When he was finished, I walked into the bathroom to wash my hands and stared at my impassive reflection in the mirror. David was already asleep by the time I could face going back. I stood looking down at him, wondering: who was this man I’d married? Why had he married me? Had there ever been love? I knew I had never felt this way before, the way I felt when I was with Sebastian. Was David happy? I knew he was frustrated by not having climbed the career ladder with the speed and success of other men. He didn’t have friends; he networked with people who could be useful.
I lay awake for a long time, refusing to cry. I’d made my bed.
Saturday started with a guilty dash to the large, out-of-town grocery store.
David had enticed his colleagues with promises of fine Italian cuisine – I doubted it was his sunny personality and winning ways that made so many people desirous of attending our supper party – so fine cuisine was what I had to supply. All home-made. David wouldn’t allow anything pre-prepared: he liked to see me busy in the kitchen.
I checked my phone as soon as I left the house but there were no messages from Sebastian. I decided to text while I was out and hoped that’d he’d reply quickly while I dared to leave my phone on.
Am shopping but thinking of you. Cx
I was stupidly happy when he replied immediately.
I think of you all the time. xx
I read the simple message three times and then, with a sigh, deleted it. Now I had groceries to buy: I had to be that person – David’s wife.
Ninety minutes later I staggered into the house, bowed under the weight of a multitude of loaves and fishes, and unloaded all the grocery bags into the kitchen. David was doing something in his study: he was too busy and important to help me. I hoped I’d bought enough for the 35 people I was expected to feed.
At noon I made him a quick sandwich and delivered it express. I surprised him: he snapped shut the lid of his laptop as I entered, but not before I’d seen that he was playing card games. Yeah, too busy to help me. Not that I cared anymore, but it was another irritant. I realized my tolerance levels were being eroded: every moment I spent with Sebastian made the long hours with David more unbearable.
By early evening I was exhausted. I’d been standing in the kitchen all day and I felt tired and bad-tempered. David wandered in fresh from the shower and eyed the buffet table with the air of a lord surveying his fiefdom.
“You’re not ready,” he said, gazing at me in my flour-stained, rumpled apron.
“I’ve just spent seven hours cooking, David.”
“You look like it.”
I turned on my heel. He couldn’t even bring himself to say a simple ‘thank you’ or that the food looked damn fine, which it did. Bastard.
I thought again about Sebastian’s words: four months. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t last that long either.
Then I saw that the dress I’d laid out to wear tonight had slid off the bed. David would have had to step over it three or four times as he’d moved around the bedroom, but he’d left it in a crumpled heap.
His pettiness filled me with sudden fury. I supposed his childish behavior was punishment for not fully attending to his needs last night. Whatever the reason, I felt a small kernel of real dislike hardening in the pit of my stomach.
I showered quickly, running through all the angry words I wanted to spit in his face; words that were getting harder to bite back.
Once I’d dried my hair, I swept it up into a simple chignon – one of the few arts of graceful dressing that I learned from my mom – then slipped on my favorite, if slightly wrinkled, terracotta cocktail dress, and cream pumps.
I was applying some gloss lipstick when I heard the first car pull up outside, followed by David’s hysterical yell for me to be front and centre in the living room.
Tempted as I was to keep him waiting, it just wasn’t worth his prima donna overreaction later. He always found a way to exorcise his pique. It occurred to me that over the next few months it would behove me to be a model wife: it would certainly make life easier, but I severely doubted I was up to the challenge. Not when I felt like stabbing him with a pastry fork.