roses. “Why don’t you open your little note and enlighten
us?”
Oh, please be from Rowan.
Please be from Rowan . . .
I tug at the tiny envelope but
my bandaged hand keeps getting in the way. Will waits impatiently for several
seconds before taking it from me and reading aloud:
“To Long Tall Sally, thanks for the ride! Hope
you’re feeling better. I’ve still got your shirt! Much love, Mike, kiss kiss.”
No way! He hasn’t? How lovely!
How thoughtful. How . . . uh-oh.
Cheeks aglow, I look sheepishly
at my husband, staring at me expectantly. Then at the flowers. Then at the
floor. Then at the sky. Then, finally - when I’ve run out of things to look at
- reluctantly back at Will.
It’s bizarre. I can’t help
feeling energised . Absurdly empowered. Flower power-ed! I’m itching to
say, ‘Jealous, are we? Stinging a tad? Like how it feels?’ but he’s already
blazing, I don’t need to add petrol.
Silently scanning the card, he
inhales deeply, like a stern professor preparing to bollock a troublesome
pupil.
“Sally.”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t mean to be a jealous
prick, but . . . who the hell’s Mike?”
Shit. Bugger. Arsehole. Stupid
card. Why couldn’t he just have put ‘from a friend?’ Then I’d have guessed who
– and fibbed. Surely he knows husbands and other bloke’s bouquets don’t mix.
Ever.
“No one!” I squeak, cursing my
flaming cheeks as next door’s curtains twitch. “Well, no, obviously he’s someone .
No one important, just that doctor who brought me home, you know, the one you
gave my finger to.”
As he looks accusingly from me
to the roses and back again, I know he’s thinking ‘bet that’s not all he gave
you’ and I’m certain he’s about to throw a famous Will-wobbler. But no. He just
shakes his head reproachfully, like I’m some lost, helpless cause, thrusting
the flowers into my arms.
“Long Tall Sally, thanks for
the ride indeed. Huh! And why, may I ask . . .” he reads the card again,
incensed, “. . . has he got your shirt?”
“It’s your shirt,” I
declare, realising as the words tumble out that it doesn’t make a blind bit of
difference to my defence.
“Oh, that’s just great ,”
he simmers. “Why has he got my bleedin’ shirt?”
“Because some adulterous git
made me chop my finger off!”
“What’s that got to do
with my shirt, Sally-Ann? Christ, I thought he was staring me out. Now I know why! He was weighing up the competition. He was on the bloody make.”
Oh dear. Oh, dear, dear me. He
nevercalls me by my middle name. Definitely . . . not . . .
good. I’m up the creak without a paddle. A whore without an ore. Not that I am a whore, you understand, but that’s how he’s making me feel.
Seriously in need of a fan, or
better still, a vodka, I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong, yet still feel
horribly guilty, like I’m clutching at straws and walking on eggshells. Like
I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar . . . without ever having been
in the kitchen.
“I wrapped your shirt round my
hand, didn’t I?” I remind him lamely. “It was gushing, we’d got no bloody
plasters! And he was not on the make.”
Upset and unconvinced, Will has
a face like thunder. Had he been a puffer fish, he’d just have puffed. Thirty
silent seconds pass and here we stand, nose to nose, at loggerheads yet again,
jousting in full view of the neighbours, crazy-paved path running between us
like an invisible referee.
Shivering in my flimsy jumper,
I’m about to break the deadlock and stalk righteously inside when he suddenly
perks up, strokes his chin and smiles.
“I see. Right then, c’mon
Sally, let’s get the car keys shall we?”
Uh-oh. Car keys? What’s his
game, then?
Eyes narrow, he’s making me
nervous. Very. Out of nowhere, he has the gloating look of a man who, seeing a
mouse under his washer, has just laid out a pound of cheddar. Well, he can just
whistle. He’s the lousy love rat, not me!
Nevertheless,
us?”
Oh, please be from Rowan.
Please be from Rowan . . .
I tug at the tiny envelope but
my bandaged hand keeps getting in the way. Will waits impatiently for several
seconds before taking it from me and reading aloud:
“To Long Tall Sally, thanks for the ride! Hope
you’re feeling better. I’ve still got your shirt! Much love, Mike, kiss kiss.”
No way! He hasn’t? How lovely!
How thoughtful. How . . . uh-oh.
Cheeks aglow, I look sheepishly
at my husband, staring at me expectantly. Then at the flowers. Then at the
floor. Then at the sky. Then, finally - when I’ve run out of things to look at
- reluctantly back at Will.
It’s bizarre. I can’t help
feeling energised . Absurdly empowered. Flower power-ed! I’m itching to
say, ‘Jealous, are we? Stinging a tad? Like how it feels?’ but he’s already
blazing, I don’t need to add petrol.
Silently scanning the card, he
inhales deeply, like a stern professor preparing to bollock a troublesome
pupil.
“Sally.”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t mean to be a jealous
prick, but . . . who the hell’s Mike?”
Shit. Bugger. Arsehole. Stupid
card. Why couldn’t he just have put ‘from a friend?’ Then I’d have guessed who
– and fibbed. Surely he knows husbands and other bloke’s bouquets don’t mix.
Ever.
“No one!” I squeak, cursing my
flaming cheeks as next door’s curtains twitch. “Well, no, obviously he’s someone .
No one important, just that doctor who brought me home, you know, the one you
gave my finger to.”
As he looks accusingly from me
to the roses and back again, I know he’s thinking ‘bet that’s not all he gave
you’ and I’m certain he’s about to throw a famous Will-wobbler. But no. He just
shakes his head reproachfully, like I’m some lost, helpless cause, thrusting
the flowers into my arms.
“Long Tall Sally, thanks for
the ride indeed. Huh! And why, may I ask . . .” he reads the card again,
incensed, “. . . has he got your shirt?”
“It’s your shirt,” I
declare, realising as the words tumble out that it doesn’t make a blind bit of
difference to my defence.
“Oh, that’s just great ,”
he simmers. “Why has he got my bleedin’ shirt?”
“Because some adulterous git
made me chop my finger off!”
“What’s that got to do
with my shirt, Sally-Ann? Christ, I thought he was staring me out. Now I know why! He was weighing up the competition. He was on the bloody make.”
Oh dear. Oh, dear, dear me. He
nevercalls me by my middle name. Definitely . . . not . . .
good. I’m up the creak without a paddle. A whore without an ore. Not that I am a whore, you understand, but that’s how he’s making me feel.
Seriously in need of a fan, or
better still, a vodka, I tell myself I’ve done nothing wrong, yet still feel
horribly guilty, like I’m clutching at straws and walking on eggshells. Like
I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar . . . without ever having been
in the kitchen.
“I wrapped your shirt round my
hand, didn’t I?” I remind him lamely. “It was gushing, we’d got no bloody
plasters! And he was not on the make.”
Upset and unconvinced, Will has
a face like thunder. Had he been a puffer fish, he’d just have puffed. Thirty
silent seconds pass and here we stand, nose to nose, at loggerheads yet again,
jousting in full view of the neighbours, crazy-paved path running between us
like an invisible referee.
Shivering in my flimsy jumper,
I’m about to break the deadlock and stalk righteously inside when he suddenly
perks up, strokes his chin and smiles.
“I see. Right then, c’mon
Sally, let’s get the car keys shall we?”
Uh-oh. Car keys? What’s his
game, then?
Eyes narrow, he’s making me
nervous. Very. Out of nowhere, he has the gloating look of a man who, seeing a
mouse under his washer, has just laid out a pound of cheddar. Well, he can just
whistle. He’s the lousy love rat, not me!
Nevertheless,
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