Fat Girls and Fairy Cakes (13 page)

Barely four hours later, the dawn broke over our Greek retreat and we were rudely awakened by the sound of a cockerel crowing in the back garden. Even Tom, who sleeps through most things, was disturbed by the constant noise. I decided there was no point in lying there trying to sleep so I staggered into the kitchen. Grace was sitting at the table, Nintendo in hand.

“Mum, I can’t find the pool,” she said, without taking her eyes from
Nintendogs
.

“Erm, there isn’t actually a pool. What would you like for breakfast, Grace?”

“No pool? But you can’t go on holiday and not have a bloody pool!”

“You can, and that will do young lady. You do not say that word.”

“
You
do.”

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“A pool!” With that she opened a window and leaned out, looking hard in disbelief. At this point, Tom staggered in scratching his head and his groin (yes, at the same time – quite a talent).

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, like he was a six-year old and I was his mummy.

“Well, did you buy any food? I didn’t, and my magical powers are limited abroad. I can’t conjure it from nowhere and the bloody ‘breakfast fairy’ hasn’t appeared, so I would guess – erm, give me a minute – there isn’t anything!”

“No need to be like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, wanting to be all mature but pushing him for a reaction.

“Mum, Mum, the bloody breakfast fairy
has
appeared.”

“Grace, I will not tell you again.”

“No Mum. Look, look!”

Grace was pointing frantically at something beneath the window and with some trepidation (Grace’s idea of a fairy was likely to be a creeping lizard) I opened the door and stepped out. There, in the shade of the house, lying on the ground was a basket covered in a cloth. I handed it to Grace who was still hanging out of the window, who lifted the cover and began whooping with delight.

“Ooh Mum, it’s yoghurt and honey, yay!”

Yannis or Anna had kindly left us this little ‘Red Cross’ parcel, placed in the coolest part of the garden.

“That’s kind of them,” Tom said, almost smiling as he poked his finger into the thick, white sheep’s yoghurt. I spooned it into some cracked bowls plucked quickly from the cupboards and Tom poured the golden, syrupy honey into each snowy puddle. Grace found a handful of almonds in the basket and made it her job to sprinkle them on top of the bittersweet breakfasts. We took our bowls outside like the three bears and sat in the warm breeze at a rickety table looking out upon hills and olive trees.

The yoghurt was cool and rich, the tangy sharpness relieved by the sweetness of honey and crunchy with nuts. “It’s not
that
bad here,” I said, lifting my face to the sun.

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, looking out onto the golden landscape. But I could tell that he wasn’t convinced. We both looked and felt like hell, but at least I was trying. This was the island where we’d spent our honeymoon and I couldn’t help but keep making stark comparisons between then and now. Could this couple who barely make eye contact be the same two people who once slept all night in each other’s arms, afraid to be apart?

Later, as we washed the breakfast things there was a knock on the door. It was our friend Yannis. “You OK? You sleep?” he asked, putting his palm to his face, his head on one side in a sleeping gesture.

I was concerned we’d be woken by the cockerel every morning so I thought it would be a good opportunity to ask if Yannis could perhaps put him in another field. However, after my faux pas the night before, I wasn’t prepared to risk a hurried translation of ‘noisy cock’ in Greek (it could have gone
so
wrong) so I smiled and made a ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’ sound several times, rubbing my eyes in a charades fashion to try and let him know we’d been woken and were now very tired.

“Ah,” he said, nodding his head. “No problem.” I looked helplessly at Tom who just shrugged.

“You can remove the noisy cockerel from our garden?” I asked, nodding madly – and unnecessarily.

“Yes, yes,” he said, turning to leave. “No problem, noisy. I do now,” he said, making strange shapes with his hands as he started to leave. As I turned away and picked up the tea-towel, my eyes and brain decided to communicate and I suddenly understood his sign language. He was twisting his hands and nodding, clearly on his way to end the cockerel’s life by strangling it with his bare hands at my request. “Noisy. I do it now,” he repeated over his shoulder, already starting up the dirt track that led to the cockerel’s lair.

