The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife (7 page)

18

The kitchen was still only half finished despite the assurances she had been given that they would have it done in a jiffy. The Portaloo was still in the front garden so every passer-by could see and hear the procession of builders going in and out of it all day. The builders seemed to need a massive amount of tea and coffee. Pipes ended in mid-air and Mel was taking her life in her hands venturing in to do anything more complicated than making hot drinks. Even this humble pursuit was beleaguered with difficulty. Trying to climb over plumbers and getting harpooned by pipes and tangled electrical wiring was just the tip of the iceberg. Finding sugar, milk, tea, coffee, cups, spoons … this was a real challenge. Then there was the problem of intermittent water and electricity supply. The fridge held questionably safe food now because its electricity supply had been cut off inadvertently and the thing had defrosted, leaving water all over the floor. Luckily, there was a freezer in the car port, but then Mel had the problem of how to cook its contents. She was wondering if it might just be easier if they put up a tent in the front garden as well. Then they could use the Portaloo and cook on a camping stove and completely forget about the unfolding disaster inside the house. Mel felt weak. Alan wasn't home till God knows what time and she was finding it difficult to keep nagging at the builders to hurry up and get on with it. She was fed up with harping on that she felt that at £70,000, the work should have been finished by now. Alan was too tired to even walk into the kitchen when he came home at some unholy hour. He had taken to eating out. Mel and the
kids were generally living on takeaways. The noise, mess and dust was driving her mad.

Because there was nothing to cook on, Mel loaded the trolley with tins, fruit and bread. She was definitely going to put the tent up and get the camping stove out … in the back garden, not the front. Perhaps she could make this experience fun after all.

19

‘Mummy!' shouted Amy as she ran from the classroom to give Mel a hug. ‘Molly's party's next week. Can I go? Please!?' She was waving an invitation frantically in the air.

Michael came out next. He looked a bit down in the dumps. Michael's teacher called Mel over.

‘Is Michael all right? He seems a bit reserved at the moment,' observed the teacher. Mel could tell that the teacher was trying to get some juicy information about Michael's home life and she immediately felt she had done something wrong, that the devastated kitchen was turning her son into a deprived and scarred child. Apparently a mother's middle name is ‘Guilt'. It was certainly true in Mel's case.

‘No. Everything's OK at home, isn't it, Michael? He's probably just feeling strange being back at school.' Mel looked at Michael who returned her gaze wanly. He resembled some poor Dickensian orphan. Mel smiled sympathetically at Michael and thanked the teacher profusely for caring about her child.

‘What's the matter, Michael? You do look a bit sad. Tell Mummy what's wrong,' pleaded Mel.

‘Mummy, I don't like Algy. He's nasty and horrible,' answered Michael, looking down at the ground as they walked along. The tips of his ears were reddening, as they always did when he was trying not to cry. ‘I'm sorry, Mummy. I know you …'

‘What has he been doing to you, darling?' Mel struggled to stop herself from going back to the school gate there and then and grabbing Algy by the hair for bullying her baby. Better still, she could get his mother's false nails and yank
them off before inserting them up her stupid, turned-up, nasty, snobby little nose.

‘It's all right, Mummy. He hasn't hit me,' added Michael bravely. This made Mel's heart squirm into a tight knot and she actually felt physical pain in her chest as she clenched and unclenched her fists. Poor little Michael. He was being so brave and trying to protect her feelings. She hadn't brought him into the world to be taunted and stepped upon and made miserable by others. How dare anyone hurt her little boy?!

‘Has he been saying nasty things to you, Michael?'

No answer. Michael kept walking, head down.

‘Yes, Mummy. Algy keeps telling Michael he looks like a girl and some of the other boys are laughing about it,' piped up Amy.

Amy (tough, insect-wielding Amy, who had made her brother eat snails) gently placed her arm around her brother and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I heard them, Mummy. And I hit Toby because he keeps trying to trip Michael over.'

