.^^part from the discovery of a Condoleezza Rice/George Bush sex video, and for it to be authenticated, the most cheering thing that could happen to an exhausted single mother is coming home to find her house miraculously painted and the garden weeded. At first, I allow the taxi to drive right past my house. It’s so neat I don’t recognize it. The lawn is shorn, the hedges trimmed, the bins out of sight, the flaky front door painted pretty pink. Hell, the ficus tree’s even been re-potted. When I dazedly let myself inside, the warmth of the hall embraces me — as do the aromas emanating from the kitchen. God! Is that roast chicken and apple pie I detect?
‘Darling.’ And there’s Rory, in an apron.
‘Are you actually bakin^V My pulse quickens.
‘The homework’s done and I’ve put out their school uniforms. I’ve rotated your tyres, read, then filed all the warranties, bled the radiators, fixed the central heating, de-leafed
the gutters, assembled the Ikea flatpack furniture, replaced the dud light bulbs and closed down the surgery. I’ve also rented some rooms on Kilburn High Street for the practice so you no longer have to put up with all my smelly animals. I thought we could use the extra space for the family — knock the walls through and give the kids a den and you a study. I mean, now that you’re an Acting Head Teacher. I’m so proud of you.’ And he grins, his eyes crinkling with kindness. ‘Your first job as Head is to make me write out one hundred lines I must worship my wife and wash up occasionally.'
I stare at my husband in astonishment. What on earth was I going to do with my lips now that I couldn’t thin them whenever I looked in his direction?
‘You see?’ he went on. ‘Men can change.’
‘Ohmygod. What’s that noise?’ I reply. ‘Oh, I know. It’s the sound of millions of women laughing themselves to death.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘How long do you think this phenomenal change will last, Rore? Don’t you think I’ve figured you out by now?’
‘Well, there’s only one way to handle a woman, although nobody has bloody well worked out what that is yet! But I will clean up more and listen more, and I have now got directions to the G spot, and a lovely little spot it is too! So lovely that I actually intend to spend a lot more time there. And I love you loads. So it’s a start, right?’
Words burble out of him as though he’s an auctioneer. And what he’s selling is himself.
‘Rory, the thing is. I’m over you.’
‘Over me? Christ, what am I? The fluV
I shrug off my coat and amazingly he takes it from me and hangs it up. He then steers me gently into the kitchen, which is.
by the way, spotless, and sits me down at a table, prettily laid with polished silverware on a spotless cloth. Where have we moved to? Stepford? ‘Did you really go round and terrorize the prison playwright into withdrawing his statement?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. It’s amazing what people will do when they have a loaded Doberman pointed at them. I didn’t do it for Jasmine, though. I did it to prove how much I love you. Please,’ he begs remorsefully. ‘Please take me back.’ If his voice had legs it would be on its knees. ‘Forgive me, Cass.’
I shake my head in tight, quick, determined little movements.
‘Is it because of my air guitar? Or is there some other little thing?’ he asks nervously, serving up my dinner.
‘Oh no, not much — just that when the babies were born, okay I stayed home, but then when I went back to work fulltime, you just expected me to continue doing all the washing, cleaning, cooking. You left it to me to organize the kids and get up with them at night. And I started to resent it. My personality changed. I felt I couldn’t be myself. I lost interest in sex — Jesus, my pussy’s been drier than Gandhi’s left flip-flop. But did you notice? No. Which is why I suggested therapy. And we both know how that bloody well worked out. . . But apart from those little, teeny, tiny things. I’m fine. I really, really fucking am!’ I shovel a forkful of food into my twitching mouth — food which is tonsil-ticklingly good, I note.
Rory winces. ‘Listen, what I’ve learned is that the only rule for achieving a good marriage is to talk through any problems with sufficient honesty to be able to agree that I’m always wrong,' he adds playfully.
Is this my husband talking? He must have taken a course at Say The Right Thing School. I stare at him suspiciously.
‘Cassie.’ He sits down opposite me. ‘I know you want me to
express my deep innermost emotions and share my feelings. And I would, believe me, only Fm a guy. I don’t think I have any deep innermost feelings . . . Except for you, Cass.’