“Wait, wait, don’t
kill
the cock!” I screamed running after him uphill, starting to sweat and pant in the early morning heat. Yannis turned round, looking confused.

“Kokoraki? Kokoraki?”

I guessed this meant cockerel but there was no time to check. An innocent bird was about to be strangled just so I could have a lie-in and something needed to be done. I grabbed Yannis by both arms, shouting, “No! No! Don’t kill cock. I like noisy cock.” He was surprised but clearly not averse to this and for a moment, I suspect he thought I was continuing my previous night’s pursuit of his no-doubt hairy body. I saw Tom’s shoulders shaking out of the corner of my eye.

“You could actually help me out here, Tom,” I yelled.

“You’re doing fine on your own,” he shouted back, clearly enjoying the show.

Still clutching Yannis I saw that strange, whimsical look on his face again and followed his eyes to note with horror that I was still sporting my strappy summer nightie. I almost died. Not only was it way too short for a woman with my knees but it barely contained my wayward breasts that since the age of 40 had lived a life of their own. One false move and Yannis would be forced to call the police about the crazy English lady who demands to sleep with him and accosts him on dirt tracks screaming about how much she likes cock. Appalled at myself I decided to leave, thinking,
I am half naked and these people are decent. They have religion and ‘the evil eye’.

So while I still had a modicum of dignity left, I walked slowly back down the hill, still insisting in a less animated way (i.e. keeping my arms firmly by my sides and therefore my wild forty-something breasts in check) that the cock be saved. Yannis smiled, shrugged and walked away.

I lumbered back down the hill towards Tom, who was clapping my performance. As I smiled and took a bow, he walked back inside the villa. I watched him disappear and stood alone in the heat and dust feeling stupid.

Well, we may not have had a pool, but we did manage to find the sea and actually ended up having a pretty good day. Tom and Grace played together in the water whilst I topped up my tan and texted Lizzie to find out what the weather was like in the UK. After all, there’s nothing more satisfying than being somewhere hot when the weather at home is bad, is there? I soon got a text back.

TXT: Bloody freezing here darling. Grey skies and rain. Are things hotting up in the bedroom?

I read her text thoughtfully and glanced over to the water where Tom was swirling our daughter round, dipping her in and out of the sea and laughing as she shrieked. I quickly texted Lizzie back.

TXT: Not yet. Maybe tonight.

Very soon my mobile pinged through a response.

TXT: You go girl. Don’t put it off or it’ll be too late.

I put my phone away and picked up my book – but I couldn’t help thinking about what she said for the rest of the day. So that night, with Lizzie’s warning ringing in my ears and as Tom lay in bed reading
The Private Life of the Chinese Panda,
I slipped into midnight lace and slinked around the bedroom.

Feeling sort of hot in midnight blue, I tried to swish a bit, thinking
tummy in, bust out
and refused to be put off when I caught a fleeting glimpse of an overweight, middle-aged blonde in the cracked bathroom mirror. I immediately banished her from my head and whispered, ‘J Lo’ over and over in my head like a mantra. I was in full view, pretending to be unaware but aiming to catch Tom’s eye and create spontaneous fireworks. I didn’t look directly at him because I wanted it all to be very natural and not seem like a planned seduction. If Tom thought I was trying to inflame him with my M&S polyester it would be a turn-off and the Chinese Panda would have the upper hand. I wanted a love scene in the vein of
From Here to Eternity
. I wanted lashing, thrashing waves and tidal passion.

However, what you want isn’t always what you get and while I wanted Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster, it was beginning to look more like George and Mildred. I pondered this and nearly put myself off the whole idea but with an alarming stab of false confidence I slipped between the sheets and seductively slid my fingers under the coverlet. I felt surprisingly shy after all this time, but reached out with the tips of my fingers for Tom’s lower abdomen. On reaching my destination, I allowed my fingers to run gently yet seductively along the border of pubic hair between day and night. At first he didn’t respond and I started to feel a bit silly.

