Chapter 12 Cul-de-Sac
With the majority of a bottle of wine inside him, Stephen doesn’t shrug off my affection as I hug him in the ensuite.
He’s still fully dressed, but I don’t want to wait.
I let my hands slip under his shirt. Not only do I enjoy the pleasure of physical contact, I gain the additional advantage of mentally ticking off my to-do list.
Without the distraction of romance, married love is simply a rational business choice based on intellectual compatibility, economic benefits, housing prospects, propagation of the species, and reasonably reliable sexual gratification (current period excluded).
I fell for Stephen for the normal reasons – he was attractive, he worked in an investment bank, his parents were wealthy, he had no siblings, and he was keen on marriage.
Of course, he was already engaged, but I stepped in with an improved offer.
Gazumping happens in marriages as well as in house-hunting.
Prior to meeting Stephen, I learned how to behave in his circle by becoming a nanny to a wealthy upper-middle-class family.
I used the opportunity to purloin clothes, jewellery, shoes and handbags – my costume.
When I was ready, I road-tested my new self on half a dozen young bankers and found that they rarely saw beyond what they wanted to see, then I went in pursuit of my chosen host.
Within five minutes, we’re on the bed (Stephen’s sense of propriety moved us out of the bathroom quite quickly) and I’m straddling him, but Stephen’s hands are roving without enthusiasm, and circling further and further from any recognized erogenous zone, until he’s gently stroking my elbow.
‘You’re drunk,’ I say with sudden irritation.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Can we just . . .’
‘No excuses,’ I say, and with steely determination and some well-chosen words I get him over the finish line. He seems relieved it’s over, even though I did 95 per cent of the work.
I roll off him, lie on my back and notice that he’s not even taken his shoes off.
I think about the dead man’s loafers, and, for a moment, wonder if I’ve killed an estate agent.
I mean, Foxtons are forever sending unsolicited letters asking if we want to sell, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they were measuring up without our consent.
I look at my husband lying there staring blankly at the ceiling and think back to when this all started.
Not long after his father died – despite my being an almost faultless wife, mother, confidante, lover, care-giver, cook, emotional crutch, and career adviser to my beloved spouse – he became withdrawn.
He lost his passion for work. He neglected the children.
He even lost interest in sex, which is astonishing given that I have read widely and practised tirelessly in this area.
I thought that the plan (make Stephen partner, move to Hampstead, have third child, and get children into private school) would provide him with his lost motivation and save our marriage, but almost a year later, I have to admit it, we’re failing.
Stephen’s not made partner. Hampstead is still a pipe dream, Nelly is stubbornly committed to being less bright than she needs to be, and I’m not even pregnant – the simplest of tasks.
I’ve even booked an appointment with a fertility specialist to check all is well.
As I’m lying there, quite depressed about the state of our marriage, I have a moment of inspiration about how to get rid of the body, and feel like Sherlock Holmes and Ana?s Nin at the same time.
As I head downstairs, I stop to peer in on Nathan and Nelly.
The smell of their room captures me for a moment and I stand there looking at them sleeping so peacefully.
I know I’m waiting for the feelings to come. I can stand like this for hours. Sometimes, I almost feel something connect within me, like a small flame igniting, and then it gets lost like a forgotten word. I’m sure I do feel things for them, but it’s always in a language I don’t understand.