Antidote to Infidelity (49 page)

Me:
(taking off my eye
mask, blinking at the fuzz)
“
Er, letting? Snaps?
Sorry, I was asleep. You
’
ve lost me.
”

Jubilant Jill:
“
The interior shots, you know,
of the house? We
’
ve got the full
frontal, thanks, but we need the internals before we can get your three hundred
and sixty degree tour on the web . . .
”

Me:
(groaning, lying
back down between the stirring twins)
“
Aaah. Sorry, I think
you’ve got the wrong number. This is Mrs Moss,
”
. . . (then, feeling like my snooty mother) . . .
“
Sally.
”

Jubilant Jill:
(pausing, rustling
papers)
“
Mmm. Three-bed semi,
Oakham Close. Double garage, private garden, two bathrooms; one en-suite,
conservatory, full central heating throughout . . . oooh hang on a sec, just
gonna put you on hold.
”

(A short blast of
Abba
’
s Dancing Queen,
followed by)
Jubilant Jill:
“
Mrs Moss? Hiya,
silly me I
am a
fruit
,
I’m
getting my wires crossed. My mistake, have a nice day!
”

Click. That was it.
Conversation over. I wouldn
’
t have given it a
second thought had she not reeled off our address
and
described our
house in detail. I’m certain that, when I call back later, she’ll explain that
she meant
nine
Oakham and - hooray! - the curtain-twitchers next door
are on the move.

***

The second strange
call came on Wednesday morning just after I
’
d
put the phone down to Mike. Unlike my so-called
friends,
who are too
busy swinging, decorating palaces, procreating with pro-hockey players and
shagging traffic light engineers to care about
my
problems, the doc has
been checking in twice daily.

In fact, he’s been a
rock. Whilst the girls - quite unanimously – think Will deserves ‘a break’ and
‘a second chance’, Mike thinks it’s high time I showed him the road.

As usual after his
calls, I was lost in a parallel universe of my own, folding Will
’
s underpants, when the landline
rang -
caller withheld
. I assumed it would be my long lost husband
calling to say,
‘
make me a sandwich,
I
’
ve come to my senses
’
.

I was wrong.

Me:
(Calvins in hand,
phone wedged between cheek and shoulder)
“
Hello? Will?
”

Deep, posh male
voice:
“
Ah, good day. May I
please speak with Mr Moss?
”

Me:
(thinking,
‘
Huh!
You
’
d
be lucky, mate!
’
)
“
I
’
m
sorry, no.
”
(Adopting my finest
secretarial tone)
“
He
’
s unavailable at the moment, I
’
m afraid. May I take a message?
Or get him to call you at his first available opportunity, perhaps?
”

Deep, posh male
voice:
(clearly
impressed)
“
Certainly, with whom
am I speaking?
”

Me:
(thinking,
‘
Ooo-err, my mother wouldn
’
t half love you
’
)
“
This is Sally, his wife.
”

Deep, posh male
voice:
(rattled)
“
Ah, in that case, I
think it might be better if I call back and speak to Mr Moss . . .
directly
.
”

Me:
(dropping the act)
“
Why
? Why can
’
t you talk to
me
? Will
and I don
’
t have any secrets.
Tell me who you are and I
’
ll get him to call
you tonight. Promise.
”

Deep, posh male
voice:
(sighing)
“
Very well. This is
Doctor Tinkle, I
’
m calling to enquire
as to whether Mr Moss will be requiring his appointment next week, being as he
missed yesterday
’
s and failed to
cancel.
”

Me:
(thinking,
‘
Oooh! Like the Carry on Films,
then panicking)
“
Appointment? What
appointment? Is Will sick?
”

Doctor Tinkle:
(quickly)
“
I . . . well, no. Not as
such
.
I really can
’
t elaborate, I
’
m afraid. If you
’
d be so kind as to get him to
call me . . .
”

Me:
(nervously)
“
Whoa, hang on. You can
’
t just call and say Will
’
s not sick
‘
as such
’
without giving me
some
kind of explanation. He
’
s either sick, or he
’
s not.
Is he okay?” (Then, shrilly) “
Is this about the
drugs?
”

Doctor Tinkle:
(strangled)
“
Drugs?
What
drugs?
”

Me:
(concerned)
“
Oh, you
know
. That
powder he
’
s been guzzling at
the gym to turn himself into the Michelin Man. What
’
s it called? Oh yeah,
Volterine. I
told
him he was an
idiot
and it would make him ill.
Has it made him ill? It
’
s made him ill, hasn
’
t it?
”

Doctor Tinkle:
(mildly agitated)
“
No! No, no. It
’
s nothing to do with
that
I
can assure you. Although I must confess, I wouldn
’
t
advise the use of Volterine given the delicate nature of your husband
’
s . . . condition.
”

Me:
(worried witless)
“
What
condition? So he
is
sick then? Oh God, oh no . . .

