Diane flinched at his aggression before meeting his attack with silence. She watched him with her usual look of tight-lipped, mild surprise. Her eyes were the only part of her plastic face that gave away her real feelings, so he studied them, looking to see if she felt anything.
She offered her retort as a sigh, “Don’t start, Chris.”
Taking a sip of coffee, the bitter liquid making his guts churn because it was his seventh cup today, his words exploded from his mouth like vomit, the caffeine adding rocket propulsion. “Don’t start? How can I not? All you’ve done is breathe down my neck and walk around with a face like a smacked arse all day.” He looked down and said, “Not that I’ve smacked that arse in a long fucking time.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Every time I leave the kitchen and come back again, you’ve tidied something up or put something away. I feel like you’re hovering around with nothing to do but clean up after me. It’s doing my fucking head in!”
She shrugged. “I’m not used to you being in the house.”
“Is that what this is?” Looking around at their lavish kitchen that, in itself, was bigger than the footprint of an average house, he continued, “You’re happy for me to provide this wonderful fucking life for you, but when I want to be in my own house, you have a problem with it? I’ve been looking day and night for a job, and there’s nothing out there, so where else am I supposed to be?”
She sighed again, and it made him want to punch her. She then said, “You think I don’t care about the lack of work?”
Chris’ jaw hurt from grinding it, and a headache had settled into his temples. Rubbing the sides of his head with each hand, pressing harder than was necessary because of his pent-up aggression, he said, “I think all you care about is money in the bank, food on the table, and the kids in a private school. Not for their education mind, more so you can keep up with those posh twats that you have lunch dates with.”
Lifting an open bottle of red wine from the worktop and filling her glass, Diane shook her head.
The huge clock on the kitchen wall showed it was just after one in the afternoon. Making an obvious point to look at it, Chris lifted his eyebrows and asked, “You’re staring already?”
Taking a sip of the wine, Diane’s cold eyes regarded him with utter contempt.
He held her stare as his frantic pulse flipped into hyperdrive. Pulling in a deep breath, he then released it slowly, hoping it would remove his anger. It barely touched it. Shaking his head, he said, “Anyway, it’s what I know. You’re a heartless bitch that only cares about the things money can buy and what your poxy mates think about you.”
She leant on the black worktop and stared at him.
Having decided a long time ago that she was dead inside, he was surprised to see her eyes well up. It had been a long time since he’d seen her upset. He lifted his lip in a snarl and added, “Don’t start with your crocodile tears. Fucking hell, Diane, I know you better than that.” After a moment’s pause, his eyes narrowed, his crow’s feet wrinkling. “Actually, you know what, now you’re upset, I may as well keep going. We have to take the kids out of private school. I can’t afford to pay the fees with no fucking money and no chances of a job.”
“What about our savings?”
“My savings you mean? You spend, you don’t save.”
A pout forced her skinny lips away from her face and she said, “You don’t think I contribute? How about I go out to work and you keep the house immaculate and raise two children?”
Looking around at the kitchen, Chris said, “You think you could find a job that would pay for all of this?” He looked her up and down. “You could lie on your back with your ankles around your ears all day, and you wouldn’t even cover the milkman’s bill. You could suck half of the country dry and they’d probably all ask for a refund.”
Silence.
“Anyway, if we use the savings now, what will we do when the money runs out? There isn’t any work out there, and there may not be for a few years. You really need to open your eyes to what’s going on in the world. It’s not all coffee and yoga you know.”
Stepping back a few paces, Diane pulled a letter from the side and hid it as she walked out of the room.
Wondering if she was holding what he thought she was, Chris told himself not to be so ridiculous. He listened to her open and close the cupboard beneath the stairs. He then returned his attention to the situations vacant section in the local paper. The only job available was for a traffic warden. Pushing it away, he muttered, “I’d rather be a rent boy. What a fucking waste of time.”
He looked up to see his wife return to the kitchen. He shivered because the temperature seemed to lower with her reappearance, as if a ghost had just entered the room. It was probably the ghost of their relationship. Before she had a chance to speak, he said, “What now?”
Pulling a huge breath into her skinny body, she shook her head and left the room again. On her way out, a gust of wind caught her strong and sweet perfume, flinging it at Chris. He used to like the smell, but now it made him think of fly spray.
With the dry aftertaste of coffee bedded down on his tongue like moss, and his caffeine-driven pulse pounding in his head, Chris launched his mug at the wall. The crash rang through his sterile home. A moment of calm followed, during which he watched the muddy liquid make its way down the cream wall to the white floor. He was pleased about the mess it was making for his obsessive wife. He then got to his feet and walked out of the front door, the chilly outside breeze hitting him in the face as his whole body snapped tight around the rock in his stomach. He didn’t notice Michael and Matilda holding a cake at the bottom of the stairs with Diane behind them.
Sat at the bar of his local pub, Chris looked at the people around him. Everyone wore heavy frowns, had hunched shoulders, and drank slowly. It was depressing to look at, but at least they had company, someone to share their anxiety with. All he had left in his life was a wife he hated. He had two wonderful children, but he was sure it wouldn’t be long before they despised him. He couldn’t blame them either, as he wasn’t a likable person. Raising his hand, he said, “Another please, John.”
The barman took a drag on his cigarette and looked at him over his glasses, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he assessed his level of intoxication like he would in times before the crisis. He then shrugged, clearly reaching the conclusion that a paying customer was worth more now than ever. He filled the pint and placed it in front of Chris as he asked, “Is everything okay?”
Chris’ bloodshot eyes looked at the man and his words were slurred when he said, “Fine. Everything’s fucking great.”
He put the cool liquid to his mouth and drank. The bubbles burst on his tongue, and the head of the pint painted a mustache on his top lip. He let it sit there and stared at the barman.
John took the hint, and after he’d walked away, Chris felt his eyelids getting heavy, the heat of the soporific open fire next to him combining with the alcohol in his bloodstream. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, he raised his glass at his squiffy reflection and said, “Happy fucking birthday, Chris.”
London’s Burning
The explosion shook the walls of their house, making Chris’ heart explode with panic and flinging the shelf that had previously held the box to the floor. Chris instinctively dropped into a crouch as dust filled his lungs and tickled his throat.
After everything had settled, he swallowed, and it felt like he’d eaten sand. Grit sat on his gag reflex, and he didn’t know whether he’d vomit or cough. He did his best to stifle a cough with his sleeve, hoping it would sate his need. All it did was fill his mouth with the crunchy debris that was not only in the air because of the foundation-rocking explosion but on his clothes as well. Spitting on the floor, he then turned around to see Michael kneeling down, cowering from the ceiling like he expected the world to fall in on him. He only looked up when Chris grabbed him, flinching at first and then focusing on his dad’s eyes.