home. Arm in arm, we step into the new wine bar in town. Quirky and stylish. Empty wine casks instead of tables. Candles instead of electric light. In an old basement, which has been made to look like a wine cellar. Stepping inside is like stepping into another world. A world of romance and secrets.
But not quite.
A man is ignoring his wife and staring across at you, as you edge behind the wine cask we have chosen. I watch him, watching you, and instead of romance and secrets I realise this wine bar is just full of the same thing as usual. Men who want to look at you. His eyes rest on your legs, then your buttocks. Then inevitably your breasts. His wife notices me watching him and looks embarrassed.
It’s always like this; everywhere we go, someone finds you attractive. The constant attention makes me feel tired.
The waiter saunters over, flashing a full-beam smile.
‘What can I get you, Madam?’ he asks, eyes brimming into yours.
Your eyes shine back into his. What is happening? Are you flirting with him, Faye? I clench my jaw and pinch myself. Of course not. I must stop doing this. We’ve always been disproportionately attractive. Thinking about it too much will drive me mad. But I don’t need to worry about looks; you like me for my mind, don’t you, Faye? You’ve always respected my opinion, haven’t you?
The waiter returns with a bottle of claret, and pours us a glass each, flamboyantly, from a great height, a thimbleful of wine in an oversized glass. You ignore him this time. Perhaps you sense the way I am feeling. I sit admiring the contours of your face, flickering in the candlelight across the barrel.
‘How’s the horse riding going?’ I ask as I take a sip of my wine.
You snort. ‘I’ll get away with it, as long as the pony they provide for the photoshoot is old and knackered.’
‘It won’t be. What’s the point of photographing a good-looking woman on a clapped-out horse?’
Your eyes darken and your face stiffens. ‘Well you think I’m old and knackered. So there is every point. Two battle-axes together.’
I sigh. ‘Why are you saying that, Faye?’
‘Can’t you remember what you said to me, Phillip?’ Your voice is sharp. Eyes spitting.
‘Yes I can.’ I lean back. ‘And I didn’t mean you were old and ugly and looked like a battle-axe. You are putting words in my mouth.’
You lean across the barrel towards me. ‘What did you mean then?’ you ask, lips thin and stretched.
‘Just that we are entering a new phase. Early middle age. We need to put more emphasis on the children.’
Shoulders raised. Arms crossed. ‘Are you saying that I don’t look after them properly?’
I close my eyes for a second in exasperation. When I open them again your eyes stab into me. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. I just think they’re more important than your modelling career. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re modelling or not, Faye. To me you are beautiful anyway.’
You shrug your shoulders like an awkward teenager. ‘You just think I’m getting too old, losing my looks. That’s why you’re commenting.’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘This is my career you’re mauling. You’re behaving like a chauvinist, not supporting me.’
The word chauvinist sears into me. ‘I have always done everything to support you. Taken the children to the crèche. Dropped them off and picked them up from school.’ My voice is raised and barbed.
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