SHELLY
Marcus doesn’t even glance up as I walk into the kitchen. He’s clearly seen the news. The officialSexy Come Dancingpair reveal was on every radio station I tuned into on the drive home from the studios.
Is our marriage seriously that fragile? Or is it his ego? A bit of support would be nice. Does he not realise, as excited as I am, I’m fucking terrified too? Terrified of putting a step wrong, on and off the stage, because the level of scrutiny from the press is way more intense than I realised and Aisling’s warning about the press dissecting our relationship rings loudly in my mind.
My Instagram has gone absolutely wild with messages and literally thousands of new followers. It’s utterly thrilling, but slightly overwhelming. I’d have loved nothing more than to arrive home to my husband’s familiar strong embrace. To be able to share the excitement of my day with him.
At least our daughters are pleased to see me.
‘Mammy!’ Erin flings her arms around me, squeezing my already tender thighs, tight from today’s dance practice.
‘Did you get some dinner?’ I hadn’t meant to be so late.
‘Yes. We had leftovers from yesterday.’ Emily joins in the group hug, while Marcus still refuses to even glance in our direction.
I knew he’d be pissed off I got paired up with Ben, but I didn’t expect the complete cold shoulder. There was always a chance it might happen. Can he not just get on with it for the sake of a few weeks? Whatever history is between us all is under the bridge. We all used to be friends (sort of), there’s no reason we can’t be again.
I chose Marcus. Even if Marcus’s suspicion is right and Ben did have genuine designs on me once upon a time, that was years ago. He’s simply a dance partner now. I’d be crazy to think he’d ever fancy me now. This body has birthed two children and bears the scars to prove it. No amount of Layla’s make-up could hide that, nor would I want it to. They’re my tiger stripes and I’m proud of being a mammy.
‘It’s bedtime.’ Marcus stands, scraping his stool against the floor noisily as he stands.
‘Ahh, what?’ Mam’s only just got in! We want to hear everything!’ Emily pleads, eyes bright with excitement.
‘Did you see Sonny Smith? Did you get paired up with him? Is he as gorgeous in the flesh as he is on the TV?’ Emily clasps her hands together and outwardly swoons. If she’s like this at eight what will she be like at fifteen? God help us.
‘Bedtime.’ Marcus’s tone means business as he crosses the kitchen towards our daughters.
‘I’ll do it.’ My tone is final and thankfully he doesn’t argue.
Upstairs, I run a bubble bath for the girls and watch them from the bay window seat, while they splash around and ask me a million questions about the show, about the contestants, about the dancers.
‘You can come and watch one afternoon. Daddy will bring you.’ Even as the words escape my mouth I’m not sure they’re true.
If the resounding slam of the front door is anything to go by, the answer is a definitive no.
When the bedtime stories are done and the girls are tucked in, I tiptoe downstairs. Marcus took the Porsche. Where, I have no idea. Glancing around the kitchen, I begin to tidy. In fairness to Marcus, he has almost everything done. He’s a great husband, when he’s not pissed off with me. We rarely argue. I don’t want to start now. Has the last seventeen years together proved nothing? Why is Ben such a threat now?
Loading the girls’ uniforms into the washing machine, I post a snap to my Instagram. It’s all very well showing a shot of a clean house and a shiny marble kitchen to my grid, but my stories, I try to keep real.
Two hours pass with no sign of my husband returning. To pass the time, I cook a huge cottage pie, a Thai green curry and a leek and potato soup. Separating them into individual portions, I place them in the freezer, carefully labelling and dating them before taking a picture of that too.
Already Instagram is hopping with comments about me leaving the girls. Jesus, from some of them, you’d think I’d gone toI’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Hereon the other side of the world! My followers have always been pretty supportive. There’s the odd rotten apple, but I just block them.
As I boil the kettle for a lemon and ginger tea, I pray for the hundredth time this is worth the tension it’s already causing.
* * *
There’s a chill in the air from the open bedroom window. Marcus can’t stand being too hot. He needn’t have worried, for the little time he spent here last night. It was almost four when he arrived home. When he fell into his side of the bed, I tried to snuggle into him, but he rolled over, turning his back to me.
The clock shows it’s half six. Slipping out of bed, I pull my silk cerise gown around me, creep down the stairs and unset the house alarm. I flick on the coffee machine, then remove the clothes from the drier and fold them meticulously into neat piles. The silence is glorious, but unease lingers inside. I hate when we argue. It’s rare we even do. But maybe that’s because I’ve always done what Marcus wanted me to do?
Whenever we’ve disagreed in the past, it’s been spectacular. Marcus is loud and doesn’t tend to hold his tongue, but I’m no wilting wallflower either. How could I be with my upbringing? We are equally as able to argue as we are matched in life. The only positive is every argument has been compensated by super-satisfying, frantic make-up sex afterwards. No sign of that coming my way yet, but a girl can hope.
I could get voted off at the first live show anyway, which is only a couple of weeks away. Perching on one of the cream leather bar stools, I sip my coffee, relishing the caffeine crusading through my blood. Coffee first thing, then lemon and ginger tea for the rest of the day. I’ve had the same routine for years.
It isn’t long before the sound of pitter-pattering feet echoes from the stairs and the girls bundle in, bleary-eyed with sleep-tousled hair.
‘Mammy.’ The two of them run to me. As long as they don’t mind me doing the show, Marcus will get over it. He was the one who told me to wipe the floor with Gemma Sloane after all.
