Batman
I wake up late Saturday morning to the sound of someone banging around in the kitchen.
Fifi never bangs around, so I know it’s Josh.
There’s a tight, itchy band around my hips, and I realise I’m still wearing – only wearing – my Thrills & Frills lingerie.
I thought Josh would wake up and get turned on when he saw me, but alas, that didn’t happen.
In reality, I can imagine he woke up, saw me lying with my tummy flopping over the edges, and didn’t have the desire to go near me.
I take it all off and add another tally mark.
The pub closed not long after I accidentally pecked Lace on the lips. I said sorry again and again until she told me that if I apologised one more time, she would refuse to make my wedding dress, so I dropped it.
We walked to the Tube station and said our goodbyes.
Lace was sad that the next time we’d see each other would be at the wedding dress-fitting party she was planning.
What she doesn’t know is that I’m going to surprise her tomorrow.
She told me I should get highlights in my hair, so that’s what I’m going to do.
I’ve booked a hair appointment in Shoreditch, near Lace’s studio.
I figured a salon in East London would automatically make me cool.
And I’m hoping being blonde will make Josh think I’m another woman.
I’ve read that this is a thing. Some wives even go as far as to have a wig collection so that they can pose as different characters to keep it interesting for their husbands.
That feels too much right now. I wouldn’t know what wig to start with or what voice to put with the wig.
I’ll see if a few highlights will do the trick first. Baby steps and all.
*
I finally roll out of bed and go see what all the noise is in the kitchen. Josh is cleaning. There are bubbles covering the bench, and Josh is rubbing them off with the oven glove. He has his earbuds in with angry rap blaring into his ears. I tap his shoulder, and he whips one of them out.
‘You’ll damage your eardrums,’ I say.
He vigorously rubs the bench. ‘Morning.’
‘Good gym session?’
‘Yup.’
‘How was Tony?’
‘Fine.’
‘Is everything . . . okay?’
‘Yup, just cleaning the kitchen,’ he says. He rubs off the last of the bubbles and then plonks the oven glove in the dirty sink for someone else (me) to deal with.
‘Sorry, I stayed out,’ I say.
He pulls down the dishwasher door and begins unpacking the plates very loudly.
‘You’re allowed to stay out,’ he says, frowning like I’m accusing him of something. The doorbell goes. ‘That will be them.’
‘Who?’
‘Birthday cake?’ he says, as if I couldn’t have forgotten.
I shut my eyes in despair. Birthday cake. How did I forget about birthday cake?
Linda, Jason, Laura and Ray all come into the flat and make themselves at home in our living room. Ray goes straight to the kitchen area and puts the kettle on whilst Jason and Laura plop themselves on the sofa. Jason makes a comment about how handy it is to have the kitchen in the living room.
‘It means you can get a beer without missing the game,’ he says and sniggers to himself. Meanwhile, Linda is flapping about with her M&S bag for life.
‘Josh, you need to vacate the area. We will call you back when we’re ready,’ Linda orders. Josh does as he’s told and goes and has his shower, leaving me with his family. ‘Amy, come see this. What do you think?’
Linda pulls the birthday cake out from the bag. This year, it’s Batman’s face. I suppose it’s better than last year’s Action Man cake, and leaps ahead of the Shrek one he had at 25. Linda is chuckling to herself.
‘So funny,’ I say as brightly as I can. Linda then unpacks two white candles, a three and a zero, and pushes them into Batman’s cheeks.
‘Oh no, I am such a silly clog,’ she says, furiously rummaging through the bag.
‘What’s wrong, pumpkin?’ Jason calls out from the sofa.
‘I forgot the matches. Ray, do you have a lighter?’ Linda says. Ray shakes his head cluelessly. ‘Laura?’
‘Why would I have a lighter? I haven’t smoked for 10 years,’ Laura says.
I take Fifi’s lighter from the drawer, and Linda sighs with relief.
‘Oh, you’re a lifesaver,’ she says. The crisis of a 30-year-old man having unlit candles on his birthday cake is avoided. She yells out for Josh. ‘Josh! Josh! We’re ready!’
A few minutes later, a freshly washed Josh comes back into the kitchen to the sound of his family singing Happy Birthday.
He stands with a childlike grin on his face.
I’m never sure if he truly enjoys this tradition or is too scared to tell his mother to stop it.
If I were him, I would have put an end to it 15 years ago.
‘Make a wish,’ Linda orders. Josh pauses momentarily to indulge his family, then blows out the candles.
‘What part would you like, Joshy? Come on, no diet today,’ his dad says as he starts slicing the cake.
Josh goes for the bat ear and part of the head.
I’m given Batman’s line mouth and flicked-out, cocaine-damaged nose tip.
I have no appetite, so I slice layers off with my fork until it disintegrates into tiny sponge balls.
Meanwhile, Josh is announcing the news of his promotion and the news of my non-promotion to his family. Linda squeals with excitement.
‘My son, the Head of Humanities at Clapham High for Girls,’ she says. She then pulls a face at me like I’m dying. ‘Sorry, Amy, you did deserve it too.’ Her hand is on my knee. I take my frustration out on the sponge balls on my plate, pressing on them with my index finger.
‘Yeah, good effort,’ Jason adds.
‘Well, our boss favours men, so it’s no wonder,’ I say, still pressing the sponge balls. The only noise is of plates being scraped by forks and cake moving around mouths. I peer up and see the crushed look on Josh’s face. Crap. ‘But Josh deserves it. He’s a great teacher,’ I add.
‘He’s a great, great teacher,’ Linda says whilst she rubs her son’s arm. ‘The best there is.’