My phone beeped, and I swallowed down an ever-growing lump of resentment at my husband’s reply:Forgot to say. Out with the lads. Back late. Stick it in the fridge and I’ll heat it up when I’m home.
It wastoo late to stop cooking, so I pressed on, taking out some of my frustration on the bottom of the pan as the sauce threatened to stick. Unable to leave the temperamental creamygoo, I prayed Bertie was still on Minecraft, and hadn’t sneaked Rob’s copy of Grand Theft Auto into the console.
I savoured my solitary meal. After spending a significant chunk of my evening preparing it, it seemed a crime to gobble it down in a fraction of the time. Wednesday was supposed to be one of my alcohol-free evenings, but the large glass of pinot worked its chilled, mellow magic and as I finished the last mouthfuls of tuna steak, I felt relaxed enough to consider putting on my lace nightie at bedtime.
By the time I’d bathed Bertie and read him three chapters ofThe Hobbit, Rob had arrived home and was ensconced on the sofa. Before greeting him, I pulled one of his low-calorie beers from the fridge. With so little challenge in my life, the least I could do was score top marks on the wife front.
‘How was your day?’ I handed Rob the beer and sat on the sofa beside him, curling my legs beneath me.
‘Same as ever. The board is being a pain-in-the-arse. Usual crap.’
‘And the drink with the lads was fun?’
‘Yeah, although Chris went on and on about his bloody stag do. He wants to go coasteering in Wales. Why can’t he go to Prague or Amsterdam like a normal bloke?’
‘He’s always been outdoorsy.’ I waited for Rob to ask about my day, but the question never came. ‘Hey,’ I said, running a finger up and down Rob’s gym-toned arm. ‘Maybe we could have an early night?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Rob, not taking his eyes off the TV. ‘But I want to watchFootball Feedback.’
‘Sure.’ I knewFootball Feedbackwouldn’t finish until eleven, and that might count as an early night if you didn’t have to wake until eight, but I knew I’d be up at six with Bertie. ‘Back in a minute.’
Upstairs, I changed into the silk and lace nightwear I wore on special occasions. It smelled a little musty, so I squirted Chanel No 5 liberally across the silk, promptly scrubbing with a tissue as the perfume left greasy marks on the fabric.
After running a comb through my thick, straightened hair, I brushed my teeth and slicked gloss across my lips. Back downstairs, rather than going over to Rob, I draped myself against the door-frame, in my best attempt at sexy.
‘Rob?’
‘Huh.’
‘Rob.’ I tried to purr, like I’d heard women do in films, but it came out gravelly, like a leery builder. I cleared my throat. ‘Rob?’
My husband forced his eyes from the television screen and looked at me. ‘Why are you wearing that?’
‘I thought we were going to have an early night?’
‘I told you, I want to watchFootball Feedback.’
‘Right.’ Heat rushed to my face. I tried to nonchalantly turn, but the lace of my nightdress caught on the door handle, and Rob laughed at the ripping sound which followed.
Back upstairs, the bedroom door closed with a quiet click and I leaned against it, blinking hard to dispel the threatening tears. How many weeks had it been since Rob showed any interest in me? Not weeks. Months. Failure wasn’t in my vocabulary. Ever since the teachers at my grotty comprehensive had picked me out as Oxbridge material, everyone had me pegged for success. I couldn’t fail in my role as a wife. Apart from motherhood, it was all I had.
I pulled off the torn nightdress, scrunched it between my hands, and threw it in the bin. From beneath my pillow, I pulled out my flannel pyjamas, slipped them on and climbed into bed. The need to restore some dignity was strong, so I pulled the newspaper from my bedside cabinet and folded it on my lap. Penclamped between my teeth, I worked my way through the cryptic crossword, grateful I could get something right.
Chapter Two
Asix o’clock start should have allowed plenty of time to get out of the house by eight. I crouched down in front of the washer-dryer, trying to force open the door.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’
I looked up as my bleary-eyed boy shuffled into the room. ‘Just this stupid washing machine not behaving itself.’
‘Will my uniform be ready in time for school?’
‘Of course.’ I cursed under my breath, yanking at the door.
‘Why don’t you turn it off and on?’
‘Good thinking.’ I switched the machine off at the plug, counted to ten, and switched it on again. The light turned green, and I opened the door, pulling a soggy shirt out and silently cursing once again.