‘Is that why his nose was all red?' enquired Mel. She felt a surge of pride, love and admiration for both her children. They were courageous; they were loyal and, underneath all the sibling rivalry rubbish, they loved each other very much.

‘Maybe. I don't know,' answered Amy meekly.

‘I'm not cross, Amy darling! I'm very proud of you for sticking up for your brother. Very, very proud!'

‘Really, Mummy? But I thought it was naughty to hit people. The teacher told me off and …'

‘It's true that you shouldn't just hit people for the sake of it. But you did it to defend Michael. That's very different. Did you tell the teacher why you did it?'

‘No, Mummy. She was shouting too much and I didn't know what to say.' Amy looked at Mel, tears dripping onto her cheeks.

‘Right. I'm going to have a word with the headmistress
tomorrow! How dare they allow bullying to go on in their school! I've a good mind to make Algy and Toby stand in the middle of the hall so that everyone can call them names. That should deal with the bullying. Nasty little toerags!' Mel was seething.

She pulled them both to her in a hug. She knew at that moment that she would lay her life down in an instant for her children. When they were hurt, so was she. When she was young and was bullied, she'd felt powerless, no one would listen to her in the school or do anything about it. Now she was an adult, there was no way she was allowing it to happen to her little ones. What was the matter with that Algy boy anyway?

‘Let's go into town for an ice cream, shall we?'

‘Yay, Mummy!' they both sniffed.

‘I love you both very much you know. If anyone ever does anything to you, you must let Mummy know and I'll do everything in my power to make it better, OK?' Her voice was catching as she felt her viscera twisting with love for them and indignation for any unkindness they might suffer.

‘Right. Ice cream here we come.'

‘Mummy, why don't we have a kitchen? Where's it gone?' asked Michael when they returned to the house later, full of ice cream and milkshake floats.

‘We're having a new kitchen put in. Remember, baby?'

‘But it's been days and days and days,' added Amy.

The kids were right, of course. It had been many days and the place looked like a bomb had hit it. She really would have to talk to the builders' boss tomorrow because she felt they were taking the mick rather. Probably thought they could mess her around because they never saw Alan. It was always the same dealing with builders, plumbers, car dealers, mechanics, etcetera. They always thought they were superior to her. She was a ‘girl' and they were ‘boys'. They were doing ‘boy' things and therefore she wouldn't understand anything about
it. It had been like that when Mel had gone to buy her first car when she and Alan had first started seeing each other. They were only students then and she'd just inherited a little bit of money. She decided to buy a second-hand car, so Alan went with her. ‘Honestly, Mel,' he'd told her, ‘they will try to take you in if you're a girl on your own. I'll come with you and make sure you get a good deal.'

And, sure enough, the salesman came up to them as they looked at the cars in the yard and (totally ignoring Mel, who had opened the conversation) looked at and conversed only with Alan. ‘Excuse me. I'm buying the car!' Mel had protested.

The salesman sneered, ‘OK, so what type of car do you want?'

‘A pink one,' said Mel, in her most commanding, don't-mess-with-me tone.

20

‘Don't worry,' Mel reassured the children. ‘We'll get this kitchen finished in a couple of days at most.'

The children appeared rather sceptical and Mel could see why, if she was brutally honest with herself. The microwave was on the dining room table, as were the kettle and the toaster. The sink was a plastic bowl with a bare pipe and tap fitting over it. There was no cooker, no washing machine, no dishwasher. There were no cupboards, work tops or even a floor that could be walked upon safely. It wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of
Slumdog Millionaire
or in the war zone of Helmand Province. But Mel swept all doubt aside. Tomorrow she would confront Gordon, the building team leader. She would give him an ultimatum. She would be like Boudicca. She would sort out Gordon, Algy, Poppy, the school and Big Swinging Dick from the States if she had to. All she had to do was a bit of yoga and eat some superfoods and she'd be a new woman.

‘Kids! It's bathtime. Up the stairs with you, please.'

