I wasn’t at all keen to go to Debbie and Paul’s for dinner, but I couldn’t tell The Husband that. The last time I’d said I didn’t want to go to dinner with one of his work colleagues it had sparked a huge row. He accused me of being unsociable and not wanting to go anywhere or meet anyone new. That wasn’t true. I hadn’t wanted to go to dinner with this particular colleague because he talked whilst his mouth was full and his laugh sounded like a donkey being interfered with.
I had my work lap top open as I sat on the sofa at home, leaving getting ready until the last possible moment. When the Husband came in he’d said:
“Is this how it’s going to be again this year, your head in your lap top night after night?” That was a bit rich coming from him, a man so attached to his iPhone that I had named it Camilla - the third person in our marriage. I even found the bloody thing in bed with us sometimes. I put his cutting remark down to the fact that he’d had a frustrating day at work. He had been out to give financial advice to a couple who lived in Canberra Flats, or the “Concrete Shit Hole” as he called it, and apparently they had been stoned out of their heads and thought he was from the council. They kept asking him when they could get an allotment as they were keen to “grow their own”. They also kept a parrot which said “What a tosser!” every time The Husband spoke. He hadn’t made a sale.
As I clicked through the endless emails, I came across an absolute turd. It had been sent very late on Christmas Eve, thus ensuring it wouldn’t be read until it was too late for the recipient to challenge its content. It had also been sneakily left untitled, so it could lurk undetected amongst the rest of the shite before it got flushed out. It gave notice of the one thing guaranteed to instil bum-clenching, acid-refluxing fear into every manager - A-U-D-I-T. Oh no, please God, no. My department hadn’t been audited for several years - why now? Why me? Normally only areas that were under-performing got audited. Everything was going pretty well, wasn’t it - why pick on me? Was someone out to get me? That’s all I needed - a team of suited midgets (small man syndrome) to descend on my teams and pretend to be everyone’s friend - “we’re here to help”. Their definition of “help” would be to produce a detailed report highlighting every single flaw. No matter if there weren’t any flaws, they would make sure to find some. They have to prove that their run-and-tell-tales-to-Mummy job has some value. To complete your humiliation, they distribute their help/report to every senior manager right up the line until it hits the desk of the Big Cheese Chief Exec. And then it all comes down on you like a ton of hot horse-shit.
Oh Christ. Still, there was no time to worry about that now, The Husband was circling, looking pointedly at his watch. I needed to get ready to go Debbie and Paul’s. I’d made the mistake of getting comfy on the sofa, so it was a real effort to get up again. I was feeling quite tired after my early start, so I opened a can of Red Bull to try and perk myself up. I sipped at it, feeling a bit sorry for myself. I was fed up with having to go to things I didn’t want to go to. Time away from work was very precious, especially as I needed this time to be able to catch up with work. And Coronation Street. Why spend it in the company of people you didn’t particularly want to see; why did I always feel obliged to accept invitations? If I thought quickly enough I would make up an excuse, but why did I feel the need to lie, couldn’t I just say “thanks very much for the invite, but I’d really rather cut my own head off with a blunt spoon. Hope you don’t mind”. How easy is that? So why couldn’t I ever say it? I’d read in a Le Carré novel that “one calls it politeness, but it’s really nothing but weakness”. Too bloody true.
I hadn’t a clue what to wear and was out of inspiration. A dress would have been easier than having to choose both a top and a bottom, but a dress seemed a bit over the top, like I was trying too hard. Jeans were far too casual and didn’t expand enough when you needed them to, so I played safe with olive green trousers and a cream jersey top. Decided cream wasn’t a sensible colour to wear to dinner in case we were having spag bol, so I changed into a black jersey top. I examined my reflection in the bedroom mirror. My face looked very drained against the black so I put on a cerise scarf. That shrieked back at me from the mirror, so I changed it for a pale blue one. That didn’t look right with the olive green trousers. Oh for God’s sake, time was getting on, we were going to be late. I could hear The Husband in the hallway rattling his keys, a sure sign he was getting impatient. I took out my drawer stuffed full of scarves and tipped the whole lot onto the bed in a temper. Why couldn’t I just get dressed without having a tantrum? All I needed was a scarf that went with olive green and black, and that wasn’t too dark and wasn’t too loud. It shouldn’t be this difficult. I seized one that was a sort of black and white animal print, and tried wrapping it round my neck in several different ways, none of which looked quite right. “What are you doing up there?” called The Husband.
“I just can’t tie this scarf properly!”
I thought I heard him say “Just pull it as tight as possible...” but I couldn’t be sure. Oh sod it, I’d just leave it loose. I grabbed my handbag and went downstairs, hoping The Husband would say I looked nice, but he didn’t even look at me. I said, as a prompt, “You look very smart love,” hoping he’d reciprocate, but he turned to look at himself in the hallway mirror and said “Yes, I think this blazer’s ok, don’t you?” before heading out the front door. I felt like a puppy that was wagging its tail hoping for a pat on the head, but instead got a swift kick in the goolies.
