Mrs. Fry's Diary (20 page)

Had a lovely walk. I must say, on a sunny morning, it's actually not such a bad place. It's just a shame about the litter, and the graffiti - and the overriding smell of urine. Oh, and all the fly-posters everywhere, covering up perfectly good walls and sides of buses - for a minute I even thought I saw Stephen's face on the number 68, but before I had the chance to take a proper look, the lights had changed and it was gone.

22 Tuesday

After last week's assessment, I was determined to write something truly exceptional for this week's poem, but I just couldn't concentrate with Stephen droning away in the background. I asked him to stop but it made no difference. He just kept going on, demanding my undivided attention. But the most worrying thing is, when I finally gave up and looked round, the sofa was empty. And yet there he was, still talking. I was beginning to think I might be going mad, when I realised it was just the radio! For some reason, it seemed to be tuned to Radio 4 - can't imagine why. They very rarely play any thrash metal. I turned it off and the room fell silent. What a relief. And yet, it did sound an
awful
lot like Stephen . . .

23 Wednesday

Missed poetry class this evening. After the business with the radio yesterday I just couldn't settle to writing, so I put the television on, and whose face was grinning out at me in widescreen? Stephen's! I grabbed the remote and turned over. There he was again. I flicked through the channels. Again his face. Again. And again. I grabbed my coat, shot out of the house and jumped straight on the bus to the medical centre, pretending to ignore his face on the side of it.

Doctor Tarantino was terribly nice. And awfully understanding. I told him about seeing my husband's face everywhere I go and he said that I was obviously under a great deal of stress at the moment. He said there was only one cure he could recommend. I needed some time to relax, preferably away from the rest of the family. Ha! Chance would be a fine thing! I suppose I do still have that money from the
Daily Herald
but there's no way Stephen would ever let me go away, I'm quite sure of that. He can barely cope when I have a long bath.

24 Thursday

Told Stephen what the doctor said yesterday and was amazed by his response. He said he agreed completely and that he'd be only too happy to look after the children while I had a nice relaxing weekend away. He even said he'd find me the perfect place and book it for me himself if I just gave him my credit card details. He seemed genuinely caring and supportive. Now I know I need a break!

After an hour's Googling, Stephen proudly announced that he'd found the perfect place for me to unwind. A health spa just a few miles away. He's booked me in for tomorrow for their special 'Mmm' weekend.

25 Friday

Goodness, I'm tired. Spent all night preparing meals for Stephen and the kids for while I'm away. I wouldn't have been able to relax until I knew the fridge was fully stocked with all the delicacies they're used to. I just hope they can cope without all the other things I provide - the warmth, the love and the over 80 per cent name-recall rate.

Stephen dropped me off at the health spa after tea. I must say the place looks lovely. All gleaming and white, just like a huge wedding cake but without the bride and groom on the top. Well, without the groom. And to be honest, the bride wasn't there all that long either. I must say, it was quite a shock to see the spa manageress hanging from that gargoyle by her wedding train, although her successor reassured me that it was just a tragic accident - she had merely been trying on her dress in advance of her impending marriage when the picture on her television had deteriorated and she had quite naturally climbed onto the roof to adjust the aerial - and most certainly not foul play of any kind.

My room was terribly nice. No doubt it had been designed to be calming. The decor was light and simple, the bed firm but comfortable. And the Valium tablet on the pillow was a lovely touch.

26 Saturday

Woke up feeling refreshed and full of energy. I thought I'd find it difficult to get to sleep without Stephen in the bed but it actually proved a great deal easier than with him next to me.

After a light breakfast of llama yoghurt and assorted berries, I examined the brochure to see which treatment to choose first. I opted for the reflexology, although I have to say I was a little disappointed. The therapist just kept hitting my knee with a small hammer.

I had been hoping for an aromatherapy treatment after lunch but apparently the therapist had unexpectedly passed away from exhaustion during the night. According to the new manager she'd been burning the candle at both ends.

Instead, I plucked up my courage and decided to try an enema - Mrs Winton's been raving about them for years. They had a variety of different options - water, even coffee. Of course I chose the English Breakfast tea. I have to say, it was an eye-watering experience, but it was all right in the end. Although it might have benefited from a HobNob.

27 Sunday

Was awakened in the early morning to the sound of screams. When I went to investigate I was informed that one of the guests had unfortunately passed away. Apparently, he was having one of their festive treatments, the Santa Special - Beard, Sack and Crack - when he reacted badly to the wax they were using. The new manageress said it was a simple accident. They'd made a list of guests with life-threatening allergies but they hadn't checked it twice. It certainly wasn't foul play of any kind, she insisted.

After breakfast, I checked the brochure again. I was tempted by the wildebeest semen hair treatment, but I do so hate to remove my hat in public so I just went for a quick brim bleach instead. Unfortunately, there were only sandwiches for lunch as the chef had unexpectedly drowned in his own jojoba and coriander soup.

