Nobody brought partners to the Nurture party – it had always been just for staff – but as I watched people giggling as they tried to dance, I’d found myself wishing I could try a little dance in someone’s arms. Finn’s.
In honour of tonight’s party at Marin and Nate’s I apply my partymake-up, which is a good, heavy brown eyeshadow with hints of bronze to liven it up and a nice nude lip. Vilma and her friends love this look. They think I look like a goth French lady. For total excitement, I wear my newest black jeans and a black shirt with a hint of silver in it. Wild, huh? That’s me.
I can’t help but close my eyes and wish, just a teeny bit, that Finn would see me as more than just a friend tonight, but I can hardly make the first move. I’d pushed us into the friend zone – and now I was stuck there.
23
Marin
On the afternoon of the Christmas party, Nate walks into the kitchen looking both casual yet dressed up in a shirt I am convinced I have never seen before, in a wonderfulcornflower-blue colour, which looks marvellous on him.
‘Have you been shopping?’ I say, astonished.
‘Yes,’ he says, like a delighted small boy. ‘Couldn’t resist it, everyone slags me off for wearing boring old business shirts, so here, look at me.’ He holds out his arms and does a full rotation. ‘Treated myself to a new shirt for Christmas.’
‘Oh darling, you should have said and I’d have bought you one.’
‘No, sweetheart, it’s fine.’ He comes over and kisses me lightly on the forehead. ‘You have quite enough to do, what with catering for the hordes. How are we getting on?’
‘Food for the hordes, all made, present and correct,’ I say opening the fridge and then the oven, to stuff in some filo pastry things. ‘You said you saw Louise yesterday – did she say she was coming to the party?’ I ask. ‘She hasn’t replied.’
‘No.’ He hesitated there for a moment and I don’t miss it.
‘What do you mean, “no”? She’s not coming or you didn’t ask?’
‘Er ... didn’t ask,’ he says.
‘But you hesitated. Has she said something, is there something wrong with the girls, do you think I – I don’t like to ask Rachel, because who knows what madcap plan they’ve come up with now...’
Lately, I feel as if Louise and I are no longer on the same page. She’s so much more relaxed about the girls’gap-year trip and it’s stressing me out.
‘You worry too much, Marin,’ says my husband.
And I think this is possibly one of the most dangerous statements in the entire world.
‘ You worry too much, dear.’
Probably every police report where a woman killed her husband, starts with, ‘Well, then he said to me, you worry/talk/drive me nuts too much and then I picked up the shotgun.’
I have never been a sulker, but I decide that Nate could do without my attention for a while. I dump thewiping-down cloth into the special washing basket I keep for dishcloths, extract a new folded one from the cupboard, slam it down on the counter and leave the room.
Nate is not even aware of this, does not even say,Did I say something?Nothing, I think with irritation, absolutely nothing.
He’s accused me of being a worry wart and we have a teenage daughter who is going away soon with her friend, across the world, for months, and of course I’m worried. I’m worried sick!
Right now, I’m filled with an intense rage against Nate. Is it the menopause or the perimenopause or one of the bloody pauses? Please don’t tell me it’s happening now. There has got to be a reason I’m this irritable, it’s not normal. Normal people don’t feel irritable like this, do they?
Then I try to rationalise: it’s the day before Christmas and we are doing what we do every year, which is to have a massive party with friends and family. It is stressful enough to drive a lesser woman to drink.
Of course I’m stressed and irritable. My husband has just marched downstairs, having done practically nothing except buying in wine and arranging it lovingly, and then has accused me of being someone who worries all the time.
Plus he’s wearing a new shirt and he hates shopping. I’m stung that he’s gone without me. We always head into the sales together and he finds some good work clothes, while I look longingly at nice things at 50 per cent off and dream about how they’ll change my life.
I hope he felt in just enough of a shopping mood to buy me something nice for Christmas, I think mutinously. Nate is a terrible shopper. He goes into the pharmacy and asks them what the most fabulous perfume is at the moment and buys that for me. It is one of his grander flaws as a husband, I must admit. He is brilliant in so many other ways, and I do love him, but that man can’t shop – unless it’s for beautiful party shirts, it seems. I feel like I’m being a bitch but at the same time all my anger feels entirely, totally justifiable.
I go upstairs into our room, shut the door, thankful that my two offspring are both doing other things in their rooms and I practise some deep breathing. This party will be lovely, I will be calm. I breathe and count to ten. Is it breathe in for six, hold for seven, out for eight or the other way round? Oh hell, I just breathe a bit. In, out, in out. Breathing is supposed to come naturally but it doesn’t feel natural right now. I’ll be OK, I tell myself, when the party has started and everyone is here: then I can relax.
I open my wardrobe and take out tonight’s outfit. I know I shouldn’t have bought it but it’s a very sexy velvet dress inmidnight-blue with some magical properties that make me look both taller and thinner. If Nate’s been buying things for himself, then I’m allowed a treat, I reason? His shirtprobablycost as much as my dress...