I look at him the way a turkey looks at a farmer the day before Thanksgiving.
‘What are you thinking^ he asks.
What I’m thinking is that this dinner is delicious. ‘That my heart has grown scar tissue because of you, from hurt feelings.’
‘Mea culpa,’ he says contritely. ‘But couldn’t there be a Statute of Limitations on adulterous guilt? I can’t go on without you, Cassie.’ He crosses his eyes and pretends to strangle himself. ‘You can’t leave me. Not now I know the right temperature to wash coloureds.’
I must be smiling at him because he lights up. ‘I think she’s warming up to me,’ he says to the heavens. ‘I mean, she’s only kneed me in the groin twice during this conversation!’ And then he zaps me with that smile. It’s a smile which renders him instantly likeable. I get up quickly and pretend to put something in the bin, just to remove myself from his Charm Range, and am dumb-founded to note that the empty milk carton has been thrown away and not just put back in the fridge. When I open the freezer for the vodka, I see that the ice-cube trays have been refilled. He smiles at me again, so I remove myself to the loo — only to find it scented and soaped. Not only have the tiles been scoured with a grout brush, but the toilet roll has been replaced on the spindle. Will miracles never cease? I have the feeling that even if I were parallel parking, Rory would sit quietly and say nothing!
‘I know I’m insensitive, Cass,’ he says when I return to the table open-mouthed. ‘Christ. My best mate’s family could be wiped out by a chainsaw-wielding Triad member and I wouldn’t know because I’ll have been far too concerned with debating last
night’s footie score. I’m not good at expressing my feelings, not verbally. But there are other ways.’ And then he pulls me into one of his blanketing hugs. He smells of minty teeth, like a child, and newly ironed warmth. His hand on my hip is familiar and comforting. He is like a favourite, faded pair of jeans which I can slip into without thinking.
T do love you, Cass. If only I were better with words. I know it sounds cheesy, but I’m sorry, so desperately sorry for hurting you. And the kids. I tired them out today with house cleaning.’
And then he leads me by the hand, up the stairs and into the children’s bedrooms, which are tidied to pristine perfection — even the doorknobs have been polished — to gaze at our loved ones tucked up in bed, dreams flitting across their faces soft as moonlight. As I move back towards the stairs, he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I lean across and kiss his mouth. It’s impossible to say which of us is more astounded by this act. And then he looks at me as though I’m creme brulee and he’s the spoon.
T want you,’ Rory says, and I can feel his voice in the pit of my stomach like some Mills & Boon heroine. Feelings long blunted, erupt hot. My salivary glands shift into overdrive. And then he kisses me, with everything he feels. The tiny wedge of beard he’s grown tickles me enticingly, making the nerves in my neck jump wildly. As his hand slides up under my skirt, he nuzzles words into my ear, words like adoration, devotion. He also seems to have developed a new dedication to the C words. Commitment is mentioned. As is Compromise. Followed by Communication. Then Cleaning.
‘Cleaning^ 1 marvel, but as I breathe in, I inhale the piney smell of skirting boards which no longer have topsoil, and feel heady with delight. Rory kisses me with increasing warmth.
savouring my neck and throat until Fm slippery as a fish, the seaweed tendrils of my pubic hair coiling moistly around his fingers. He tugs at my panties and I have a ludicrous pang of embarrassment about him seeing me naked. He’s seen me naked so many times — hell, I’ve pooed on the man in childbirth! — but it feels awkward suddenly somehow. But then he brushes his fingertips across my clitoris and, ‘Ohmygod,’ I’m gasping ‘Yes! Yes!’ And I’m clawing at his jeans buttons, Versace, I notice and not ones I’ve bought him either — but they could be polkadotted hot pants for all I care at this particular moment. My husband then eases me open with steady, strong strokes, deeper and deeper with his fingers and, kneeling before me, his tongue. The tension twists tighter inside me as the rhythm builds along with the pleasure. My fingers are in his hair. I feel the surge in my blood and I’m flooded with heat and starting to shudder.