I decided to spend the afternoon in my room. It seemed the safest option. Besides, the chalk outlines around the hall weren't particularly conducive to relaxation.

28 Monday

Not a very restful night. I was woken at midnight by a blood-curdling scream, at one by a gunshot and at two by a series of explosions. At breakfast, I spilt most of my hypoallergenic cereal due to my hand shaking and could barely sign my own name as I checked out.

I was practically in tears as the receptionist thanked me for my stay and asked if I'd manage to solve it. I asked her what she meant and she said that was the whole point of the triple M weekend. Triple M? Didn't she mean 'Mmm', I said? She frowned and handed me a leaflet. I stared down at the small piece of paper fluttering in my fingers and read it. Typical! Trust Stephen to book me into a Murder, Mystery & Mayhem weekend.

29 Tuesday

Funnily enough, despite everything, I think that weekend away has actually done me a lot of good. I haven't seen Stephen's face anywhere other than where it should be and I feel calm, relaxed and perfectly sane. In fact, I feel so good I think I'll write a poem. After all, the sun is singing, the clouds are shining and there's not a bird in the sky.

30 Wednesday

Went to poetry class. I read my poem, 'All Work and No Play Makes Edna a Dull Girl'. Ms Wordsmith seemed suitably impressed, noting the 'particularly effective use of repetition throughout the entire 37 pages'. In fact, she said it was so powerful and evocative that it would be a good idea, for a change of pace, to listen to a completely different reading, and she took a CD from her bag. She placed it in the player on her desk and sat back with her eyes closed, instructing us to do the same so that the words may 'wash over us and cleanse us'.

I shut my eyes and waited. And then came the voice: cool, precise and mellifluous - and Stephen's. I opened my eyes, stood up and left the room.

Now I see what it is I have to do. There's no question about it. I have no choice.

December

1 Thursday

Dear Diary, I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you about my plans yesterday. I couldn't risk you falling into the wrong hands. I knew it would take military precision for my plan to work so I synchronised my watch and waited
. . .

08:25 Children leave house and turn left down street in direction of school before carrying out 180-degree turn and heading to Brian's Bowl-a-rama.

09:15 Stephen leaves house to go out on window-cleaning round. Heads in direction of her at number 38. Estimated time of return 12:00 to 16:00 hours, depending on level of blue pill intake.

09:23 Leave house in best hat, carrying one large holdall, empty.

10:46 Return to house carrying one large holdall containing saw, industrial strength bolt-cutter, flame-thrower, gelignite and book,
A Bluffer's Guide to Breaking and Entering
.

11:15 Go back to Argos to get best hat.

11:28 Return to house. Employ reasonable force to gain entry to Stephen's shed.

11:52 Employ unreasonable force to gain entry to Stephen's shed.

11:53 Place remains of shed door in appropriate bin.

11:58 Enter shed.

I stepped into what was left of Stephen's shed and looked around. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There, through the slowly clearing smoke, sitting on a small leather-topped desk was a computer, just like the one I had dreamt about in Fry Hall. And beside it were reams and reams of bound and severely charred sheets of typewritten pages. And not a can of beer or copy of
Humungous Hooters
to be seen.

I brushed the cinders from the chair and my hair and sat down heavily. So, all the time he was in his shed, Stephen wasn't attempting to brew the perfect lager, after all.
But then what? Had he been writing something all this time? How could this be? What with his aversion to literature and to adjectives in particular. It didn't make any sense.

And then it struck me - as the shed wall collapsed. A bookshelf. I stared down at the floor. There they all were, lying at my feet -
Roget's Thesaurus
,
The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde
,
A Guide to the Poolside Flora and Fauna of Stelios
. . .
And as I rubbed my head, it slowly started to fall into place - the long hours spent in this shed and on the road, the Blackpool debacle, the newspapers under the bed, Fry Hall, Stephen's face and voice everywhere I went
. . .

So what now? I stared at the computer, the books, the sheets of paper and the smouldering remains of the shed and I knew I had no choice. I had to confront him. To find out what all this was about. To find out just who my husband really was.

12:09 Stephen returns home to get more blue pills.

12:10 Explain to Stephen about gas leak.

2 Friday

Oh dear, Diary. I wish I knew what to do. I feel as if I've been living a lie all these years. Or rather, Stephen has. At least now I know I wasn't going mad. Maybe it would have been better if I was. At least I wouldn't be feeling so lost and empty. Or maybe I would, but with a potato up my nose. I think I'll just go back to bed. I doubt anyone will notice.

3 Saturday

I was right. No one noticed. Still couldn't face getting out of bed this morning. There didn't seem any point. Brangelina came up at one point to see how I was and to ask could she please have a raise in her pocket money? Stephen seems to be avoiding me. He hasn't said any more about the shed - or what's left of it. Neither have I. I just don't know what to say. I can't even bring myself to read the sheet of paper I pocketed from the shed. I may as well tear it up and throw it on the floor.