I was just considering a return to the my decadent airport purchase of the
Good Food Magazine
and Jamie’s ‘pukka prosciutto pasta’ when I heard a slight moan coming from Tom’s direction. Oh yes, apparently I’d still got the touch. I sizzled silently and turned my gaze to him. He was biting his upper lip, eyes closed in ecstasy.
Yes! He still wants me
, I thought as I moved slowly down the bed, making small rodent-like nibbles at his neck causing another moan, deeper this time. He began to move his arms upwards, hands reaching for his face as the sexual joy began to build, and he cried: “Oh! Yess!” It did occur to me that this was a bit much at this stage in the proceedings but I was prepared to go with it. Yet as I looked up to meet his eyes I discovered to my horror the real reason for his unbridled emotion.

A glint of silver in each of Tom’s ears told me that he was oblivious to my advances and was in joyful receipt of audio sporting action. Yes, Tom’s orgasmic groaning had been evoked by a game of cricket on the other side of the world. Someone had just done a googly. And it wasn’t me.

For the rest of the holiday we spent our days arguing and sweating and our nights drinking to forget the days. Meanwhile, nothing stirred in the bedroom which was silent save the piercing shriek of Yannis’s cock, which continued to wake me every morning without fail. Despite my best efforts and planning, it looked like the marriage repair-job was not going to be as quick a fix as I’d hoped and as the holiday drew to a close my veneer of hope cracked. I didn’t understand why this was so difficult, or why I felt more distant from Tom on our family holiday than I had at home.

On Friday, our last day, Grace and I sat in the airport with our hand luggage on uncomfortable plastic chairs whilst Tom was in the bookshop, flicking through a sports biography.

Grace suddenly turned to me and said “Mum, do you know Dad’s friend Rachel?”

 “What sweetie? Do you mean the
Rachel that works with Daddy?” I said, smiling vaguely.

 “Yes. Daddy was talking to her on his mobile phone yesterday. He was laughing a lot.” I tried to force myself not to jump to any conclusions and quickly swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. So Tom had a female colleague at work who shared the same sense of humour. And who rang him on holiday. What was wrong with that? It was nice to know
someone
could make him laugh these days.

The morning after our return home I got up early and made a huge breakfast in an attempt to console myself for our disastrous holiday. I made light, fluffy pancakes and dug out some of my homemade blueberry jam – not as sweet, and fruitier than the nasty, bought stuff. While Tom, Grace and the batter rested I made a batch of vanilla cupcakes. They came out of the oven before everyone was up and the warm, sweet smell filled the kitchen – and my heart – with ‘home’. I had to taste a couple and the hot, buttery sponge scorched my tongue but it was worth it for the explosion of soft, melting vanilla – which for a very brief moment made me indescribably happy.

Tom and Grace eventually got up and wolfed the pancakes in silence, Grace on her Nintendo (which seemed to be surgically attached to her these days) and Tom flicking through the paper and grunting every now and then. I could tell he wasn’t really concentrating though and I had the feeling something was wrong. “Are you OK, Tom?” I ventured. He looked up at me, almost guiltily.

“Mmm. Did I tell you I have to go to work today?” I shook my head.

“But it’s Saturday, Tom. We’ve only just got back from holiday, and...”

“Sorry Stel.” He cut me off. Tom had planned to take Grace to the cinema and I could see from her face she was really disappointed.

“Aagh, Dad!” she said, looking from him to me.

“Tom, you know how much Grace wanted to see this film. You can’t let her down at such short notice!” I huffed. “I suppose now I’ll have to take her and cancel my hair appointment.”

He looked at me in disbelief. “I have to work – don’t be so unreasonable. I need to go, or I’ll be late. Sorry Grace, we’ll sort another time, yeah?” and without even waiting for her response or mine, he threw down the rest of his juice, grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I was disappointed about my cancelled hair appointment but I didn’t mind taking Grace to the cinema and in truth, after recent events, I was glad to see the back of Tom. He stormed off in a big huff and slammed the door behind him.

