Good Husband Material (28 page)

He shifted impatiently from foot to foot: ‘What about? Ray’s coming over in a minute, and—’

‘It’s important.’

Sighing, he sat back down at the table. ‘Oh, very well, but make it quick. What’s up? Washing machine broken?’

‘No, the washing machine is that thing in front of you with a window, and clothes going round and round.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. You’ve become a damned unpleasant woman to live with lately.’

‘And you’ve become a very unpleasant man, James.’ I swallowed hard. ‘This isn’t very easy to say, but I feel our marriage isn’t working and I want a separation.’

He looked
totally
flabbergasted, but surely he must have had some teensy-weensy little inkling of how bad things were?

‘Separation? What the hell are you maundering on about, woman?’ he snarled, a form of address that did nothing to endear him to me; in fact it helped to stiffen my resolve.

‘Just what I say. I’ve given a great deal of thought to – to us lately. I haven’t been happy for a long time and I just don’t want to live with you any more. And I don’t really think you want me. I’m just convenient.’

He turned scarlet and the angry vein in his temple throbbed merrily away like a mad worm. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid! Until we moved here and you started getting all these ideas everything was fine.’

‘You’ve changed since we moved here, James, and not for the better. Or perhaps you started to change even before that. Do you remember how we used to do things together? Go out together, stay in together, decide how we spent the money together, plan our future together? Now we don’t discuss anything, and I hardly ever even see you.’

‘You’re being totally unreasonable! Not only do I have all this extra commuting, but being a senior partner in the firm entails a lot more work. I mean, you don’t get Margaret Wrekin moaning when Ray is away on business, or round here in the Shack, do you?’

With a visible effort he softened his tone and conceded magnanimously, ‘But perhaps I’ve been a bit inconsiderate lately – though if you made a push not to be such a misery it might give me some incentive to stay home.’

‘Misery! If I’m a misery, it’s because you’ve made me one! You’re so selfish, James – out all hours, expecting hot meals at your bidding, laundry done … I feel like a landlady. And you care about me so little you’ve even told everyone our ex-directory number, so I keep having those scary silent calls.’

‘You always make a fuss over nothing. Of course I have to give people my number. Now, have you quite finished? I think I hear Ray coming.’

‘No, I haven’t quite finished. Don’t you understand that I want a separation – a divorce, even. I certainly don’t want to live with you any more!’

‘You’re hysterical!’ he said coldly. ‘We’ll talk again when you are calmer.’ And out he went, slamming the door.

Could I have put it plainer than that? And I
wasn’t
hysterical.

I put the camp bed up in my writing room and retired there. James must have let Bess upstairs when he came back, because she came and scratched at my door until I let her in, but he made no comment that I heard; he certainly didn’t scratch at the door himself.

Around midnight Bess found that jumping on the end of the camp bed caused the legs to fold, precipitating us both downhill rapidly.

It was not a popular discovery.

At breakfast James informed me that I was having a nervous breakdown, probably due to writing rubbishy novels instead of being a good little Stepford Wife and having babies, and he’d expect to hear that I’d seen the doctor when he came home that evening. (And, possibly, seen the light.)

I replied calmly, on the outside at least, that I wasn’t having a breakdown, but had made my considered decision that I didn’t want to share a house (or a life) with him any longer, so perhaps
he
should see the doctor since he seemed to be going through some prolonged mid-life crisis, or second adolescence, or something.

‘And, by the way, make the most of that cooked breakfast: from tomorrow you’ll have to get up earlier and cook your own. And if you want dinner in the evening, you’ll have to be home by seven, when I have mine.’

‘Are you quite mad? You’re my wife! You’d better snap out of this before it’s too late, because you could never manage on your own – you’d be begging me to take you back before the end of the first week. And where would you go? Unless,’ he added with sudden suspicion in his narrowed eyes, ‘you’ve got Another Man?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said crisply. ‘You know very well I haven’t.’

‘Do I? When your old lover moves right in next door? Some coincidence! And now I come to think of it, you were all right until
he
arrived.’

