Yours Unfaithfully
Read Yours Unfaithfully Online
Authors: Geraldine C. Deer
yours
unfaithfully
Geraldine C Deer
Copyright © 2010 Geraldine C Deer
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
5 Weir Road
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email:
[email protected]
Web:
www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1848 764 279
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11pt Sabon MT by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
Matador
is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Contents
HAPTER
O
NE
The journey home was like a hundred nights before, heavy traffic out of the city before green fields started to replace the grey and gloomy buildings. Melanie fumed at the farm tractor heading the homeward procession. “Why,” she demanded of the empty seat next to her, “is not one inch of my journey stress free? Why is my whole day a boiling cauldron of turmoil? How did I create this whirlpool of chaos that is my life?”
At thirty nine she wanted to enjoy the rewards of her twenty years of hard work, first as a trainee bank clerk, then a stay-at-home mother of three children and for the last ten years as a returnee to the regional office. “Why do I still have to cook and clean after nine hours of commuting and computing? Tim never complains about my success in the bank but does he feel frustrated and cheated at me being the prime earner?”
Ben, Tim’s closest friend and their next door neighbour, never disguised
his
contempt for his wife’s rapid rise to success at Osborne Melrose Law. Nina had always been the high flyer while he’d struggled to keep any job for more than a month. When Melanie and Tim had moved into their new house on the ‘Willow Brook’ development in Elmthorpe three years ago they struck up a close bond with their neighbours almost at once. With three children in each family it was inevitable that they’d spend time together through the long summer holiday and by the end of August Melanie and Nina had become best friends, while Tim spent most nights in the pub with Ben. For ten years Melanie had juggled her time between the needs of her three children, the ever increasing demands of the bank to shoulder more responsibility and the almost mundane desire by Tim for her to be his loving soul mate. She’d always believed that she’d satisfied them all. Tim rarely complained when she was at her laptop until midnight or when she spent entire weekends accompanying the kids on canoeing trips, music practice, or one of the streams of other activities that blacked out the kitchen calendar for months in advance. The trouble was, all this left no time for Melanie to be Melanie. She was desperate for one weekend to be different, she longed to say, “I’m staying in bed till noon then laying on my sun bed until four. Take me to a candlelit restaurant for dinner at eight then bring me home drunk on life, some time after midnight.” Pondering the unfairness of her lot, she felt a tinge of anger that Tim showed no concern at simply being an also-ran in their domestic life. While she was chauffeuring three kids to six destinations on Saturday, Tim was either playing pool in the pub or fixing a car for one of his mates. She didn’t know where he was most Saturdays mainly because she never found time to ask him. She just assumed his head was under a car bonnet and that he’d come home covered in grease in time to eat with them.
‘Bloody Hell!’ Her scream of panic shattered her thoughts as she stabbed at the Mondeo’s brake pedal. The tyres squealed to a stop with inches to spare from shunting the four wheel drive in front. Her head was thumping and her hands were shaking in the knowledge that she’d just avoided a massive impact. Like every other night it was impossible to see why the traffic had stopped. Could it be to test her patience? If so she’d failed the test, her patience was stretched to breaking point. What is wrong with me for God’s Sake? I’m losing the ability to stay in control, to be Supermum, Super manager, Super wife. Is it my age I wonder? Almost forty? Is that it? The change? Her hand swept across her face in a panic check for facial hair, acquired since this morning’s ritual preparation for another day at the office. What Melanie hadn’t seen in the dressing table mirror was the beautiful woman she really was. Light brown hair flowing softly to her shoulders, blue eyes still sparkling behind a youthful smile and perfect skin despite thirty nine years and three children. Five foot five inches and fabulously slim, not through any dedicated exercise routine but by never being still for more than five minutes, Melanie was undeniably lovely. Nina always reckoned that Mel had a lifestyle body. Melanie had read about the process of change, how to watch for it and how to deal with it in last month’s
Working Wife