‘But it's daytime. Look! It's light outside!' protested Amy. That was the trouble with summertime of course. Children are programmed to night and day as our ancestors were. They get up with the lark always … and go to bed as the dusk falls … well, sometimes. Clocktime means absolutely nothing to them. Mel thought really that this is how it should be for all of us. We were all controlled and moulded into a virtual world by clocks and artificial light well before virtual reality, as we now perceive it, came along. If we could be so well brainwashed by artificial light and clocks into fighting
our natural circadian rhythm, then Mel shuddered to think what virtual reality, computer-style, might make us do. Now was not the time to philosophise however.

‘It is bedtime, though. If you look at the clock, it says seven o'clock.' She pointed to the seven to persuade the children that this was the case, but it was a pretty meaningless thing if she thought about it. The children were completely non-plussed. Well, at least it meant that they might not become adults who would just follow orders to commit horrendous acts in the future. But, she was tired and didn't really want to get into any democratic discussions for now. Now, she had to be Stalin, ‘Bath! Now!'

So up went the children, dragging their feet. Michael copied Amy, staggering from one stair to the next like someone with lead boots, arms hanging down in front, gorilla-style.

Finally she put Michael to bed, giving him an extra long cuddle, hoping that it would be enough to soothe all the hurt of the past day and bolster him up to cope with future knocks and slights. Then she went into Amy. Amy was sitting on the floor talking to some unseen being.

‘Anyway, Willy…' she was saying, ‘I bet you wouldn't send your babies to bed when it was still light. I bet you would want them to learn to catch flies as much as they could before they grew up and …'

‘Amy … time for bed, love. Who are you talking to?'

‘You know, Mummy! You met him at the shop. He frightened those nasty witch ladies and made them get taken away in the ambulance!' chirped Amy.

‘Ah, yes!' Mel smiled. And faith that the future could be bright and that nothing was insurmountable grew within her as she cuddled Amy and tucked her into bed. At the door she turned and winked conspiratorially at Amy's eight-legged friend and Willy winked back!

21

When Alan came staggering in at eleven o'clock that evening, Mel was still up and waiting for him. They had been like ships that pass in the night for long enough. The formal reason for her to wait up for him like the worried mother of a teenager, was that she needed some backup from an alpha male to get the kitchen done. But really, although she didn't want to admit it to herself, Mel was worried that Alan was always so late and they never had time to talk to each other about anything. She knew that City banking people were up to all sorts all the time and that it was extremely unusual and rather lucky that Alan and Mel had been married quite happily (she thought) for seven years. She didn't feel great about herself these days. She felt blobby and wobbly and totally mumsy. She felt she had nothing to talk about and nothing to contribute. How could she compete with the Bright Young Things on their way up in the City or with the gaggles of gorgeous call girls who seemed to be part of corporate entertainment? The more she thought about it and the more she discussed it with close friends, the more she doubted his fidelity. Sabrina, one of the fellow City wives, was always telling horrific stories about this or that or the other affair, where the woman had known nothing until she caught some horrendous infection, complete with suppurating sores and all the works. Because their husbands were always late back from work and always doing extra time on the weekends, they'd just innocently presumed that their men were wooing their usual mistress, i.e. money. How would Mel know if Alan had transferred his allegiance to another,
more threatening adversary? True, she had never seen any lipstick on his collar, but his floozy on the side might have been wearing that new, non-transferrable lipstick that boasted lasting twenty-four hours without a retouch. Oh God! Mel squirmed at the depths of her paranoia. She poured herself a gin and tonic and sat and watched stuff on the TV that she would never have touched with a barge pole if she hadn't been so angst-ridden. Slowly but surely she got rather tipsy so she thought it best to soak up the alcohol with biscuits and chocolate. She didn't want Alan to think she'd turned into a raging lush when he came home and she needed all her faculties intact to detect the essence of a rival woman on his person. By the time Alan came back, Mel had drunk rivers of gin and tonic and had chocolate and biscuit crumbs all down her front and surrounding her on the floor and furniture. She pretended to be avidly watching a darts match because she didn't think about what was actually on the TV. If she'd had any sense, she'd have had something intelligent like a highbrow drama, but no, Alan came in to find Mel a bit tipsy and cross-eyed covered in melted chocolate and biscuit crumbs, watching darts on the telly. Nice. How cultured. Of course Alan wouldn't have an affair with a burger when he had this gorgeous, succulent steak at home. He looked rather shocked, she thought, to see her. Yes … definitely shock, not surprise … nasty not nice, she thought in her paranoid, paralytic state.

