Strictly My Husband: It's funny, it's romantic and it's got dancing - what's not to love! (16 page)

‘OK,’ she said, glancing at him. She gave him a weak smile and turned her back. Perhaps she would pretend to be asleep by the time he came upstairs.

‘Archie from Customer Experience might be calling you,’ announced Tom as he crashed down into bed ten minutes later. Laura had got distracted by all the fake happiness on Facebook on her tablet so had forgotten to fake sleep.

‘Why?’ she asked, putting her tablet down and turning to face him.

‘Well, Phillip said that this show has to score an average of eight out of ten for enjoyment. You know what he’s like for measuring everything.’

‘So he wants an on-park survey doing?’ asked Laura. ‘Does he want it integrating into the satisfaction survey or will this be a bespoke project?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tom, his eyes glazing over. ‘He just said we have to achieve that score so – since Harvest Research do all that other survey stuff on park – I just wanted to warn you that you might be getting a call. Do you think you can fix the survey so we definitely score over eight?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘You can’t ask that.’

‘I know,’ said Tom, closing his eyes momentarily. ‘It’s just I got the feeling from Phillip that if we don’t make a success of the show then he might be reviewing whether they continue to have an Entertainment Department at all. And you’ve told me before that you can manipulate research to make it
come out with the answer you want it to . . .’

‘Shhhhhhh,’ said Laura, putting her hand over his mouth. ‘You’re not supposed to tell anyone that. That’s secret insider information.’

Tom was smiling when she took her hand away. ‘I know,’ he said, sliding his arm under her and pulling her close. ‘I’m just scared, that’s all.’

‘Why?’ asked Laura, settling her head into his chest, warmed by his smile and by his bare skin.

‘That I’m going to let everyone down. That the show won’t be brilliant and it will be all my fault and then everyone will get made redundant.’

Laura tilted her head up to look at him, her frustration at his obsession with all things related to the damn show – including Carly – ebbing away. Tom had always had the potential to put on really good shows, he was so amazingly creative, but he had a habit of letting the slightest obstacle get in his way and then giving up.’

‘It will be brilliant,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘You’ve been working on
Malice
for months, it’s really good. You
know
you can do it.’

‘But can I?’ he said, frowning. ‘I’ve not really managed it before. I’ve never really had this opportunity. I’ve never been able to make it how I really want to. It’s been so frustrating. What if I screw it up?’

‘You won’t,’ said Laura, stroking his forehead. ‘I know you can do it.’

‘Do you?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ she said, nodding firmly. ‘I really do.’

Tom still looked concerned. She reached up and kissed him again. It was nice to be this close to him and have his full attention for a change. She reached up and wove her hand round his neck, pulling his mouth more urgently into hers. She liked the way he tasted; it seemed too long since they had kissed like this. She wanted to be closer. She snaked her other hand around his side, over his back and then down inside his pyjama shorts. What had she been worrying about? This was what she wanted. This was what she needed. She just needed him to be hers. She pushed her hand further down his shorts, feeling for his buttocks.

‘Not tonight, eh?’ said Tom, putting his hand over hers to stop her going any further. ‘I’m shattered, I’m sorry. It’s been a hell of a day; I really just need to go to sleep. Another big day tomorrow too.’ He bent and kissed
her on the nose; then he disengaged himself until he could turn around and switch off his bedside lamp, plunging them into darkness.

Laura lay absolutely still, staring into the darkness. She could just about make out the outline of his head crushed deep into his pillow, perfectly still, waiting for the relief of sleep.

She leant her head back on her own pillow and stared upwards into nothing, her heart pounding, her fists clenched tight. She wanted to scream in anger, in frustration, in self-pity, in utter confusion.

Chapter Sixteen

Hannah

‘Have you any idea what time it is?’ Hannah hissed down her phone. She didn’t really know why as she was trying to be quiet since she was all alone in her bedroom, but it was after ten thirty and loud telephone conversations seemed inappropriate. She stopped and all she could hear was sobbing. She knew it was Laura calling because it had said so on her screen but she hadn’t actually said anything yet so it might be someone who’d stolen Laura’s phone and chosen to call her to have a good cry about it.

‘Is that you, Laura?’

‘Yes,’ came a snuffled reply.

‘What on earth’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Shall I come over?’