He’d been gone about half an hour when I heard his phone upstairs; he’d obviously forgotten it again. It kept making a reminder-noise so you knew there’d been a call or text and this was annoying me so I followed the sound upstairs into our bedroom. He’d left it on his bedside table and the screen was intermittently lighting up. As I picked up the phone I could see ‘1 new message’. I hesitated to press the select button because I didn’t want him to think I was checking his calls, but what if it was something important to do with work?

Hi darling

Where R U? Am waiting!

Luv u, Rachel x

Ten words that would change my life forever.

My heart was pounding in my head and my stomach. I held onto the phone, rooted to the spot, just reading the words over and over like they might be different by the hundredth time. I tried desperately to reinterpret what was pretty obvious.
I call people ‘darling’
I thought, trying desperately to drag myself from the pit of despair and sheer panic.
Perhaps she’s supposed to be working with him today and wants to know where he is?
However, the three little words I was having real problems reinterpreting were ‘Luv u, Rachel x’.

Tom came home at about seven o’clock. I didn’t know exactly what was going on with him but I had a pretty good idea. I felt very devious but I deleted the text from his phone so he wouldn’t know I’d read it; he’d think it just hadn’t arrived. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room, let alone have any kind of eye contact or conversation with him. I took a bath and washed my hair (wondering what Rachel’s hair was like) I washed Grace’s hair (wondering if she had any kids) and stayed in her bedroom all evening to avoid Tom. We read stories about witches (they were all called Rachel) and by ten o’clock even Grace despite her baby Goth tendencies said; “Mummy, can I please go to sleep now?”

“Love you,” I said as I kissed her goodnight, and thought,
Luv u, Rachel x
. I left Grace and crept into bed. Tom was already asleep with a huge tome outlining David Attenborough’s ‘Zoo Quest Expeditions’ open across his chest.
How dare he sleep so peacefully
? I thought to myself.
How dare he concern himself with bloody zoos at a time like this
? I had to staunch the anger rising from the pit of my stomach, resisting the urge to beat my fists on his chest, kick him awake and shout, ‘Fuck David Attenborough! Who’s bloody Rachel?’

In all this I needed to be rational though. If he was having an affair – he didn’t know I knew – and I therefore, in a round-about way, had the upper hand. I lay all night with my fists clenched and my heart pounding, my mind covering every possible scene from the past, present and future. With ‘Bitch Rachel’ as leading lady.

On Sunday morning I woke early and rose from my bed, having not slept a wink. During the long night I created a million scenarios in my head, all of which were fighting for pole position. The majority, it has to be said, were concerned with the death or imminent demise of Bitch Rachel. I didn’t know her and had never even seen her but at that moment she was ruining my sleep and pipping MJ at the post for winner of the ‘Most Painful Death Award’. As I sipped my coffee and checked the post, I settled on Bitch Rachel being a single, thirty-something size ten with long fair hair, an airbrushed complexion, a worktop full of limes and a celebrity, cellulite-free arse. I really wanted to talk to Mum, but she was still living the life of an Am-Dram thespian in New York. Instead I phoned Al.

“She obviously has a warped, damaged, twisted personality and can’t get her own man so steals another woman’s”, was his immediate reaction on the other end of the phone, but he didn’t stop there. “I can’t believe the stupid tart would text him! I mean you could check his texts any time. Bloody stalker! She’s no better than Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction
,” he continued, “a raging bunny-boiler who’ll turn up on your doorstep tomorrow trying to buy your real estate then wham! Before you know it, Gilbert and George are bubbling away in your Le Creuset.”

I pointed out that firstly, Gilbert and George were goldfish, which kind of negated the bunny-boiling thing and we didn’t have real estate as such in Worcestershire. I wanted him to tell me I was overreacting and just being silly. I wanted him to tell me it wasn’t happening, that I was just imagining everything, but as usual, his imagination had got the better of him.