And I can feel an orgasm taxi-ing onto the runway, into holding position and preparing for takeoff. My ears are popping, obviously due to a change in latitude, because he’s lying me down on the oh-so-freshly vacuumed carpet, parting my knees with his body and pressing into me. I radio air-traffic control. Air-traffic control itemizes its checklist.
He’s more focused on your pleasure than his? Check.
He’s shown emotional intimacy? Check.
He’s cleaned the house? Check.
He’s made gravy? Check.
He’s made you feel cherished, loved, respected, adored? Check. Check. Check. You are now cleared for takeoff.
Booster Thrust Engines on. Hormonal Houston, we have lift- offi
It’s time to call Lost and Found. Located, one orgasm. One bonemarrow-melting, heartstopping, knock-out, knock-kneed
ohmygodgasm. The Mane Celeste is salvaged. Amelia Earhart — discovered at last, alive and well. The Bermuda Triangle, mapped. The Loch-Ness Monster, netted. The Yeti, tamed. The square root of the hypotenuse . . . Oh, for God’s sake. Who cares about maths at a time like thisd
The inner quake that has so eluded me, takes hold. Until there’s nothing but obliterating sensation.
‘Luckily you’re a woman who doesn’t need a lot of foreplay,’ Rory says with cheery rascality.
I squeeze open one blurry eye, too consumed with the incandescent aftershocks to get my breath back.
‘It’s a joke. Okay, too early to joke, but kitten — wahey!’ he grins darkly. Rory then picks me up off the floor like a marauding Viking and carries me, wearing nothing but my boots, over his shoulder to our bedroom. The room is sparkling clean, and rioting with flowers. He tips me onto sheets which are lemon- scented from fresh laundering and crisp as snow and, oh-I-have- died-and-gone-to-heaven, ironed.
‘Wahey!’ I reply.
And we’re entwined once more, reverberating. And, well, I didn’t just find my orgasm again. Hell, I found two. I had waited so long and yearned so much, it made Krakatoa look like a slight tremor. Sex in a marriage? Well, it’s like when it slips your mind that you’ve put your windscreen wipers onto intermittent. You’ve forgotten about it and then — WHOOSH!
Lying there in my picture-postcard-perfect house in my dazzlingly immaculate bed, with my New and Improved Husband, basking in the sweet and sour scent of our bodies, I stretch as contentedly as a cat — the cats I no longer have to put up with.
Kathy Lette
‘So I can come home? You wanted me to make some changes, some of which I’ve agreed to — but all of which I’ll do,’ Rory promises. He starts to make love to me again, then stops abruptly. ‘Oh wait. Let me wash the dishes first.’
Be still, my beating heart! While he’s downstairs, the phone rings and the answermachine picks up. I can hear Bianca screaming down the phone. Rory doesn’t answer and I feel even more deeply satisfied. I notice he’s put a basketball hoop above the laundry basket to encourage his aim, and laugh. (It was something I must teach my son — do half the housework and your wife’s spirits will know nothing of Sir Isaac Newton and his absurd gravitational theories.) Ten minutes later, he’s back, taking me in his arms, all the mess of my life purged, the past purified.
‘Yes. You can come home.’ Peace of mind softens his face, until I postscript, ‘I, however, am leaving for a while.’
‘What?’ He jerks up onto one elbow. ‘Why?’
‘Well, the Board rang at the weekend to officially offer me Scroope’s old job. However, the appointment doesn’t come into effect until after Easter. So, before then. I’m taking a little sabbatical. I have some urgent sitting-around-chatting-with-my- girlfriends-while-you-look-after-the-kids to do. The way I see it, you owe me at least three and a half years of saying “Have you cleaned your teeth?” You owe me at least/ive years of wiping up after them at mealtimes. Six months of queuing for rides at funfairs, years of being rained on at sports galas and a decade of sitting around the local pool bored to death watching them not win the hopping-across-the-shallow-end-on-one-foot-unaided events.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Rory nods sheepishly. ‘But when you come back? We will be together again, won’t we?’
‘Maybe,’ I say warily. ‘Let’s just see how you go.’