‘Oh, get serious, James! It’s you who’s changed, not me. Fergal has nothing to do with it. Why should he look at me, when he can have any girl he wants?’

He stared at me, and made a discovery. ‘That’s true – you look terrible! Too thin … and those rings round your eyes … You’ve let yourself go.’

‘Thanks!’

‘I’m just telling you for your own good. These stupid fancies you have are all part of your nervous breakdown and you must see the doctor.’

I sighed wearily. ‘
You
see the doctor. I’m fine – just sick of you. You’d better get used to the idea of our marriage ending, James, because I’m quite serious.’

He pushed his chair back so hard it bounced off the dresser. ‘All this nonsense has made me late and I don’t want to hear any more of it when I get back! See the doctor, then go and get your hair fixed and buy something pretty to wear, or whatever girls do to cheer themselves up. I’ll give you the cash.’

‘I can pay for anything I want myself!’ I shouted (except happiness – Money Can’t Buy You Love) but he was already on his way out, falling over Bess en route.

A week later I was wondering what on earth I could do to drive my intentions into his thick skull. Absolutely nothing I said or did altered his conviction that I’m losing my grip on reality.

Much more of this, and I may lose my grip on
something
.

He even made a doctor’s appointment for me, but I cancelled it, and then he got Uncle Lionel to phone and tell me I was being foolish, I wouldn’t find a better husband than James, and I shouldn’t resent him working hard when I benefited from it – he did it all for me.

When I replied that mostly he seemed to do it because he wanted to buy more radio equipment or a flashier car, or a newer CD player, Uncle coldly said that he’d been mistaken in me. He’d thought me a nice, sensible girl.

Nice sensible doormat?

No, self-preservation alone demands that we part. But I’ve nowhere to go – and why should
I
go anywhere? I’m quite happy here.

It’s James who doesn’t fit, and I couldn’t be unhappier without him than I am now with him. I really, really don’t want him any more – and, what’s more, I don’t even need him financially either, since I can now support myself by my pen (I think)!

I see now I was wrong to try to change myself, but at least I tried. He didn’t even do that, just went on getting more and more selfish.

I need to take some drastic action to shake him into realising I mean what I say.

He’s already said he’s staying at Howard’s on Wednesday for a ‘bit of peace’ (I would have thought Howard’s was the last place for that), so I suggested quite reasonably that he consider taking his things there and moving in permanently.

He didn’t answer, but he only took an overnight bag.

Shock tactics are called for.

Fergal: September: 1999

    
‘The last show of the Goneril Farewell Tour played to a packed and emotional audience.’

Trendsetter
magazine

That’s that.

Wish I could say the same about Nerissa. She’s like a leech, except she doesn’t drop off when she’s satiated.

Doesn’t matter what I do – I told her I’d had sex with six consecutive Nordic blondes and she said she understood, I only did it to satisfy a need when she wasn’t there.

Is she mad, or suffering from amnesia? I haven’t touched her for months and anyway, do I look like Superman?

Pity she
wasn’t
there, actually; I could have held her under the water until she stopped bubbling.

I long to get back home to Nutthill. Snippets of information trickle back, just enough to whet my appetite for more …

I want to see Tish and, like a scab, pick at my feelings to see if they’ve healed.

And I’d like to know why the tricky, devious bastard in her novel
Love Goes West
has black hair and green eyes …

In the early hours of Friday morning I was jerked awake by the fumbling of a key in the door, followed by swearing.

I’d been beginning to think he wasn’t coming back after all.

The noise was repeated from the kitchen door and I crept to the window and looked down, but he was too close to the house to be visible despite a fairly bright moon.

A handful of small stones rattled the glass next to my cheek, making me jump, and an aggrieved voice wailed, ‘Tish! Tish!’

I unlatched the window and leaned out, an unwilling Rapunzel. ‘What do you want?’

‘Want? I want to get in, you daft cow!’

‘Don’t you use that sort of language to me!’

‘Look, I’m sorry – I’m a bit tired, that’s all, and none of the doors will open.’

