and would they like a slice of Madeira.
In the kitchen, Marie Bingley splashed cold water on heated cheeks. The girl would not be living here, and that was the good news. But the bad news outweighed it, since both mother and daughter intended to settle for the duration in St Michael’s Road, which was well within walking distance of this house. Miss Frances Morrison’s health would now become of prime concern to Dr Tom Bingley, and Marie’s anger, damped down for so long that it seemed to have turned to black ice, suddenly made her stomach ache.
She returned with fresh tea, watched her husband’s eyes travelling over the bodies of two unbelievably beautiful females. Her digestive system continued in overdrive, and she excused herself rather suddenly. After vomiting in the downstairs half-bathroom, she rinsed the taste from her mouth, washed her husband from her mind. Because this was the day on which the worm would turn. There would be no healthy argument, no true fight. But from this very night, she would move herself into the fourth bedroom. The twins would notice, but the price she had been paying for peace in this house was suddenly too high. ‘He will not touch you again,’ she promised the plain, wholesome face in the mirror. If he wanted relief, he could find it elsewhere.
When the visitors had left, Marie forced herself to be brave before the children returned from music and chess. ‘Say one word, and I shall probably kill you, Tom.’ The tone was even, almost monotonous. She inhaled, closed her eyes against the sight of his shocked face, then allowed it all to pour out of her like more vomit, but without the retching. ‘I’ll be moving into the spare room,’ she said. ‘It has taken me years to work my way up to this, so try listening for once. You almost ate Eileen and Mel Watson while they were here – after undressing them with your eyes, of course. That would have impinged on me, as you would have used me later to relieve yourself of sexual tension. So I advise you to find someone else to tolerate your sad, selfish bedroom activities.’
‘What the hell—’ he attempted to begin.
‘Hell is the right word. You’re hopeless. Now, sleeping arrangements aside, life continues the same. When Gloria and Peter leave, I leave. My father has willed his house to me, so I shall not be homeless in the long term. He will take me in if he’s still alive, and when he dies everything comes to me, so I am safe. Meanwhile, we keep things on an even keel for the children, and for the sake of local society.’
Tom stared at her. In fourteen years of marriage, she had never strung so many words together in one speech. Life had wobbled on its fulcrum, had shifted because of a force he had never before recognized. As a result, he suddenly felt insecure, undermined and slightly afraid. She was his wife, but she was a creature far stronger than the dull, quiet woman with whom he had lived for all this time. ‘I have rights,’ he said.
‘So do I. What happens in our bed isn’t love, isn’t even sex. It’s rape. You come upstairs with your hormones rampaging for Mel Watson. You give me no consideration – not even a kiss, and scarcely a word. I just lie there in pain while you make noises like a sick gorilla. Not one recognizable syllable do you utter. You were never much of a lover, but you have become a bloody rapist. So bugger off and leave me be.’
The door slammed in her wake. She never swore. She always did exactly what was asked or expected of her. The door opened for a split second. ‘Oh, and the girl plays you like a fish on her hook. Stick to the mother, or you’ll be in jail. I’ll put you there myself.’ The door crashed home for a second time.
Tom dropped into his favourite wing chair. What was it his father had said? Something about allowing a woman to win, and about allowing her to know she had won? All the time, Marie had realized that he needed sex whenever stimulated by someone other
In the kitchen, Marie Bingley splashed cold water on heated cheeks. The girl would not be living here, and that was the good news. But the bad news outweighed it, since both mother and daughter intended to settle for the duration in St Michael’s Road, which was well within walking distance of this house. Miss Frances Morrison’s health would now become of prime concern to Dr Tom Bingley, and Marie’s anger, damped down for so long that it seemed to have turned to black ice, suddenly made her stomach ache.
She returned with fresh tea, watched her husband’s eyes travelling over the bodies of two unbelievably beautiful females. Her digestive system continued in overdrive, and she excused herself rather suddenly. After vomiting in the downstairs half-bathroom, she rinsed the taste from her mouth, washed her husband from her mind. Because this was the day on which the worm would turn. There would be no healthy argument, no true fight. But from this very night, she would move herself into the fourth bedroom. The twins would notice, but the price she had been paying for peace in this house was suddenly too high. ‘He will not touch you again,’ she promised the plain, wholesome face in the mirror. If he wanted relief, he could find it elsewhere.
When the visitors had left, Marie forced herself to be brave before the children returned from music and chess. ‘Say one word, and I shall probably kill you, Tom.’ The tone was even, almost monotonous. She inhaled, closed her eyes against the sight of his shocked face, then allowed it all to pour out of her like more vomit, but without the retching. ‘I’ll be moving into the spare room,’ she said. ‘It has taken me years to work my way up to this, so try listening for once. You almost ate Eileen and Mel Watson while they were here – after undressing them with your eyes, of course. That would have impinged on me, as you would have used me later to relieve yourself of sexual tension. So I advise you to find someone else to tolerate your sad, selfish bedroom activities.’
‘What the hell—’ he attempted to begin.
‘Hell is the right word. You’re hopeless. Now, sleeping arrangements aside, life continues the same. When Gloria and Peter leave, I leave. My father has willed his house to me, so I shall not be homeless in the long term. He will take me in if he’s still alive, and when he dies everything comes to me, so I am safe. Meanwhile, we keep things on an even keel for the children, and for the sake of local society.’
Tom stared at her. In fourteen years of marriage, she had never strung so many words together in one speech. Life had wobbled on its fulcrum, had shifted because of a force he had never before recognized. As a result, he suddenly felt insecure, undermined and slightly afraid. She was his wife, but she was a creature far stronger than the dull, quiet woman with whom he had lived for all this time. ‘I have rights,’ he said.
‘So do I. What happens in our bed isn’t love, isn’t even sex. It’s rape. You come upstairs with your hormones rampaging for Mel Watson. You give me no consideration – not even a kiss, and scarcely a word. I just lie there in pain while you make noises like a sick gorilla. Not one recognizable syllable do you utter. You were never much of a lover, but you have become a bloody rapist. So bugger off and leave me be.’
The door slammed in her wake. She never swore. She always did exactly what was asked or expected of her. The door opened for a split second. ‘Oh, and the girl plays you like a fish on her hook. Stick to the mother, or you’ll be in jail. I’ll put you there myself.’ The door crashed home for a second time.
Tom dropped into his favourite wing chair. What was it his father had said? Something about allowing a woman to win, and about allowing her to know she had won? All the time, Marie had realized that he needed sex whenever stimulated by someone other
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