‘Hello love! You still up?' said Alan.

‘You weren't expecting me to be up, were you? You can't keep your dirty little secret any more! I'm onto you!' slurred Mel, madly lunging towards him and sniffing him all over, peering closely at his collar. ‘Who is she then? Hmm?'

‘Who's who? Will you stop sniffing at me like that!' protested Alan.

‘Don't come the innocent with me. Oh yes … I expect you thought you could get away with your smutty little tryst
forever, didn't you? Who is she then?' repeated Mel, trying her best to fix Alan with a cold, hard, knowing stare. It's a difficult thing to do when you keep swaying and burping and hiccupping.

‘Mel, there isn't anyone else. Honestly! Where did you get that idea from? What've you been drinking?'

Alan's eyes looked shifty and he had a sort of hunted look about him, Mel thought. He was definitely a guilty man.

‘Empty your pockets, Alan!' she demanded. There was bound to be incriminating evidence in his pockets. ‘Come on!'

‘Mel, this is ridiculous. Look, sit down and I'll get us both a cup of tea and we can talk about this sensibly.'

So Mel plunged her hands into each pocket in turn. Well … no condom packets. There were receipts, however. She'd keep them for later inspection and perhaps to present as useful and damning evidence in divorce court one day. Alan just stood there pretending, she thought, to be perplexed, but at least he didn't stop her. Maybe he'd covered his tracks as far as his pockets were concerned. She'd have to check his phone and his underpants later, before he had a chance to put the latter in the washing machine.

‘Come on! Get your trousers off!' demanded Mel.

‘Why? Do you want it right now? I've only just got in through the door! Let's at least sit down first!'

‘If you won't take them off, I'm going to rip them off!' screeched Mel like a mad banshee.

Alan tried to run into the kitchen … a sure sign of a guilty man, Mel decided. He ran through the door and was almost impaled on a protruding bit of plumbing before Mel caught up with him, pulling at his trousers, which proved no match for her gargantuan drunken strength. Down they came while Alan's bottom was in the air as he held on to the cement bags to prevent becoming skewered by the piping, tools and spirit levels which festooned the room.

‘Mel, really! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?'

Mel was scrabbling around trying to check out Alan's Calvin Kleins. She wasn't quite sure by this time what she was trying to locate as evidence on said underwear. She was too far gone to even think sensibly now.

All thoughts of having a rational conversation and presenting herself as a dignified and supportive though wronged wife had completely gone out of the window. They were now both on the floor surrounded by bits of metal and tiles.

‘What the hell's the matter with you, Mel? Have you gone totally insane? And what the hell has happened to this kitchen? How much are we paying for this? Or rather, darling …' he added sarcastically, ‘… how much am I paying for this while you swan around at the hairdresser's all day with your frilly friends? Hmm? Look at my suit! That was Savile Row!' He picked up the trousers and waved them at her. ‘Look! You've torn the crotch!'

Mel started to cry. Not quiet ladylike sniffs, but great huge, gut-wrenching sobs and wails.

‘You're having an affair, aren't you? You are! You have to tell me the truth. You must think I was born yesterday if you think I believe you're spending all this time at work! Give me your shirt! I'm going to get a private detective and have you followed!' Mel cried.