‘That’s because I had the locks changed.’

‘What on earth for? Look – come down and let me in, then you can tell me about it.’

‘But I had them changed to keep
you
out.’

‘To keep me out? Good God, Tish, whatever are you drivelling on about? I live here – this is my house. I’m your husband, James!’

‘You did live here, but I’ve had enough. I kept telling you and telling you, and you wouldn’t listen.’

He ranted and raved a bit, sounding much angrier than I’d ever heard him before. I was glad he was out there in the darkness and I was safely in here.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he shouted at last. ‘I’m going to break the bathroom window!’

This was only alarming until I compared the size of the small windows downstairs with his burgeoning beer gut. All was by no means lost.

But I did feel terrified when the sound of breaking glass was followed by a blood-curdling yell. He staggered back round the corner clutching one wrist.

‘Tish, help me! I’ve cut my wrist on the damned glass – it’s pouring blood – probably an artery! Let me in before I bleed to death!’

‘Go and bleed over the rose bushes, they’re supposed to thrive on it,’ I suggested heartlessly. He was by now directly underneath me and I couldn’t see any sign of draining arteries.

‘You heartless bitch!’ he raged, which was more like the James I’d come to know and didn’t love.

A fruity chuckle on my left warned me that we had an avid audience.

‘Good morning, Mrs Peach!’

The chuckle turned into a hoarse wheeze. ‘So it is! So it is! My poor hens will be off laying for a week at least, after this.’

‘Mrs Peach!’ implored the white upturned disc of James’s face. ‘Look here! You’re a compassionate woman. I’ve cut my wrist badly and Tish won’t let me in. Would you see to it for me? I think I’m in shock!’

‘What, have a man in my house this time of night? Not I! You’d best go to roost in your little house in the garden, and maybe you’ll not get tetanus – this time.’

And with this jovial sally she withdrew her head and shut the window.

‘Good night, James,’ I said, preparing to follow suit.

‘Tish – wait!’ he begged, but I firmly closed the window and returned to the (ex) marital bed, where the ex-marital dog was snugly curled, she having succeeded in opening the door to the stairs and creeping up.

I shoved her off, then lay drowsily listening to James’s shouts and the occasional rattle of gravel getting fainter and fainter, until they faded away, and I slept.

Later that morning I cautiously opened the back door and peered out, but there was no sign of occupancy from the Shack. For a few minutes I imagined his blood-drained corpse stretched out behind the blackcurrants, and even went so far as to look, while Bess capered round me like a furred clown; but common sense told me you don’t bleed to death from little cuts, and there were no great congealed arterial pools dotted about – not even a splash.

There was a bit on the edge of the broken window – I must get someone out to fix that.

I wonder where he spent the night. The plan had worked well. Perhaps I wouldn’t manage to keep him out permanently this time, but at least he could see that I mean business and set about finding somewhere else to live, like Howard’s.

What will his next move be and where do I stand legally? If we divorce (which might be best, though I, at least, never intend to marry again) would we have to sell the house and everything, and divide the proceeds up?

I’d hate to lose the cottage, because I do love it despite everything going wrong since we moved here. The furniture’s no problem – I could replace that, and I’m beginning to think it might look better with antique cottage pieces anyway.

Perhaps I could take over the mortgage? I suppose I would then have to pay James something for the amount the house has appreciated by.

I need an independent solicitor.

It was nice not to have to rush about waiting on James, and I thought if he didn’t come back, then I would be able to relax more, sleep better and stop looking such a scarecrow. James was right about my looks – I seem to be getting scrawnier everywhere except round the middle, which is probably water retention. Surprisingly enough, I did a good morning’s work on the book, which is going well (fortunately, since I will soon need all the money I can get).

At lunchtime the phone went, and I picked it up with that sinking feeling.

‘Tish?’

‘Hello, James.’

‘How can you sound so calm – as if nothing has happened? Are you out of your mind? I’m beginning to think you must be. First you lock me out of my own home, then you say, “Hello James” as if you hardly knew me! What’s going on?’