Fandango in the Apse! (8 page)

‘I think it’s time we left,’ Eddie decided.

‘Not before I wipe the smirk off that bitch’s face, we’re not!’

‘Katie, for God’s sake don’t make a scene, it’s all in your imagination,
now come
on
.’  Eddie had hold of my arm and short of making a complete
fool of myself; I had no choice but to leave.

The following days were a bubbling cauldron of spite filled slanging
matches or simmering silences waiting to erupt into one.  Eddie adamantly
refused to admit anything was going on with Heidi, and though I wasn’t sure I
wanted his confession to the contrary, I adamantly refused to believe him.  I
was in a strange position.  If he admitted sleeping with Heidi, I would have to
make choices.  I didn’t want to make choices.  I was happy living in my five
bedroomed, Barrett-built, executive home, with solid wood kitchen and double
garage. 

  I phoned Alison again, because you can always rely on your best friend
to tell you the truth no matter what. 

‘So what do you think?’  I asked, after filling her in on the details.

‘Do you want the truth, or do you want reassurance?’

‘Oh God… I don’t know Alison, I have no idea what I want.  Everything
back to normal, I suppose.’

‘Hmm…that’s going to be difficult now though…’

‘What?’

‘Getting everything back to normal.  Listen Katie, are you absolutely
sure about this, I mean have you noticed anything different about him lately?’

‘Well, he’s put on a little weight; his face is getting rounder…’

‘Anything else?’

‘Other than a sudden preference for skimpy briefs over Y Fronts… nothing.’

‘Hmmm…’

‘Oh!  I’ve just remembered I found a new bottle of aftershave in the
glove box of his car a few weeks back.  I didn’t think anything about it at the
time.’  It was all beginning to make sense now, the late nights, business
dinners at the weekend. 

‘You think he’s at it, don’t you, Alison?’

‘Truth?  Yeah.  I’m sorry love, but any man who disappears for a half an
hour in the middle of a party with a woman other than his wife, is up to no
good.’

‘I know…argh!  He’s a shit.’

‘Got to agree with you there honey. Trouble is, what are you going to do
about it?’

‘Do about it?  I’ve no idea…what would you do?’

‘You mean
after
I’d chopped his balls off?  That depends…’

‘On what?’

‘Whether or not I wanted to save my marriage.’ 

My eyes strayed to the twelve by eight family photograph we’d posed for
the previous summer, which was now hanging in pride of place on the dining room
wall.  Two happy, mirror images of their father smiled out at me.  Eddie, his
blonde hair a shade darker than the boys, had a proprietary arm round my
shoulders and Jester, with a hopelessly stupid expression on his furry face, completed
the picture.

‘Oh, Alison… it’s all such a mess.’

In the end, it came down to two choices – fight or flight.  I chose
fight.  I know you probably think I should have chucked him out and then taken
him for as much as I could get, and in hindsight, I wish I had.  However, you
have to understand, I was still labouring under the impression that I’d brought
his infidelity on myself.  Total horseshit when I think about it now, but at
the time, that’s how it seemed.

So – in the battle to save my ailing union, my pre-emptory means of
defence was to diet.  In collusion with the wonderful women from WeightWatchers,
over the following six months, I shed the blubber until my size tens slipped
over slimmed down hips with ease.  Two notches tighter on the belt and a notch
up for the self-esteem.  Even Eddie had managed a compliment, well – not so
much a compliment, more an observation – but I wasn’t going to be picky.

I was on a roll – or so I thought, right up to the point when my
carefully thought out strategy descended into a fiasco of seismic proportions. 

Having unexpectedly secured a babysitter in the form of Eddie’s mother –
a woman with whom I had reached an uneasy détente in the Cold War of our
relationship – I took myself off to the gym.  On the way home, while sitting at
a set of traffic lights still high on exercise-induced endorphins, I happened
to look to my left.  You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?  Yep! 
Beautifully framed in the candlelit window of Giuseppe’s Italian Restaurant,
was my husband and his latest squeeze. This one was dark haired and staring
adoringly into Eddie’s eyes.  For  Christ’s sake!  What does a woman have to
do?