‘No,’ came the firm answer. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute, I just needed to talk to someone.’

Hannah patiently listened to a few more deep sniffs.

‘It’s OK, take your time,’ she said, looking at her watch. She could really do with going to sleep herself so she would be dead to the world before Jerry got back from the pub. ‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.

Laura sniffed. ‘I think so.’

‘So what’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at home,’ came the reply. ‘In the utility room.’

‘What are you doing in there? Was there a major laundry crisis or something?’

She heard a faint laugh.

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘I just didn’t want to wake anyone.’

‘Apart from me?’

‘Oh, you weren’t asleep, were you?’

‘No, no. I’m in bed. You just caught me before I turned the light off.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ faltered Laura. ‘I’ll go, call you tomorrow.’

‘No, no, don’t go,’ said Hannah. ‘You can’t call me in the middle of the night from behind the tumble dryer and not tell me what’s going on.’

‘OK. It’s just . . . it’s just . . .’

‘Laura, it’s clearly not an “it’s just” anything if you are calling me this late.’

‘Tom wouldn’t have sex with me,’ Laura blurted out.

Hannah heaved a sigh of relief. No life-threatening disaster had occurred then. ‘And your problem is what exactly?’ she asked. ‘I dream of a husband who doesn’t come home and want to have sex with me.’

‘Hannah!’ exclaimed Laura.

‘Let’s just say the dog will be sleeping in our room tonight.’

‘What’s the dog got to do with it?’

‘Oh, Jerry’s bound to come home pissed from the pub thinking he’s God’s gift to women as he drools lager down his chin. Sherlock barks the minute he comes near me. Best guard dog ever.’

‘Well, there was no need for Sherlock in our bedroom tonight,’ muttered Laura.

‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, for a moment we were back to normal, you know, cuddling up in bed, talking about stuff. I was just thinking that this thing with Carly is in my imagination and then he said he was too tired. He needed his energy for tomorrow when he’s with bloody Carly, rehearsing for that bloody show.’

‘She’ll be gone soon and then you’ll have him back to yourself again,’ said Hannah, yawning.

‘But I want him back now. He’s my husband. Why does she get to have him all day every day and most of the night as well? I bet he’s bloody dreaming about her now.’ Laura had raised her voice.

‘Shush. You’ll wake the washing machine up.’

‘I don’t care about the bloody washing machine. I just want my husband back.’

‘How can you want him back? He never went anywhere.’

‘He’s not here, Hannah. I’m telling you he’s so not here.’

Hannah sighed. What was she supposed to say? How do you give advice to someone whose husband hasn’t quite cheated on them just yet?

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Hannah finally settled on.

‘Thanks for that. So helpful.’

‘Hey, who’s the one talking to you at goodness knows what time about
an imaginary affair? I’m doing as much as I can, given the circumstances. Are you drinking?’

‘There was half a bottle of wine left that was going to waste,’ said Laura.

‘You’re drinking wine . . . in the utility room?’

‘Yes,’ replied Laura as Hannah heard her draw breath and clearly take another sip.

‘That’s not good,’ pointed out Hannah.

‘I know,’ said Laura.

‘You’re on the phone, in the middle of the night, whilst drinking alone in the utility room, because your husband might, I repeat might, have an affair with the lodger. That’s not normal behaviour, Laura.’

‘I admit it’s quite irrational.’

‘Hello – yes.’

‘But I’ve made a list of reasons why he will sleep with her and reasons why he won’t and the reasons why he will outweigh the reasons why he won’t by two to one. That’s not good odds, is it?’

‘No,’ said Hannah, now praying for Jerry to come home so she could get off the phone and stop trying to reassure her friend that her concerns were unfounded. It was too late for this and it was giving her brain-ache.

‘Admittedly I haven’t weighted it yet,’ said Laura.

‘Haven’t what?’

‘Weighted it. The responses ideally should be weighted in order to give a true outcome but I’m finding it hard to put a value on them. I mean how much do you weight the response . . . hang on a minute . . .’

There was a pause and Hannah could hear rustling. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just getting my list out.’

‘You carry the list with you?’

‘I only made it tonight. I had to shove it in my pocket quick when Tom and Carly got back. Hang on a minute, I’ll have to put the light on.’

Hannah waited patiently for Laura to come back on the line.