‘I think we need to talk, Mel,' stated Alan curtly.

‘Oh God,' thought Mel. She didn't like the sound of that. And as they were trying to pull themselves to their feet, the children appeared at the door, the cat jumped onto Alan and the dog wandered away, whining with his tail between his legs.

They do say be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.

That thought spiralled around Mel's agitated and squiffy brain like a cartoon Tasmanian Devil, as she picked herself up off the floor ready for her long-awaited talk with her
husband. First of all, however, they would both have to show solidarity in front of the children who were staring, wide-eyed, at the scene. Michael was clutching his favourite Barbie doll as his insecurity over this episode had thrown his worries about looking ‘like a girl' (as Algy had taunted) totally into the shade. Amy clutched at the velvet pouch which cocooned her spider and kept her other arm firmly around Michael's shoulder. The dog turned around a few times behind the sofa and collapsed in a heap and the cat was all spiked up as though he had had an electric shock. So, Daddy and Mummy stood and smiled benignly at each other and at the children. Then Daddy asked Mummy if she would like a cup of tea … despite the fact that he was dressed in Calvin Klein underpants and Savile Row suit jacket, ripped shirt and tie.

‘Yes please, darling. Earl Grey would be lovely!' trilled Mel. This little ritual calmed and normalised the atmosphere and the children; even Iggy and Ozzie relaxed at last.

‘Up to bed now, sweethearts!' said Mel, beatific smile fixed on face as she and Alan decided to increase the corniness by joining with the children in a reassuring ‘all family together' hug.

‘Don't worry … it's just Mummy and Daddy playing tag,' laughed Alan lamely.

The children, relieved, went off to bed and Mel was left feeling totally sober and rather sick about what she might be about to hear. All those ‘I have a bone to pick with you' moments came flooding back to her and she just hoped that Alan wouldn't compound the problem by also calling her by her full name of ‘Melanie'. ‘Melanie' was, she supposed, a very nice name, but she had only ever been called this when she was in trouble.

‘OK, Mel. Let's go and sit down in the garden. I'm so sick of being indoors at the moment. Let's look at the stars and dunk some biscuits in our tea.'

She felt the weight drop off her shoulders as they both went outside to sit in the swinging seat. Although it was midnight, it was hot and muggy, but the fresh air lightened their spirits. Suddenly, Mel didn't think Alan was having an affair. She felt daft ever to have contemplated it. He had put on some jogging bottoms but was still wearing his ruined shirt with tie loosened, collar button undone and sleeves rolled up. God, he was sexy like that!

‘I know I've been out a lot. I'm not surprised you were feeling as you did, although I think you could have presented your hypothesis a little more rationally than by tearing my trousers off! You only had to ask,' he laughed, which was quite amazing really, considering that she was responsible for a minefield of a kitchen and very expensive torn trousers.

‘I'm sorry. I really am, Alan. It's just that you're never around and I get scared because I know what people are like where you work. I've seen it so many times in hospitals too. Doctors and nurses working long hours in a world cut off from normal life. From what I've heard, it's the same in banking. There must be affairs raging torridly everywhere at Ponsonby and Tosser!

Alan sighed and nodded slowly. ‘There is a lot of that, I have to be honest, Mel.' Then he turned to her and looked unflinchingly into her eyes ‘But I promise you that we are different. I love you, Melly. I would never cheat on you. For one thing, I'd be too scared of what a nutter like you would do to me if you found out. And for another, I'm far too knackered to even contemplate an affair.'

‘So what is it then? Is Big Swinging Dick coming over?'

‘He is. He arrives tomorrow. I've had to put in some presentations with boss man Phil breathing down my neck whispering not so gently about balls and axes. We've sold as much as possible to as many as possible. We've bought loads of investments like frenzied lemmings. My balls are definitely right out there!'

‘I can see that,' observed Mel, giggling.

Yep … now she knew she could tackle Gordon the builder and Poppy the bitch tomorrow. All was well.