Totally,
against my character, I decided to say nothing to Eddie when he returned from
his “unavoidably late staff meeting”.  Perilously close to tears, it nearly
killed me to stay quiet, but I had the embryo of a plan simmering on the back
boiler.  I wasn’t my mother’s daughter for nothing; I knew the only solace for
my bitter soul was the sweet taste of revenge.  

Eddie, now secure in his belief that he could get away with anything,
suspected nothing.  I hadn’t yet fine-tuned my schedule of retribution, when an
opportunity presented itself. 

I have to tell you, those of you who have never suffered the gut
wrenching humiliation of infidelity will find what I’m about to tell you
disgusting.  Those of you who have, will also find it disgusting, whilst
wishing you had thought of it yourselves.  To me, it was a stroke of genius. 
Let me explain…

I was standing at the sink looking out over the garden trying to muster
some enthusiasm for the day, when I noticed Jester behaving peculiarly.  He
seemed to be performing some sort of ritual dance, alternatively squatting and then
hopping around the lawn.  I watched for a while until he gave one almighty
heave, which resulted in a look of relief on his face and the appearance of a
strange object on the grass, (I told you this was disgusting).  Well used to
Jester’s penchant for eating just about anything, I went to investigate. 

To my amazement sitting amid the contents of his bowel movement was a
pair of Sam’s underpants.  He had soiled them a few days earlier and been so upset
by his uncharacteristic lapse in the potty training area, I had put them
outside the kitchen door to deal with later and never given them another
thought. 

As I went to get a shovel, an evil thought struck me.  The perfectly
malicious plan I was hatching perked up my spirits to such an extent, I decided
to cook Eddie his favourite curry for dinner.

‘How’s your curry?’  I asked, as I sat watching him eat later that
evening.

‘A bit spicier than usual, but lovely all the same, are you not having
any?’

‘No, I ate with the kids, I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home,’ I
replied, as I watched Eddie clear his plate. 

‘Do you want some more?’ 

I had a hard time hiding my satisfaction as I served another portion of
curry and rice to my unsuspecting husband.  I did pause to reflect on the
amount he ate – this was the time his increasing paunch, receding hairline, and
overfed face, inspired his nickname “The Pig” in my mind.  It was a puzzle to
me how he managed to attract women at all. 

Later, as I washed up I had no remorse about the fact that in the very
pan I was holding, along with the curry, I had cooked Sam’s underpants.  Yes! 
The very ones that had been through Jester’s digestive system.  So what do you
think?  A terrible thing to do or did he get his just deserts?  I’ll let you
decide.

The next morning when Eddie surfaced for breakfast, I did have a few
qualms over my culinary offering the previous night though.  He had a sickly
looking pallor and refused anything but dry toast.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘No, I’ve a bit of a gippy tummy.  I’ve been up and down to the loo all
night.’

‘Must have been something you ate.’ Ooh, I’m a bitch!

‘I knew I shouldn’t have had that prawn sandwich for lunch yesterday. 
The last time I had one, it made me sick, do you remember?’

‘I do, you can never trust prawns, Eddie…don’t have them again.’

I really am a wretch!  But hey-ho, a woman scorned and all that.

In the following months, I dedicated myself to finding ways of annoying
Eddie.  A nice, deep scratch along the side of his shiny, new company car.  “Accidentally”
throwing his wallet, cards and all, in the rubbish on dustbin day.  Shrinking
his golfing woollens in a boil wash – OK, they appeased my anger, but really
they were hollow victories, what I needed was something big.

You know the old saying, “opportunity knocks when you least expect it”, well,
I can attest to the trueness of that statement.  My opportunity came in the
form of Father Daly.  I know I wasn’t going to mention his name, but it seems silly
to keep referring to him as Richard Chamberlain, so his name was Father Michael
Daly, and the devil take me, if any of you know him.

As I mentioned earlier, the children’s un-baptised state had been
bothering me.  They were born with original sin and my ingrained Catholic upbringing
kept reminding me that it was up to me to get them purified… pronto!  Original
sin, for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, is supposedly a
sin inherited by all descendants of Adam.  He and the luscious Eve buggered it
up for the rest of us when they ate the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. 
Right or wrong?  I’ve no idea, but “just in case”, I felt the urge to go along
with it.