magazine. “Damn, I put it in the recycling bin – no I didn’t – or did I?” She jumped as a horn bellowed from behind and looking up saw the four wheel drive gaining speed in the distance ahead. Ramming the gear stick forward she let out the clutch causing the car to leap two metres towards home before stalling. ‘Bugger’! Frantically turning the key, she winced at the snarling noise as the engine tried to start while in gear. There was no doubt in her mind now, she’d lost it, life was closing in and those around her must be aware of her state. The rest of the journey was a fog of confusion. She slammed the car door and walked slowly up the front garden path, taking a deep breath to clear the choking sensation from her throat. She pushed open the kitchen door and fought back tears as the familiar sound of the television news confirmed to her that tonight would be just like every other night. Tim would be spread across the settee waiting to be fed. The shrieking noise upstairs would be James practicing his recorder, unless by chance it was her eldest protégé Henry squeezing the last breath from his sister Amy over their continuing dispute on territorial rights. Henry had made it clear, crystal clear, that an eleven year old girl was not welcome in a sixteen year old boy’s room and he’d used force on more than one occasion to reinforce this view. Keeping the house immaculate while working full time required help from the family, but support was seldom offered. Discarded clothes, instruments and sports kit were everywhere, yet under this facade of jumble the place was clean. Melanie was proud of her home even if Tim and the kids were less than interested. She stood motionless in her kitchen desperately trying to decide what to do next. Should she creep up to the bathroom and wash her face in a futile attempt to compose herself or should she dig through the freezer to find them something to eat? With tears streaming down her cheeks she grabbed an onion and started peeling it in an effort to conceal her distress. Needing time to recover before facing questions from Tim, she hacked at the onion with no thought of what they might eat with it. A full minute passed before she realised she was still wearing her long black coat. Her sadness mounted as the truth dawned. Tim wasn’t about to notice her tears or question their cause. He was too busy watching television to see that she was in desperate need of a little TLC. Wiping her hands she pushed open the lounge door hoping for words of comfort, recognition that she was home, that she was in the bosom of her family. She heard the reporter talking feverishly about a takeover bid for Manchester United Football Club and saw Tim’s six foot frame laid out before the screen that was commanding his attention. Melanie had watched him reach middle age with pleasure, her arms still went round his waist without stretching and his hair was more black than grey. What did trouble her was the steady decline in his attention. In short, he took her for granted. Perhaps football was now more important to him than she was? She turned back to the kitchen and wept at the sink, openly now, no pretence of onion or hay fever. Tears of anguish, frustration, pain at being all alone in a house full of people, her people. The children she loved with every ounce of her body, the husband to whom she’d devoted nineteen years. They’d met at night school when she was studying A-level maths and he was a trainee vehicle mechanic. Where had the love gone? They were still lovers and still devoted to each other, so why did she feel so alone? Could one bad day really bring you down to this? She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there when Tim’s arm slid around her waist. Her tummy tensed with happiness until his words flattened her like she’d been hit with a brick.
“Mel, I’m starving. I’m going round to Andy’s as soon as I’ve eaten, promised to help him with his Toyota. He bought it as a bargain but the water pump’s leaking and he tops it up twice to get to work. I might be late, all depends if it turns out to be difficult or not. Wow onions! If it’s steak and onions make mine a large one. Trust you to always know what I want.”
“It’s not steak, it’s sausages and if you want chips you’re out of luck. I’ve just looked and there’re none in the freezer. Do you want to go down to the petrol station for some? If you’re in a hurry I could put the sausages between bread with some fried onion.”
“Mel, I don’t like to moan but after a hard day at work I think a sausage sandwich is a feeble offering, don’t you?”
“Yes Tim and I think a feeble offering is perfect for a feeble man, so what’s your problem?”
“What the hell do you mean by that? ... Where did that come from? I’m working flat out at the yard with barely a break for lunch. I’ve worked the last two Saturdays but you didn’t even notice because you were too busy swanning around with the kids spending money on designer trainers. You sit in your office five days a week drinking coffee and watching the profits from your precious bank growing bigger and bigger but you don’t have a clue what real work is.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely right Tim, that’s all I do. I just sit there counting the profits. But do you know what Tim? I earn twice as much as you for doing it so someone must think I’m worthwhile. I would explain what I really do but I don’t suppose you’d care!”
“And I’m sure you’d love to hear about my day, changing a gearbox on a Volvo truck to go out on tonight’s ferry. I’ve strained my back and crushed my fingers and you call me feeble. I’ve spent all day under a lorry. I’ve earned
my
money. All you care about these days is your bloody bank. Well stuff the bank and stuff you! Stick your sandwich Mel, I’ll get something down at the Globe after I’ve done Andy’s car, and don’t wait up for me – after all what would you want to talk to me about?”