When he called back two minutes later, I’d rather hoped it was someone else, or at least that he’d calmed down. “Stella!” he shouted as I picked up the receiver. “I’ve just remembered what happens next. Glenn Close in your bathroom, slashing herself and staining your fluffy, white towels with her adulterous blood. Don’t go in there, I’m coming over!”

He arrived with Lizzie a whole hour later, which would have left plenty of time for Glenn Close to rise up from the bath bubbles and slash me with the kitchen knife. After he’d checked the bathroom for ‘adulterous tarts’, we all settled down to discuss the ‘Bitch Rachel Situation’. Tom had left early to ‘go to work’ again (on a Sunday? Ha!) and Grace was playing upstairs.

I prepared several butter-slapped, freshly-baked scones and sat at the kitchen table, eating them quickly to soak up the pain, while pouring my heart out while Al and Lizzie listened.

“Half of me wants to call him now to make him confess and demand to know everything about her, down to the type of tampons she uses. The other half of me is so scared and irrationally hopes that if I ignore it, she’ll go away,” I said, stuffing a scone in my mouth to stem the tears.

Lizzie was every bit the supportive friend; “Look, it will all be fine with Tom. Trust me, he’ll come to his senses,” she said, wiping warm butter from her chin.

“It’s not about him coming to his senses, I won’t have it – I was trodden on by MJ for years and I’m damned if I’ll let my own husband take over where she left off,” I wailed into a big, floury scone. “But I can’t bear thinking about life without him and I keep thinking maybe it will be OK. He’s my husband. He’s Grace’s dad!” I sobbed.

 “I remember having a relationship with a guy called Frank, or was it Frankie,” said Al “he was gorgeous anyway…” and he went on to describe in detail several of his own ‘tragic’ experiences of infidelity, before announcing he had to meet another friend for coffee.

“Come on Lizzie my love, I’ll drop you home on my way to David’s,” he said, throwing on his new leather jacket. “Now my darling Stel I don’t want you to worry about anything. And you know where I am if you need me,” he said sincerely, giving me a big hug.

Lizzie smiled at him. “I’ll call you later, Stel,” she said gently, winking and blowing me a kiss.

Tom took Grace to school the following morning before he headed off to work. It all seemed so normal, so mundane as I kissed Grace goodbye and wrapped her scarf around her neck to ward off the late-autumn chill. I’d tossed and turned all night and I still didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up the pretence. Tom may have been sensing my anger. I didn’t explain why but I refused to make anything for him to eat. It was irrational, but I just felt that whatever I cooked for him would taste bitter. If Tom wanted a hate sandwich with vitriol chutney then that was fine, but I couldn’t trust myself not to put rat poison in his food or antifreeze in his coffee, so not making meals for him was a selfless act, essentially for his own good.

Wiping the kitchen worktops I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing, rather allowing images of him with her to swirl through my brain.
Was Tom the love of her life? Did they already have a shared history? In-jokes and secret smiles? Or was he simply a shag? Was he a diversion from work, an ego-boost and someone to fill a void until another one came along?
What a shame if that were the case, because a family would have been ripped apart for nothing. I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I hoped she loved him, I really did, because the price we’d pay as a family would be too high for anything less. Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, her actions were going to cause collateral damage.

I sat at the table for some time, wondering what to do. I was filled with hurt and anger yet afraid to lift the lid on my feelings in case I couldn’t force it back down.
If he was having an affair, what was he intending to do? If I told him I knew, would he finish it with her? Could I ever truly love him again, even if he dumped her and declared undying love for me? Could it ever be the same?
One thing I was sure of – I had to confront him and get this whole thing out in the open, but I felt like I had nothing left – no energy, no self-confidence and no courage. And through it all I kept wracking my brain for an innocent explanation to ‘luv u, Rachel x’.