The Husband drove to us Debbie and Paul’s house, which was about twelve miles away. The plan was we’d leave the car there and get a taxi back so we could both have a drink. Hooray! I always found it easier to be social when I was a bit squiffy. I mustn’t overdo it though; work tomorrow. Also, I didn’t want Debbie and Paul thinking I was a sad old lush who couldn’t control her drinking. Although chances were that Debbie had heard all about my performance at their office Christmas party the year before last. I’d got completely hammered with my friend, and we’d started to spin each other round on the dance floor. She’d let go, and I’d fallen off the edge of the dance floor, stumbled into the band and straight into the drum kit. The noise and carnage was unbelievable. My friend had tried to pull me up but was laughing too much, and had wet herself. Our husbands were absolutely mortified. Needless to say, partners were not invited to last year’s do.
We eventually found Debbie and Paul’s address after turning up a narrow country lane which we’d driven past twice and missed. It was a large detached property called Oak Cottage, although it looked too new and modern to be classed as a cottage. Numerous lanterns lit up the driveway and I could see an enormous sparkling chandelier through the hallway window. Presumably the rest of Cheltenham was plunged into darkness each time they switched that on. Debbie answered the door. She was wearing a dark green velvet dress and black suede high heels. I immediately felt like a frump.
“Hi, you made it!”
She welcomed us inside, and we followed her clingy, snugly-fitted bottom into a grand hallway.
“Did you find us alright?”
“Oh yes, no problem,” The Husband lied. He looked round the hallway. “Gosh, this is really nice.”
“Thanks, we’re making it our own, bit by bit,” she trilled, spinning round with a swish of her shiny chestnut bob. “Come and meet Paul and Chloë.”
Chloë? Oh, the daughter. I’d forgotten they had a kid. Surely she should be in bed by now; it was half past seven after all. Debbie led us into the sort of kitchen you only ever see on the adverts - very modern, with lots of chrome and shiny bits and with completely clear surfaces. Who has people round for dinner and keeps all their kitchen surfaces free from clutter? Paul, tall and well-built but with an ill-advised gingery-goatee-beard-effort was stood over a wok. He shook hands with The Husband and bent to kiss me on the cheek. I’d never met him before, why couldn’t I just shake hands too? He smelt of fried onions and sweet, florally aftershave.
“You found us alright
, then?” he asked. It must be their stock question to visitors.
“This is Chloë,” Debbie announced proudly, holding out her hand towards the corner of the room. “Chloë, come and say hello.”
A little girl, probably about 2 years old, came shyly over from where she’d set up her tea service. She was very pale, with a long nose and short blonde-white hair, which looked like it had been deliberately set in tight waves. This gave her the appearance of a 55 year old spinster, the sort that would wear a head scarf and bake sponge cakes for the WI. I suspected her first words had been: “Do have another scone Marjorie, they’re absolutely super.” I tried to converse with her, but I’m rubbish with kids and she just stared at me. I hoped she would go to bed soon, she was freaking me out.
The Husband inspected Paul’s wine rack whilst I feigned an interest in Chloë, asking Debbie lots of questions about how old she was, what she enjoyed doing, what the schools were like round here and so on. Even though I’m good at faking, I’m increasingly isolated from people who have children. Their conversation always centres on their kids and I find it dreadfully dull. I sort of understood it though - parents were so competitive these days and the pressure on them to be perfect in every way and get everything right all the time must be all-consuming - no wonder it took over their lives. I’d once walked past a group of immaculately groomed mothers gathered at the gates of an infant school and I’d heard one of them saying; “Alicia’s teacher says she is the best in her class at paying attention.” Another immediately chipped in with “Well, Rosie’s teacher says she is the best at sitting up straight - in the whole school.”
I was relieved not be a part of the mummy mafia - The Husband and I had never wanted children. And thank God we didn’t. Guaranteed, our child would be the one that craps in the swimming pool or shouts “Fuck it!” at play group. We’d have been parental pariahs.
Chloë was still staring at me, so it was a huge relief when Debbie took her up to bed. We sat down at a long oak table in the open plan dining area of their kitchen. They had made us a first course of a creamy cauliflower soup (which I managed to dangle one end of my scarf in) and Paul opened a bottle of white wine that was French and had a very posh label. It was a bit acidic but he assured us it was a really good one. He clearly fancied himself as a bit of a connoisseur, so I asked him about his favourite wines while The Husband and Debbie chatted about their work. I noticed that Debbie sipped her soup very correctly from her spoon whilst The Husband dunked great lumps of crusty bread into his, and slurped them up. He used the crusts to mop up around his bowl.
