Coming Clean (4 page)

I can’t help feeling touched.

“It was the same for me.” I tell her how I fell in love with him waltzing down Charing Cross Road.

We tell her that the sex was pretty hot and regale her with tales of our acrobatic, clothes-ripping, three-day shagathons.

“When we weren’t having sex,” I say, “we would sit up till all hours putting the world to rights and planning our future.”

I tell her about our dotty plan to give up work and schlep our kids around India and Nepal. “We only gave up on this idea after Amy was born. What with the sleep deprivation, the hemorrhoids and the cracked nipples, I could barely wheel her up the road to the supermarket.”

Greg starts talking about our first holiday together. “We went to Spain. We’d only been going out a few weeks.”

“And on about day three or four,” I butt in, “Greg took me to this new beach he’d discovered. Of course, he failed to tell me it was a nudist beach. We sat there in hysterics while we watched naked men barbecuing. You should have seen them. Their dangly bits were all over the chicken drumsticks. Then Greg says maybe we should join in—not with the barbecuing, just the naked bit. Anyway, eventually he persuaded me and we ended up making love in the dunes.”

He’s laughing. “Yeah, only we had a bit of a sand issue . . . and things got slightly abrasive.”

Virginia Pruitt is wincing and smiling at the same time.

“So you have some really good memories from your early days. There was clearly a real intimacy between you, both physically and emotionally. I think you need to recapture some of that.”

“That won’t be easy,” I say. “How do you start to rekindle your love life when your husband has turned into a sofa that farts?”

She doesn’t have a chance to reply because Greg is straight in there.

“Oh, and I suppose you think you really turn me on by coming to bed in your
PICKLE MAKERS DO IT WITH RELISH
T-shirt?”

Virginia Pruitt raises her hand to stop us bickering and says she would like to change the subject.

“So, Greg, if you’re not having sex with Sophie, do you masturbate?”

Greg looks taken aback, but my guess is it’s only partly due to embarrassment. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too: Virginia Pruitt with her sensible skirt and string of pearls just said “masturbate.” A look passes between us. Any moment I’m going to start laughing. I turn away from Greg and bite my bottom lip. Finally he admits to Virginia Pruitt that he does masturbate.

“And you’re able to come?”

Come? Women like Virginia Pruitt don’t say “come.” They talk about having “arrived.” I refuse to look at Greg and cough to stifle my giggles.

Greg says yes, he is able to come.

“He masturbates when he thinks I’m asleep,” I manage to blurt, “but I’m always catching him at it.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“I’m past caring,” I say.

“Really? You don’t feel rejected?”

I shrug. “A bit maybe. I mean, OK, we’re not having sex with each other, but I guess it still hurts.”

Greg throws up his hands. “Do you mind telling me what I’m supposed to do?”

“I’m just saying, that’s all.”

“So, Sophie, are you having solo sex?”

“You have to be kidding.” I manage a bitter laugh and inform her that being tired most of the time and living with a lazy slob isn’t great for the libido. She responds with an understanding nod.

“In my opinion, the lack of physical intimacy between you is merely a symptom of what’s wrong with your relationship. It’s not the cause. I think you both know that.”

I guess we do.

“While the pair of you are at loggerheads, you can’t expect to fancy each other. If, on the other hand, you are prepared to work through your issues, things in the bedroom should improve automatically.”

“So you don’t think we need sex therapy?”

“No. Our focus needs to be on getting the two of you to reconnect at an emotional level.”

“I have no objection to reconnecting,” I say, “once my husband has started pulling his weight around the house.” I am aware that my arms are folded in front of me.

“I’ll pull my weight, but in my time frame and to my standards, not yours.”

I turn to Virginia Pruitt. “You see. That’s how he wheedles his way out of taking responsibility.”

Virginia Pruitt doesn’t respond. Instead she tells us that our time is up. “But before you go, I am going to give you some homework.” She pauses and purses her lips, as if she’s not sure she’s doing the right thing. “I would like you to go on a date.”

“You mean with each other?” Greg pipes up, and he isn’t entirely joking.

Hey, Annie—OMG, China trip sounds amazing. Cannot believe you ate chicken stomach and fish lips. Fish have lips? Who knew?

Loved pix of you and Rob at the Great Wall. What a fabulous way to spend your anniversary. Can’t believe you guys have been married ten years.

Looked again at photo of Rob in trilby and have to say I think you’re wrong. Even with the paunch—barely noticeable, I might add—he doesn’t look remotely like some shady bloke selling knocked-off Rolexes off a market stall.

Did as you asked and have been over to your place a couple of times to check how your mum and dad are coping with the kids. (Loving the new garden decking btw!) Your dad was frolicking with them in paddling pool while your mum made lunch (fish pie from scratch!! Now I know where you get the cooking gene from). And before you start panicking—yes, both kids were smothered in factor fifty. Not many people their age could cope with looking after a four- and six-year-old for a fortnight, but they’ve got so much energy and seem to be taking it in their stride. So please stop worrying and relax.

Oh, have to tell you . . . was at local pool with Ben yesterday and bumped into Rosie from that book club we used to go to. You remember her—mahoosive mammaries, ginger twins. Haven’t seen her in ages. Anyway, turns out she’s almost ready to pop with baby number three. Ben takes one look at her bump and says, “So will you have to go on
Maury
to find out who your baby’s dad is?” I could have throttled him!!!! Klaudia clearly letting Amy and Ben watch daytime TV when they get in from school. Will have to have a word with her, but don’t want to lose her ’cos she’s so brill with them and they adore her.

OK . . . you wanted to know how our first sex therapy session went. Virginia Pruitt very plummy. Greg and I haven’t laughed together in God knows how long, but we practically cracked up whenever she said “come” and “masturbate.” (More of the latter when you get home. No, that came out wrong. I don’t mean you will be masturbating more when you get home. I mean I will explain more.)

We discussed Greg’s lack of domestic finger lifting, but he’s adamant that I’m the one with the problem. End of story. Virginia Pruitt seems to understand that I need him to change but, as ever, he’s digging in his heels. Women joke about their husbands being slobs—years ago, I used to—but this has gone way beyond a joke. Greg’s behavior is really threatening our marriage. I’m so angry with him for the way he’s treated me over the years.

Pretty heavy session, so we didn’t talk much on way home, other than to admit that we both like VP. Think we were scared that she would have a favorite, but she really listens to both of us. Have decided to carry on seeing her.

Our homework was to go on a date. VP thinks we need to reconnect. We decided to meet for dinner at Chez Fred. I thought we could try to talk a bit more about what’s going wrong with us. Always easier in a public place ’cos you can’t shout. I think that may have been VP’s thinking.

Long story short, I left work early, dashed home, had a long soak in tub, shaved my legs, took ages over my hair and makeup. I used this article I’d cut out from
Cosmo
to help me do smoky eyes. Amy took one look at me and said I looked like Lord Voldemort, which seemed a bit harsh. She’s been really moody lately. God, hope she’s not about to start her period. Apparently, it’s not unknown for girls to start at ten. :—(((

Decided to wear that green wrap dress I bought for your birthday do last year. Greg kept saying how much he liked it. Killer heels practically killed me, though, just walking to car. Had to wear Nikes to drive. Imagined myself being in accident and having to explain my look to gay male nurses.

Arrived Chez Fred right on time and ordered a kir royal to get in the mood. A bowl of olives and three slices of walnut-raisin bread later and Greg’s still not turned up. Assume he’s got held up in some meeting at work. Finally I text him and he texts back to say I’ve got the day wrong and we’d agreed we were having dinner the following night. But I booked the table, so I know I’ve got the right day. He accuses me of not communicating. I accuse him of sabotaging our date on purpose. Was so angry with him that I ordered a fifty-quid bottle of wine, lobster and crème brûlée. Ended up getting drunk and flirting with waiters. Then threw up when I got home.

Me and Greg still barely speaking, but hey, what’s new? Beyond practical, day-to-day issues we’ve got nothing much to say to each other. Last Sunday was classic. We read Sunday papers in bed in silence—other than when Greg started swearing because the
Observer
had dug up some new dirt on that Home Office hooker story that the
Vanguard
had missed. At some stage I asked if he wanted some tea and toast. I think he may have grunted in the affirmative. Eventually we got up. Greg took Ben to soccer practice. I took Amy to get her hair cut. We ate lunch out with our respective child. In my case with Amy moaning that her haircut made her look like Prince Valiant and she had no intention of going to school the next day.

In the afternoon, Greg napped. I popped round to see Mum and Dad. Part of me still can’t believe they’re actually going through with this move to Florida. They both turned eighty this year. I know it’s for the best. Who wouldn’t want to live out their final years away from the cold and damp, with their son the doctor to keep an eye on them. The thing is—and I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself—I can’t help feeling abandoned. It wouldn’t be so bad if my marriage weren’t in the toilet.

I can’t remember the last time Greg and I discussed a movie or had a conversation about current affairs. It’s like it’s all been said and now we’re just going through the motions until we die. (Miserable? Moi?)

Anyhow, got home from Mum and Dad’s and cooked dinner while Greg disappeared to his study to catch up with his e-mails. Later, the kids ate in front of
Britain’s Got Talent
and Greg told them he was thinking of auditioning. At this point he started playing “God Save the Queen” on his teeth. Kids in stitches. To give him his due, when he’s around he does make a real effort with Amy and Ben.

Thing is, until Chez Fred debacle, I really thought our marriage stood a chance and that with the help of counseling we could patch things up, but occurs to me we’ve left it all far too late. Greg’s made it clear re domestic stuff that he isn’t going to change. He says he wants to work on our relationship, but I don’t think his heart’s in it and to tell you the truth I’m not sure that mine is. Could it be that subconsciously we’re actually looking to VP to help us end our marriage instead of heal it? Are we talking endgame here? All feels pretty bloody heavy.

OK, gotta go. Just heard Greg come in. We’re off to our second session. Wonder if VP will give us detention for not doing our homework.

Sorry for long miserablist missive. Enjoy Terra-Cotta Army. Tell Rob I say hi and that hat v cool.

Love and hugs,

S XXX

PS: Still convinced I can hear mice under floorboards in kitchen.

I press “send” and look up to see my son trotting into the bedroom.

“Mum, what’s happened to my room? It’s all floor.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, wiping away the tear that has started rolling down my cheek. “I just picked up a whole load of your clothes. Ben, we have a laundry basket. Why do you refuse to use it? Do you actually enjoy sleeping in a sea of stinky socks and underpants?”

“I just forget, that’s all.” Where have I heard this before? He climbs onto the bed beside me. Since it’s only six in the evening, I’m “on” it rather than “in” it. Earlier, I’d been tempted to get under the duvet, but I knew I’d only fall asleep. So I decided to e-mail Annie instead.

I transfer the laptop to the nightstand and Ben snuggles in for a cuddle. He smells of school—a mixture of paint, crayons and school dining room. I can tell he’s tired because he’s got his blanky.

“You know how Arthur is coming to stay on Saturday?” he says. Arthur is his best friend from school. “Well, would it be OK if we built a time machine in my bedroom?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Cool.”

“Any thoughts about where you might go?”

“Well . . . Arthur wants to go back to the Stone Age.”

“But you’re not so sure?”

Ben wrinkles his nose. “I’d like to go, but what if we got attacked by a mammoth? Or a pterosaur? They had a wingspan of sixty feet.”

“Huh. That’s pretty scary. Maybe you could suggest going somewhere different.”

“If it was just me on my own I’d like to go back to when you and Dad were my age and we could play and be friends.”

“Aw . . . that’s so sweet.” I give him a squeeze.

“You won’t tell Arthur I’m scared of mammoths and pterosaurs, will you? He’ll laugh and make fun of me.”

“What? As if.”

“So where are you and Dad going tonight?”

“Oh, just out to eat.” Neither of the kids has the remotest idea that Greg and I are in therapy.

“I like it when you and Dad go out together.”

“You do?”

Ben nods.

“It means you’re friends again. And maybe you’ll stop yelling at Dad.”

I’m suddenly overcome with guilt. I guess I’ve been in denial about how much our fighting is upsetting the kids. “Do I shout a lot?”

“Yep. And you shout at me and Amy, too . . . but not as much as you shout at Dad.”

“I’m sorry, hon. It’s just that I’m always tired when I get home from work and I get irritable—particularly when you lot don’t tidy up after yourselves. I know I shouldn’t yell. Tell you what—from now on I’ll try really hard not to.”

“Good. The reason you yell is because you kvetch too much.”

I laugh. He’s been picking up Yiddish words from my parents.

“Granddad says that you kvetch a bit, but not as much as Grandma Esther. She kvetches the most.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What about when she came to look after us last Halloween and I had that skeleton costume with the luminous bones. It was the most amazingest costume ever and when we went trick-or-treating she made me put on my coat.”

Could I ever forget? He went on about it for weeks. Since then it’s become a bit of a family joke, but I’m not sure that my mother will ever be truly forgiven by her grandson.

“Grandma didn’t want you to catch cold.”

“But it was my bestest-ever costume.”

“Well, maybe this year we’ll find you another one that’s just as good.” I give Ben another squeeze and a kiss and start disentangling myself from him. “Look, I gotta get going. I just heard your dad come in. Why don’t you jump in the bath now and afterwards you and Amy can watch a movie with Klaudia.”

“’K,” he says, amenable for once. He climbs off the bed and heads towards the bathroom.

“And don’t forget the cabbages,” I call out after him. It’s a joke I’ve had with the kids since they were tiny. I always used to tell them that if they didn’t wash behind their ears, cabbages would start to grow in the dirt. Ben doesn’t reply. These days, the joke has worn a bit thin.

I’m slipping on my shoes when an e-mail pings. I open my laptop. It’s from Annie. I look at the bedside clock and do a quick calculation. It must be one in the morning in Beijing.

Hey, hon, just a quickie ’cos about to fall into bed. Boozy night with nice-but-dull Swedes we met at Great Wall. He in timber . . . owns horizontal boring mill. Or should that be a boring horizontal mill? Anyway, just to say I read your e-mail and that am thinking of you. I know everything feels hopeless right now—especially with your mum and dad moving to the other side of the world, but please, please hang in there. And don’t give up on you and Greg. I will not have my two favorite people in the world splitting up. Counseling definitely the way forward. It’ll take hard work from both of you, but you will get through this. Glad you like VP. Back in a few days. Talk then. Love you, A XXX

PS: Hope you don’t mind, but probably won’t mention to Rob that you like hat, as will only encourage him.

PPS: Sorry about mice.

This was typical Annie, coming home tired and trashed at one in the morning and still finding the wherewithal to let you know she’s there for you.

I hit “reply.”

Love you too. Thanks for the pep talk. Who knows—maybe you’re right and we will get through this . . . although right now I’m really not sure. Doing my best to hang in. Sleep tight and sweet dreams.

X

As I cross the landing, I pick up a pair of Ben’s sneakers, remove the potato chip packet that’s been shoved into one of them and toss them into his room. Then I head downstairs.

As usual I just avoid tripping over the pile of stuff at the bottom. The pile is like some giant single-celled organism that is forever morphing and changing shape but never disappears. No sooner have I cleared away a mass of clothes, books and CDs than it will take on a new form consisting of shoes, comics and a jumbo pack of Tampax.

I can hear laughter coming from the kitchen. Amy is shrieking with delight. She and Greg have gotten into playing Connect Four. I assume that, as usual, he’s letting her win. Unlike his own father, Greg actually gets a kick out of being a noncompetitive parent.

I walk into the kitchen and it hits me again—the poo smell that’s been hanging around for days. No matter how much I complain, Greg refuses to keep his Gorgonzola in the fridge. Apparently the guy in the posh cheese shop told him it ruins the taste.

The game appears to be over. Amy is laughing, fit to burst because Greg is doing a perfect impersonation of the kids’ ever so jolly and ever so Scottish school principal, Mrs. McKay. Like most of the state school principals in our oh so boho part of West London, Mrs. M is well known for her gentle, uncompetitive, unpushy approach to education. The not-quite-so-boho prefer to call it second rate.

“You’re in a good mood,” I remark to Greg, putting the potato chip packet in the trash can, which is already overflowing.

“Och, aye,” Greg responds, staying in character. “That is because ay am so proud of the wee ones here at Parkhall School. They are so incensed by the government cuts in education spending that they have just sent the minister for education an angry collage.”