'Cup of tea?'
That was how Charlie started every day. No 'good morning' or 'how are you today?' or 'I love you' or anything like that anymore. Just a short, unemotional, truncated question. Should she answer or should she stay silent and pretend to still be asleep?
'Yes please,' she grunted, still with her back to her husband. She felt him throw back the covers and then slide out of bed before neatly tucking the bedding back into place again as he always did. Everything he did was predictable and safe. She could anticipate every move he was going to make. She knew he'd go to the bathroom next where he'd use the toilet, break wind, apologise to himself and then wash and shave humming the same damn tune he hummed under his breath every bloody morning. Then he'd put on his dressing gown, come back to the bedroom to fetch his slippers from under the foot of the bed where he'd put them last night, and go down to the kitchen. She knew he'd stop on the fifth step down to open the curtains and blow the dust off the top of the employee of the year trophy his employers had awarded him almost fifteen years ago…
She screwed her eyes tightly shut, buried her face in the duvet and thought of the man from the dance class again. She felt empty and depressed, trapped and angry. Sometimes she wanted to kill her husband. That, she decided, would be the answer to all her problems.
'Lovely day today,' Charlie said brightly as he returned to the bedroom with two cups of tea.
'It's always a bloody lovely day,' Susan silently screamed to herself. 'Even when it's raining and there's a force ten gale outside he says it's a bloody lovely day.'
'Here's your tea, dear.'
She cringed under the bedclothes and readied herself to face him. Saddest thing of all, she thought, was that he didn't have the faintest idea how unhappy she was. In his rose-tinted little world everything was just fine and dandy. He didn't know how old and worthless he made her feel and he probably never would. She took a deep breath and rolled over onto her back before shuffling up the bed and taking her tea from him.
'I had a lousy night's sleep,' she complained, looking up at him. 'I was freezing cold all night. I kept waking up because you kept pulling the covers off me.'
'Sorry about that, my love. I didn't realise.'
'And if it wasn't the cold keeping me awake it was your snoring.'
'I can't help that. If there was something I could do to…'
He stopped talking. In silence he stared down at his wife who scowled back at him.
'What's the matter with you?' she demanded as she sipped her tea.
Charlie continued to stare.
'For crying out loud, find something else to look at will you?' she cursed before taking another sip.
With a single sudden swipe Charlie slapped the cup out of his wife's hands. It smashed against the wall opposite sending countless dribbles of tea dripping down the pale pink anaglypta wallpaper. Bemused, Susan watched the drips of hot brown liquid trickling down the wall. What the hell's got into him, she wondered? In a bizarre way she was actually excited by this sudden display of unexpected forcefulness and spontaneity.
Behind her Charlie quickly yanked the waist belt free from his towelling dressing gown. Shoving her forward and gripping her shoulder tight with one hand he looped the belt twice round her neck in a single spiralling movement and then pulled it tight. Panicking, and with her eyes bulging and throat burning, Susan struggled to breathe. She kicked and squirmed under the bedclothes and scraped at her neck, desperately trying to force her fingers under the belt. Her strength was no match for his.
Charlie pulled the belt tighter and tighter until the last breath had been squeezed from his wife's body.
8
Another bloody wasted day.
Today started slowly. I got out of bed late (which really annoyed Lizzie - she had to get up and see to the kids for once) and I made a conscious effort to do as little as possible. I'm back at work tomorrow and I need to relax. I tried hard to do nothing but it's impossible in this house. There's always something to do or someone who needs you. Liz has been nagging at me for weeks to fix the bolt on the bathroom door and, today, I finally did it. It was the last thing I wanted to do but I reached the point where I couldn't stand her complaining about it every single time she used the damn toilet. Christ, the rest of us managed without any problems. Why was it such a big deal for her?
I worked on the door as Lizzie cooked dinner. What should have been a ten minute job ended up taking over an hour and a half. I had the kids running round my feet the whole time asking questions and getting in the way, then I didn't have the right size bolt, then I bought one that was too big… I lost my temper and almost kicked the door in but I finally fixed it. Hope Lizzie's satisfied. She'll have to find something else to complain about now.
And now here we are approaching Harry's house and the weekend's almost over. I genuinely don't mind Harry but he seems to have a huge problem with me. He doesn't think I'm good enough for his little girl and although he never says it as blatantly as that it's implied in just about everything he says to me. I can usually just shrug it off but when the day has been as frustrating as today and Monday morning is looming on the horizon it's something I could well do without.
We pull up outside his narrow terraced house and the kids start to get wound up and excited. They enjoy their time with Grandpa. Truth is they tolerate their time with Harry. They put up with it because they know they'll get sweets or some other treat out of him before they go home.
'I don't want any arguing today,' Liz says as we wait for him to answer the front door. I think she's talking to the kids but I realise she's looking at me.
'I never argue with your dad,' I tell her. 'He argues with me. There's a difference you know.'
'I'm not interested,' she says as the latch clicks open. 'Just be nice.'
The door opens inwards. Harry opens his arms to the kids and they run towards him, giving him a dutiful squeeze before disappearing deeper inside to trash his house.
'Hello, love,' he says to Lizzie as she hugs him.
'You okay, Dad?'
'Fine,' he smiles. 'Better now. I've been looking forward to seeing you lot all day.'
Lizzie follows the children into the house. I go inside, wipe my feet and shut the door behind me.
'Harry,' I say, acknowledging him. I don't mean to sound abrupt but I unintentionally do.
'Daniel,' he replies, equally abruptly. He turns and walks towards the kitchen. 'I'll put the kettle on.'
I step over the children (who are already sprawled out across the living room floor) and head for my usual spot - the armchair in the corner of the room near the back window. I grab the Sunday newspapers off the coffee table as I pass. Burying my head in Harry's papers always helps me get through these long and monotonous visits.
A couple of minutes go by before Harry reappears with a tray of drinks. Vile, milky tea for Liz and me and equally weak, over-diluted fruit juice for the children. I take my tea from him.
'Thanks,' I say quietly. He doesn't acknowledge me. He hardly even looks at me.
I sit down in the corner of the room and start to read. I'm not interested in the politics or the finance or the travel or the style and fashion sections. I head straight for the cartoons. That's about the level I can cope with today.
We've been here for almost an hour and I've hardly said a word. Lizzie's been dozing on the sofa on the other side of the room and Harry has been sitting on the floor with the kids. There's no disputing the fact that they get on well together. He's laughing and joking with them and they're loving it. Makes me feel like a bad parent if I'm honest. I don't enjoy being with the children like he does. Maybe it's because he can walk away from them and we can't. They drain me, and I know Lizzie feels the same too. Everything's an effort when you have kids.