‘Come in, Mrs Roberts, I’m Father Daley.’

At this point, I should tell you I was expecting a grouchy, old fart, who
breathed fire and brimstone and smelled faintly of whisky, much like the
priests I remembered from childhood.

The man holding the door open for me to enter the house shared by all
three of the priests of the parish, was none of those things.  He was young for
a start, he was smiling and he was gorgeous.  Bugger, I thought, if I’d known
he was a priest here, I’d have been tempted back to mass long ago.

‘Thank you, father,’ I managed after a determined effort to stop myself
gawking at him.

He showed me into the lounge and offered tea.

‘Father Gus sends his apologies, but he is unavoidably detained and has
asked me to see you instead,’ he said, smiling.

Oh, my word, it was obvious he had no idea of the power of that smile, or
he’d stop doing it.

‘That’s no problem,’ I replied, while silently cheering on my good
fortune.

I really did try to concentrate on our conversation, but my brain turned
into a puddle between my ears and his words kept sinking to the bottom like
pebbles.  I kept thinking the priesthood was definitely short-changing the
female population with this waste of a perfectly good specimen to celibacy. It
was unfair…so, so unfair.  I know, I know, I was digging myself a hole so deep,
I’d soon be meeting Lucifer.  Either that, or God would smite me down for my
unholy thoughts.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t help it. As I already said, I had just watched
The
Thorn Birds
on telly – he was Richard – only better, much, much better.  As
you already know what eventually happened with Father Daly and me… I’ll skip
the next part.  Only kidding!

My now oft mentioned “bluebell romp” happened a few weeks after the
baptisms.  I engineered a meeting.  How you may ask?  Well… it was simple
really. 

During my conversations with Father Michael (we were on first name terms
by then), I happened to mention the problems I was having in my marriage.  If
any of you dare suggest there was an ulterior motive to that, I shall
strenuously deny it.  He, as I knew he would, asked if he could be of help.  The
stage was set.  

Are you thinking that was a little devious?   You’re right of course; especially
as I had always thought it incredibly funny that we Catholics are expected to
seek marriage guidance from priests, who had no idea of what it was like to be
married in the first place.  However, at this stage, my only plan was to get to
know the tasty theologian a little better.  It wasn’t until during one of our
meetings, which we were conducting in the garden due to the two other priests
wanting to watch Manchester United play Liverpool, (far more important than a
parishioner), that I had an inkling all may not be what it seemed. 

‘So how has it been, Katie, any improvement?’

‘No, not really Father, I try very hard to be a good wife…’ Bullshit! 
‘but at times I think we’re getting further apart.’

All the time I was speaking Father Daly was looking at my mouth, then as
I finished speaking his gaze slid to my eyes and stayed there a fraction of a
second too long.  At first, I thought I’d imagined it.  But then…

‘And the boys, how are they?’

‘They’re a little too young to pick up…’
There it was again, I
hadn’t imagined it.  Jesus, a priest was making eyes at me. I dragged my
attention back to what I was saying, ‘on the atmosphere, and …um…we try not to
argue in front of them.’

Father Michael smiled his devilishly handsome smile and his, ‘Well,
that’s good,’ was lost on me.  My God, I kept thinking, a priest was making
eyes at me.  This revelation of mutual attraction was quite unbelievable, but also
sexy, and powerful.  I know that later, Father Michael’s doctrinal beliefs
suffered a major setback in my irreverent hands, but you must agree; he was
definitely the instigator.  I have to say though, my courage deserted me and I
cut the meeting short and rushed home. 

The fact that I was kicking myself for my hasty retreat the following morning
did nothing to settle my chaotically scrambled mind.  A dalliance with a man of
the cloth was out of the question, I kept telling myself.  I was still telling
myself this, when I bumped into him a week later.   Honestly, there was no
contrivance involved in this meeting, I promise you.  Eddie had taken the
children to his mother’s house for Sunday tea, something I now avoided whenever
possible. 

It was an unusually warm late March evening and the woods outside our
village beckoned.  I was thinking how the fine weather was encouraging the leaves
to unfurl early this year as I ambled along a path at the edge of the trees, when
suddenly he was in my line of sight.