The main course was a creamy, stir-fried salmon pasta dish, which Paul told us was his own recipe, influenced by his trips to Asia. I had no idea which parts of Asia ate a lot of creamy pasta, but still... He also produced some garlic bread, which he said he’d made himself. Clearly he had time on his hands. The acid from the wine helped cut through all the cream, so I drank a great deal of it. Towards the end of the pasta, I was beginning to run out of conversation with Paul. Although “conversation” isn’t strictly accurate - I’d found out lots about him, but he hadn’t asked me one single thing about myself. He’d talked about wine and his love of France, and although I told him I’d travelled extensively throughout France, he didn’t show any interest in my experiences at all. He was in IT and regularly worked in Japan. I’d asked him as much about Japan as I could possibly think of, which wasn’t much - mainly tsunamis, Geisha girls and with some desperation, Mr Miyagi. I’d now reached the hairdresser question of: “Going anywhere nice for your holidays this year?” and he’d launched into some long, tedious story about his luggage going missing last year when they’d gone to California. The Husband was still happily talking work with Debbie and wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Why couldn’t he be a bit more attentive to me, make sure I was ok? Debbie had, at one stage, asked jovially “Are you two okay down that end of the table?” and I’d nearly replied “No, I’m so bored I think my heart has stopped beating.”
After three solid hours of asking Paul about himself, I’d had enough. I excused myself and went upstairs to find the loo. The bathroom was as pristine as the kitchen, floor-to-ceiling tiles all gleaming and spotless. They must have a cleaner - this level of shininess just wasn’t natural. I almost felt too shabby to sit on their toilet and I wiped round the hand basin with a piece of tissue after I’d washed my hands, just in case I’d left any unseemly drops of water. As I exited the bathroom and turned out the light, I suddenly caught sight of a pale figure stood close by. I screamed in shock. The figure screamed out too. A child’s scream. It was Chloë. Debbie, Paul and The Husband came racing up the stairs.
“What’s happened?” exclaimed Debbie. Paul flicked on the landing light. Chloë was wailing very loudly, beside herself.
“Ooh, I’m sorry,” I stammered, my heart still racing. “Chloë just gave me a bit of a fright.”
“Jesus, Kate, what did you do to her?” hissed The Husband as we went back downstairs, leaving the parents to console their child, whose screams were now really quite deafening.
“Oh trust you to blame me!” I hissed back at him. “I came out of the loo and she was there, like something out of the bloody Omen.”
“I suppose she is a bit of a freaky-looking kid,” he conceded. We poured ourselves some more wine, and sat awkwardly at the table waiting for the screams to subside and for our hosts to reappear. It seemed to take an age.
“Perhaps we should go soon,” I suggested, hopefully. “Shall I call a cab?”
“We haven’t been here that long,” said The Husband. Bloody well long enough if you’d had to talk to Paul all night.
We could hear Chloë had reached the hiccupping stage and Debbie returned.
“Paul’s going to sit with her for a little bit,” she told us, “just in case the poor little thing makes herself sick from all the upset.”
Oh Christ, make me feel guilty, why don’t you? The Husband shot me an accusing look. I hadn’t meant to upset the kid! And what about me? I’d had a fright too. I’d a good mind to howl and make myself sick. It wasn’t a bad idea; after all that cream they’d put in their cooking, they should supply a cholesterol testing kit when they entertained. Or at least have an ambulance on standby.
Debbie and The Husband went back to talking about work. Tales of colleagues I’d never heard of had them shrieking with laughter, along with stories of disastrous appointments with customers that I didn’t understand. I tried to look sober and smile in what I thought were the right places. I noticed we had got through nearly five bottles of Paul’s fine wine. We’d bought just the one with us - a Chardonnay that I’d got on offer at the Co-op for £5.49. It remained unopened on their side-board. Paul eventually returned from the devil child, but didn’t come back to the table. He started on the clearing up.
The last part of the evening was a bit of a blur. I know that liqueurs appeared at one stage, and we tried to make floater coffees with Tia Maria and yet more cream. I vaguely recall we were talking about our favourite movies and I’d said mine was To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s not, it’s There’s Something About Mary. But I wasn’t the only one trying to impress. The Husband said his was Schindler’s List, even though he’d only ever watched the first ten minutes before nodding off.
I think Paul went to bed before we left, and I don’t remember much about the cab ride home or what time we got in. I crashed out, but for some reason woke up at 5.00 am, feeling rough but wide awake. The Red Bull must have finally kicked in. I had to get The Husband up so he could take me to get my car, which we’d left at Debbie and Paul’s. He growled and snarled at me, but eventually got out of bed. We stood, fuzzy-headed, in the kitchen, as I tried to force a piece a toast down, hoping it wasn’t going to reappear. The Husband looked grumpily round at our perfectly nice kitchen.
“Our house is shit, isn’t it?”
I knew he was comparing it to the splendour of Debbie and Paul’s. I said our house might not be as grand
but at least it wasn’t possessed by the spirit-child of Ann Widdecombe. That at least made him chuckle.
Chapter Three