“So, you fired the aupair. The chores still have to be done. Have you unpacked the groceries”?” he murmurs, his head cocked to one side. He tuggs on his ear lobe, runs his tongue purposefully across his gleaming white teeth. His cashmere jumper skimming the manly form of his chest.
No, I mumble. My cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, I keep my eyes fixed, firmly on the floor, by now many years practiced as an expert at the required submissive, trophy wife pose. That minx had to go. How dare she unpack the dishwasher in a silver lame bikini. Those breasts had to have been implants. I note he is leaving the room as I see the legs of his soft, over washed jeans and bare feet plodding to the corridor outside and out, on to the kitchen beyond. I bite my lip as I wait for the realisation I have been dreading…there will be consequences…My heart sinks in my chest. Why have I been so brave as to cross him?
I listen intently and begin to sense a mild thrill of anticipation as he begins to roughly unpack the Ocado delivery “Where is the damn house keeper?” he murmurs; 4 rolls of cellotape, a large roll of clingfilm, a half kilo of organic, salted butter. His long fingered hands are, by now, probing the soft fruit, the seasonal produce, exploring every orifice of the capacious recycled plastic delivery bags until the harsh realisation strikes… no Battenberg!
He cocks his head to one side. “You know you will be punished”, he murmurs, “I must have my little indulgences” taking my Isabella Oliver 365 catalogue and tossing it into the recycling as he abruptly enters the room again, this time swiftly from behind, making me shudder. “I am inviting my mother to stay during half term. You have yourself to blame, at least she knows how to stock the larder” (tapping purposefully on his iPhone 4S). I stroke my bottom lip.
Damn him and his compulsive addiction to mass produced cakes and confectionary. Curses to him and his insatiable appetite and the love of his mother.
He marches across the playroom in bare feet, piercing the atmosphere with his thunderous facial expression and treading heavily on a Lego piece, giving himself a nasty stone bruise in the process. Thrusting forward, he collapses roughly onto the bench and sensing my chance, I spring into action with all of the skill of a desert cat, quickly securing his hands and feet with an old school tie and one of my son’s stray rugby socks.
As I purposefully set to work, he is initially dazed but soon senses my displeasure, anticipating what is to come, he bites his lip and murmurs: “Spare me babe, I can’t take it. You know how I love marzipan. So, I get a little out of hand…”, by now well aware that he is at my mercy. The pain is surely indescribable – physical,metaphysical, mathematical, financially., seeping into the very marrow of his high cheek bones.
“Our family is complete” I murmur, “and now that the poppets are off to Boarding school, I will show you the true meaning of the term playroom when my new walk in wardrobe is fitted, you condescending, lardy puff!” Albina is suddenly beside me as she heaves the full weight of her androgynous, hirsute body onto his. There is no escape as he is entombed in her hulking muscular grip. He shudders, panting, feeling her weight suppressing him. There is no escape.
Quick as a flash, I am off across the South Circular in the gleaming Audi, my fabulous glossy hair bouncing about in the sunshine, his Black Amex taking pride of place on the passenger seat. Now he will pay… “Gosh but Rossanno Ferretti is the most amazing hair spa, it’s time to indulge my inner goddess in the manly hands of Jack Howard – Balayage expert and colourist to the stars! Because everyone knows, great hair is better than sex!”