take things slowly. He looked a bit sulky but was forced to agree that this seemed sensible.

  And so we fell back into our routine of sorts. I felt like I was treading on eggshells all the time, mindful of ‘the list’ and taking care not to get caught doing too much work in the evenings. After a week or so had passed, I asked him if he had finished the list, and he said almost, and suggested we used it to form our New Year’s resolutions. He was probably just too lazy to finish it off.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight