‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Oh…Rose,’ Ed stuttered, getting to his feet. ‘Well, what a surprise! I, er expect you’re wondering what we’re…’
‘Yes,’ I interjected. ‘I am.’ I was so frosty I gave myself goose bumps, but inside I was as hot as a flame.
‘Well, I…we…we were just having a chat, actually.’
‘A chat?’ I echoed. ‘How nice. Well, don’t let me interrupt,’ I added with a chilly little smile. Then I turned on my heel, and left.
Looking back, the only thing that gives me any solace is the knowledge that I retained my dignity. It’s only in my dreams that I throw things at him, and swear, and rage and hit. In real life I was as cool as a frozen penguin, which might surprise people who know me well. I’m supposed to be ‘difficult’ you see – a bit ‘complicated’. A rather ‘thorny’ Rose – ho ho ho! And of course my red hair is a guaranteed sign of a crazy streak and a wicked tongue. So the fact that I didn’t erupt like Mount Etna in this moment of crisis would almost certainly confound my friends. But I felt oddly detached from what was going on. I was numb. I guess it was shock. I mean, there was my handsome husband, of barely six months, holding hands with a troll! This realisation astounded me so much that I was able to retain my sang-froid.
‘Rose…’ he ventured an hour and a half later in the kitchen where I was tidying out a drawer. ‘Rose…’ he repeated, but I was having difficulty hearing him over the deafening thump, thump of my heart. ‘Rose…’ he reiterated, ‘you must think badly of me.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I do.’
‘I just want to say that I’m truly sorry. I know it doesn’t look good.’ Now that elegant little apology really annoyed me, because I was enjoying being on the moral high ground. The air’s very bracing at ten thousand feet, and of course there’s a wonderful view. ‘But I’d like to…explain,’ he suggested impotently.
‘No. Spare me, Ed. Please don’t.’
‘I want to,’ he insisted. ‘There are things I’d like to say.’
Suddenly I noticed that one of the cupboards was grubby and began wiping it with a damp cloth.
‘I’m not remotely interested in why you were holding hands with that pigmy,’ I said stiffly as I swabbed away.
‘Look, Rose. We’ve got to talk.’
‘You sound like the B.T. ad.’
‘Mary-Claire and I were just…chatting,’ he added lamely.
‘Ed,’ I said serenely, ‘that’s a lie: a) you were not just “chatting”, you were holding hands; and b) there was a pool of drool under your table big enough to support aquatic life. What’s the attraction?’ I added breezily as I reached for the Ajax. ‘She looks like a pig in a tutu to me.’
‘Well…she…she…Mary-Claire listens to me Rose,’ he said with sudden emphasis. ‘She hears what I say. You don’t. You take everyone else’s problems seriously, don’t you – but not mine, and would you please put that cloth down?’
‘There’s a nasty mark here,’ I said. ‘It’s very stubborn. I’ll have to try Astonish if this doesn’t work.’
‘Will you stop cleaning, Rose, for Chrissake!’ He snatched the cloth out of my hand and hurled it into the sink with a flaccid slap. ‘You’re always cleaning things,’ he said. ‘That’s part of the problem – I can never relax.’
‘I just like things to be shipshape,’ I protested pleasantly. ‘No need to snap.’
‘But you’re always at it. It’s bizarre! If you’re not at work or the radio station you’re cleaning or tidying, or polishing the furniture, or you’re sorting drawers. Or you’re colour spectrumming my shirts: or filing stuff away, or you’re hoovering the floor, or telling me to hoover.’
‘But it’s a very big house.’
Ed shook his head. ‘You can never relax, Rose, can you? You can never just sit and be. Look,’ he added with a painful sigh, ‘you and I have got problems. What shall we do?’
At this my ears pricked up like a husky. Ed was talking my lingo now. This was just like one of my monthly ‘Dilemmas’ when the readers, rather than me, give advice. Rose (name changed to protect her identity), has just found her husband Ed (ditto), canoodling with their vertically-challenged marriage guidance counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey. Rose, understandably, feels shocked and betrayed. But, despite this, she still finds her husband desperately, knee-tremblingly, heart-breakingly attractive, so is wondering what to do. And I was just about to open my mouth when I heard Ed say, ‘Maybe we should have a trial separation.’ Separation. Oh. S, e, p, a, r…I reflected as I pulled the knife out of my heart.
‘One is apart,’ I said quietly.
‘What?’
‘One is apart.’
‘Well, yes – we will be. Just for a while.’
‘No, it’s the anagram of separation,’ I explained.
‘Oh,’ he sighed. ‘I see. But I think we should just have a breather…take a month off.’
‘So that you can shag that midget again?’
‘I haven’t shagged her – and she is a not a midget!’
‘Yes you have – and she is!’
‘I have…not…slept with Mary-Claire,’ he insisted.
‘I have a diploma in Advanced Body Language! I know.’
‘Well, I…’
‘Don’t bother to deny it, Ed.’
He clenched his jaw, as he does when he’s cornered, and a small blue vein jumped by his left eye. ‘It’s just…’ he sighed, ‘that I was feeling neglected and she –’
‘Paid you attention I suppose?’
‘Yes!’ he said defiantly. ‘She did. She talked to me, Rose. She communicated with me. Whereas you only communicate with strangers. That’s why I wrote you that letter,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way I could get a response! You’re…neurotic, Rose,’ he snapped, no longer contrite now, but angry. ‘Sometimes I think you need help.’
At that I put my J Cloth down and gave him a contemptuous stare. ‘That is ridiculous,’ I said quietly. ‘Help is what I provide.’
‘Look Rose,’ he said exasperatedly, running his left hand through his hair, ‘our marriage is not going well. We rushed into it because, being older, we thought we knew what we were doing – but we were wrong. And I found you so vibrant and so attractive, Rose – I still do. But I’m finding it hard to live with you, so for the time being let’s give each other some space.’
‘You want more space?’
‘Yes,’