‘So for example in the column under reasons why they won’t have an affair is the response: “Because he is married to me.” How would you weight
that against a response in the other column which reads: “Because she is beautiful and reminds him of his ex-fiancée.”’

Hannah sighed. ‘Do you know what I think you should do?’ she said.

‘What? Please tell me.’

‘Go upstairs and have sex with your husband so I can go to sleep.’

There was a moment’s silence at the end of the line.

‘You’re right,’ came the response.

Thank goodness for that, thought Hannah.

‘I should just go upstairs and have sex.’

‘Yes, do.’

‘But what if he’s asleep?’

‘Then wake him up,’ hissed Hannah, ‘please, and then we can all get some sleep.’

‘Great, good, thanks, Hannah.’

‘You’re welcome. Don’t leave the wine in the utility room, hey? Too sad if anyone sees it. They’ll think you’ve lost it.’

‘OK, will do. Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck having sex with your husband,’ said Hannah wearily.

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Damn, thought Hannah as she clicked the phone off and heard Jerry stumble into the hall below. He’d know she’s awake. He’d have seen the bedroom light from the driveway. No time to pretend she was already in the land of Nod.

Two seconds later the bedroom door opened so forcefully that it ricocheted off the wall. Hannah winced and then her eyes grew wide as she struggled to comprehend what was coming through the doorway.

‘G’day, Sharon,’ came Jerry’s voice from somewhere behind a seven-foot-long inflatable crocodile. He was struggling to get it through the door. All she could see was the belly of a croc pounding backwards and forwards trying to break into her bedroom. The dog was going mental, barking its head off.

‘G’day, Sharon,’ cried Jerry again.

‘I think you’ll find it’s Sheila,’ Hannah said under her breath.

‘It’s your ole mate Bruce back from the watering hole, home to his
Sharon,’ he declared, grinning over the croc’s shoulder, having momentarily given up his battle with the doorpost and the amphibian.

‘It’s Sheila,’ said Hannah. ‘Not Sharon, Sheila. Come here, Sherlock. Ignore the weird scary man at the door trying to break in with a man-eating reptile.’ Sherlock immediately jumped up on to the bed and calmed down.

‘Why?’ she asked, trying to remain calm as she took in Jerry’s ruddy grinning face, panting from the excursion of walking home with an awkward companion and getting him up the stairs.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he replied before disappearing for a second. The next thing Hannah knew Jerry gave a battle cry as he took a run-up and threw his full weight at the beast. They landed in a heap just inside the door as Jerry pretended to fight off the tricky predator.

‘Just give me a moment,’ he gasped, rolling around on the floor. ‘I’ll soon have this critter in hand and then I will come and sweep my fair maiden off her feet.’

‘No rush,’ replied Hannah, reaching to turn off her bedside light. She watched as he scrambled to stand up. He picked up his new friend and tried to lean it against the wall. After five attempts, which all resulted in it slithering to the floor, Hannah felt she should step in.

‘I can’t sleep next to that,’ she said. ‘Please put it outside.’

‘But he’ll be lonely,’ replied Jerry.

‘Outside!’ exclaimed Hannah. She was starting to lose it.

‘OK, OK,’ mumbled Jerry, grabbing hold of the inflatable and walking towards the door. ‘Off you go, matey, and find some other friends to sleep with.’ He swung the croc backwards before throwing it through the door with all his might. There was no sound for a few seconds and then a distant, gentle thud.

‘Oh my God. I’ve killed him,’ shouted Jerry, dashing outside. ‘I threw him over the bannister. Are you OK down there?’ Hannah heard him holler. The crocodile didn’t reply. Jerry ambled back in and bellyflopped on to the bed, grinning beer fumes in Hannah’s face.

‘No croc bones were broken during the course of this performance,’ he announced.

‘So glad to hear it,’ replied Hannah. ‘You stink. Why don’t you have a
shower?’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’ve bought a seven-foot-long inflatable crocodile home with me?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Not really.’

‘Oh.’ Jerry buried his face in the duvet. Sherlock looked up and nuzzled his nose in Hannah’s arm.

‘It’s all right, Sherlock,’ she said, patting his head. ‘He’s just got drunk at the pub and bought, borrowed or stolen some random item from someone because he thought it might be funny. Yes I know, it doesn’t feel that funny at this time of night, does it? But maybe one day he might grow up.’