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That Stink of Stale Chanel
Out half the night, God knows where, comes to bed, shirt and jeans still on, reeking of another woman’s Chanel, gets up in the morning, tells me our marriage needs to function like a divided highway.
I ask what that means.
‘Can’t have you gettin’ in my way.’
‘Sure,’ I say, camouflaging my confusion with a confident nod. My head’s actually dizzy with whas-goin’-on questions but my lips are sealed. How’s that for a divided highway and not getting in the way? Sticking to my side, practically on the shoulder, in the ditch, doing my faithful wifey best, honouring the for-better-or-worse vow, in fact, still paying off the wedding six years later, white frilly, fluffy dress I can’t believe I managed to fit into, hanging in the closet, not to mention the two layers of dried-up, buttercream wedding cake in a frosty zip-seal bag taking up space in the bottom of the freezer, next to the stash of discounted chicken.
One of these more irritable days, I might be desperately tempted to blurt out something as daring as ‘I wanna divorce, Steve.’ That’d perk up his ears all right. What if he said, ‘Gimme the papers and show me where to sign’? I’d be devastated. I love Steve all the way from his curly black hair, dreamy brown eyes, down to those Nike trainers I paid a ridiculous sum for last Christmas, plotting to buy my way into his heart. So what if he forgets our anniversary? Seeing him in his blue mechanic’s coveralls with Mr. S. Porter name tag hanging on the lapel, so tall and hunky, makes me want to wrap my arms round him and holler, ‘I forgive you.’
He’d say, ‘For what?’ Not in a sarcastic way. He’d mean it.
If anyone should be needing forgiveness, it’s me. I lied about being pregnant to get him to pop the question. I wasn’t gonna hang around waiting for some tart to sneak up and snatch him for herself. Later, when I lied about having a miscarriage, he hugged me like he truly loved me. I almost let the cat out of the bag then and there, admitted my shameful guilt, begged on my wobbly knees for forgiveness. That wouldn’t have been very attractive, now would it? I may not be smart but I’m not dumb. I may not be pretty either, but I got feelings that could win a contest.
Meanwhile, over at my parents’ place, the telly’s playing non-stop Freeview-recorded episodes of The 1% Club on full blast because Mum and Dad insist they don’t need hearing aids. They’re cheering themselves on, ‘hurrah, hurrah,’ clapping, proudly offering correct answers to all questions (Which of the following is a prime number?), pretending like they haven’t already watched each episode a gazillion times. I used to think they were bonkers. Now I tell myself, if that’s what happily married looks like, I’ll take it. Anything’s better than that stink of stale Chanel.