sense of security before pouncing. There was a certain brightness to his eyes despite the casual tone.
‘Oh! Oh, God, no, sorry. I –’ I was so close to saying ‘forgot’‘– didn’t.’
He didn’t say anything, damn him. I needed him to throw me a lifeline, ask me if I had forgotten, say it didn’t matter and I could do it tomorrow.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I offered.
‘Yes.’ That was it. No more.
He dug his spoon into the ice-cream and left it there.
‘It was such a beautiful day,’ I said, half in defence, half as a change of subject.
‘Too beautiful for keeping promises.’
Oh, if he was just going to
sulk
instead of … the other thing …
‘It’s no big deal,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t suppose another day will make a difference.’
‘No, Pip, don’t take that tone with me. I’m not in the wrong here.’
‘In the wrong? It’s a stupid fucking parcel, that’s all. What’s in it? Explosives?’
‘Philippa.’ A low growl.
But somehow I couldn’t stop talking myself into trouble.
I stood up, eyeing the door to the hallway nervously, my fight-or-flight response signalling ‘flight’.
‘If it’s so important to you, why don’t you get it redelivered? You’ve got the day off on Friday. You can reschedule it online. That would have been the obvious thing to do anyway, but it wouldn’t occur to you, I suppose, when you’ve got Muggins here to run around after you.’ I started walking away.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
He sounded calm, but absolutely authoritative.
I halted in my tracks.
‘Nowhere.’
‘That’s right. You’re going nowhere.’
‘What? For God’s sake, forget it, Dan. You’re ruining what could be a lovely evening.’ I’d lost it by now, shouting and gesticulating like Basil Fawlty. I disliked myself for it, but how could I make myself stop?
‘
I’m
ruining it?’
‘You’re overreacting!’ I bawled.
He laughed at that, then pointed to the sofa in our open-plan lounge-diner.
‘All right, Philippa, overreact to this,’ he said, not raising his voice a decibel. ‘Go and bend over the arm.’
‘I …’
‘Now.’
Here I was, at a crossroads that felt enormously significant.
I could say no. He had no recourse, after all. I knew he wouldn’t force me. It would take just a few calm, reasonable words. Or, if I carried on shouting and screaming, he would probably just walk away, go to the pub, like he always used to.
But I didn’t want that. I hated those hours he spent at the pub while I paced the flat, full of rage, then full of remorse, then full of facepalm.
I hated having to apologise and have him wonder aloud what got into me.
Of course, I loved the make-up sex.
But perhaps we could have that too, without all the icky in-between stuff?
I looked at his face. It was resolute and stern. It was everything I had fantasised.
I went to the sofa.
I looked over my shoulder at him. He was watching me.
It was a giddy feeling. If I voluntarily put myself over the arm, I was making a profound statement.
I put myself in your hands. I accept your authority.
It was too hard. And I felt ridiculous, like a character in one of the hokey spanking stories I was always browsing online. And I felt
guilty
, as if I was dancing on the Pankhurst graves in hobnailed boots.
But, look, I had asked for this.
‘Philippa.’
His voice acted like a hand between my shoulder blades.
I bent, feeling the swishy hem of my dress rise up my bared thigh.
I listened to him walk up to me.
‘It’s not that you’ve done something terrible, Philippa,’ he said.
I flinched when he put a hand on my thigh, just where it met the dress, and stroked through the material.
‘Of course it’s not that. That’s trivial. It’s the way you behaved when I asked you. Defensive, straight away. Trying to blame me. Getting yourself wound up. This is what you want to change, isn’t it?’
I nodded, too embarrassed by my position to speak.
‘It’s
‘Oh! Oh, God, no, sorry. I –’ I was so close to saying ‘forgot’‘– didn’t.’
He didn’t say anything, damn him. I needed him to throw me a lifeline, ask me if I had forgotten, say it didn’t matter and I could do it tomorrow.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I offered.
‘Yes.’ That was it. No more.
He dug his spoon into the ice-cream and left it there.
‘It was such a beautiful day,’ I said, half in defence, half as a change of subject.
‘Too beautiful for keeping promises.’
Oh, if he was just going to
sulk
instead of … the other thing …
‘It’s no big deal,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t suppose another day will make a difference.’
‘No, Pip, don’t take that tone with me. I’m not in the wrong here.’
‘In the wrong? It’s a stupid fucking parcel, that’s all. What’s in it? Explosives?’
‘Philippa.’ A low growl.
But somehow I couldn’t stop talking myself into trouble.
I stood up, eyeing the door to the hallway nervously, my fight-or-flight response signalling ‘flight’.
‘If it’s so important to you, why don’t you get it redelivered? You’ve got the day off on Friday. You can reschedule it online. That would have been the obvious thing to do anyway, but it wouldn’t occur to you, I suppose, when you’ve got Muggins here to run around after you.’ I started walking away.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
He sounded calm, but absolutely authoritative.
I halted in my tracks.
‘Nowhere.’
‘That’s right. You’re going nowhere.’
‘What? For God’s sake, forget it, Dan. You’re ruining what could be a lovely evening.’ I’d lost it by now, shouting and gesticulating like Basil Fawlty. I disliked myself for it, but how could I make myself stop?
‘
I’m
ruining it?’
‘You’re overreacting!’ I bawled.
He laughed at that, then pointed to the sofa in our open-plan lounge-diner.
‘All right, Philippa, overreact to this,’ he said, not raising his voice a decibel. ‘Go and bend over the arm.’
‘I …’
‘Now.’
Here I was, at a crossroads that felt enormously significant.
I could say no. He had no recourse, after all. I knew he wouldn’t force me. It would take just a few calm, reasonable words. Or, if I carried on shouting and screaming, he would probably just walk away, go to the pub, like he always used to.
But I didn’t want that. I hated those hours he spent at the pub while I paced the flat, full of rage, then full of remorse, then full of facepalm.
I hated having to apologise and have him wonder aloud what got into me.
Of course, I loved the make-up sex.
But perhaps we could have that too, without all the icky in-between stuff?
I looked at his face. It was resolute and stern. It was everything I had fantasised.
I went to the sofa.
I looked over my shoulder at him. He was watching me.
It was a giddy feeling. If I voluntarily put myself over the arm, I was making a profound statement.
I put myself in your hands. I accept your authority.
It was too hard. And I felt ridiculous, like a character in one of the hokey spanking stories I was always browsing online. And I felt
guilty
, as if I was dancing on the Pankhurst graves in hobnailed boots.
But, look, I had asked for this.
‘Philippa.’
His voice acted like a hand between my shoulder blades.
I bent, feeling the swishy hem of my dress rise up my bared thigh.
I listened to him walk up to me.
‘It’s not that you’ve done something terrible, Philippa,’ he said.
I flinched when he put a hand on my thigh, just where it met the dress, and stroked through the material.
‘Of course it’s not that. That’s trivial. It’s the way you behaved when I asked you. Defensive, straight away. Trying to blame me. Getting yourself wound up. This is what you want to change, isn’t it?’
I nodded, too embarrassed by my position to speak.
‘It’s
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