Doctor Tinkle
: (exasperated)
“
Your husband is
angry
,
Mrs Moss. Very
an-gry
. That’s all. Sometimes it can be construed as a
sickness.
”

Me:
(calming down)
“
Angry? That’s it. Just
angry
?
Phew, tell me something I don’t know. Come to think of it, how do
you
know?

Doctor Tinkle
(almost smugly)
“
I
my dear am Mr Moss
’
s anger management therapist.
”
(Then, huffily)
“But
this
really
is
a
confidential matter . . .
”

Me:
(startled)
“
Anger management? Oh, blimey.
What
’
s upsetting him? How
long have you been treating him?
Do you know where he is? . . .”

Doctor Tinkle:
(flustered)
“
Mrs Moss, like I said, it
really
is . . .
”

Me:
(miserably)
“Okay, okay, I get it. It’s
just that I’m worried sick. I’ve got all these questions and no answers ’cos he
keeps hanging up on me.
How
long
, doctor? Please?

Doctor Tinkle:
(cracking)
“
Humph! This is
highly
irregular, but very well. Seven months.
”

Me:
(examining the
plaster board where the phone used to be)
“
Seven
months
?
Are you kidding me?
Are you
a
real
doctor, doctor?
”

Doctor Tinkle:
(incredulously)
“
I
’
ll
have you know,
madam
, that Spring Meadows is
my
practice. . .
”

Me:
(cutting him off)
“
Spring Meadows? Is that the
private one on Pelham Road? How was he when you saw him last? You
can
fix him, can’t you?”

Doctor Tinkle:
(defensively)
“
I can
assure
you, Mrs
Moss, that I’m doing my very best.

Me:
(defiantly)
“
And I can assure
you,
Doctor Tinkle, that you need to try
harder
.”

Doctor Tinkle:
(toe in a mouse
trap)
“Whaaaaaat?”

Me:
(indignantly)
“Well, I don’t mean to be
rude
but you’ve had him on your couch for
half
a year
yet my house looks like the back end of Beirut and my husband’s
still mad as a hatter!”

Dr Tinkle:
(angrily)
“
Well, in my humble opinion,
madam
,
there
’
s little wonder.
Please have him call me. Good day!
”

***

Okay, okay, I
’
ll admit it, I handled it
poorly and probably came across as bit of a ball-breaker, but hey - he caught
me at a bad time, alright? I don’t know why I keep morphing into the wife from
hell on the telephone, it’s something I’ll have to work on. Of
course
I
’
m concerned that my runaway
husband is battling his inner demons, but how am I supposed to help him if he
doesn
’
t tell me he
needs
help? I just thought he was grumpy.

I’m
relieved
he’s in therapy, he clearly needs it, but as for anger being ‘a sickness’ in
Will’s case I disagree. I’m
certain
it’s a side effect. A direct
consequence. He’s been gym-mad with Rob for about eight months, having anger
management for seven. It’s too much of a coincidence. I’m sure that if he just
stops taking Volterine (and I stop winding him up) everything’s reversible.

The trouble is, it’s
like living with Paul Daniels - I never know when he’s going to disappear. The
last time he vanished, he bedded a hot young nurse. He’s been gone long enough
this
time to have shagged his way through the whole sorority. I honestly
think he’s trying to finish me off.

***

The third phone call
came late yesterday evening whilst the twins and I were playing tiddlywinks in
the lounge, watching The Sound of Music. Although short - and scarily sweet -
it was so
obscenely
out of character it knocked me sideways.

It was a call . . .
from my mother.

Mobile
(with apt new
ringtone
)
‘
I will survive, I
will survive, hey hey. Dooo, do do do do dooodleooo do do da da da da da da . .
.
’

Me:
(singing along
merrily before seeing
‘
Monster
’
on the display, groaning and
reluctantly answering)
“
Hello mother. How
’
s things?
”

Mother:
(bright and breezy)
Oh, hello sweetheart. Champion, thank you for asking. Your father
’
s just grappling with the
conifers and I
’
m busy making a
steak and ale pie for tomorrow
’
s supper. I was just
wondering if you
’
d like one dropping
off?
”