The Seven Year Itch Page 3

  This scarf-wearing woman – against whose buttocks my groin has just been grinding, and around whose breasts my hands have been circling like vultures – is actually someone I’ve never seen before in my entire life.

  And as if any further proof of this horrendous, gut-churning fact were needed, it’s provided now by Amy’s appearance in the kitchen doorway, with Ben hitched up on her hip and gripped in the crook of her arm.

  My mouth dries up like I’ve just bitten into a sack of salt.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Amy demands, glaring first at me, and then at the puce-faced, scarf-wearing younger woman, who’s now staring at me in silent outrage, like she’s just been plugged into the mains.

  Horror fills me, as I follow the woman’s stare, first towards my hands, which are still stretched out before me, incriminatingly cupped.

  And then towards my hips, which I only now realise, are continuing to gyrate away spasmodically like those of an Elvis doll on a car dashboard, like they’ve somehow become autonomous from the rest of my body.

  It’s like a documentary I once watched on the Discovery Channel about the mating habits of the praying mantis, where the male’s abdomen continued thrusting and pumping long after the female had devoured his head as a mid-coitus snack.

  A strange, high-pitched whimper escapes my lips. Inside my trousers, my nuts perform a most un-nut-like manoeuvre, a kind of testicular jiggle, like they’ve transformed into two baby voles, who, having found themselves faced with a deadly predator, have started scurrying desperately around, seeking the protection of their mother.

  I cross my arms, clear my voice and steady my hips.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell the girl in the scarf.

  ‘I can explain everything,’ I tell Amy.

  ‘I thought you were Amy,’ I tell the girl.

  ‘I did,’ I tell Amy. ‘I thought she was you.’

  The two of them exchange glances, like they’re deciding whether to castrate me or shoot me first.

  And the way I feel right now, the second of these two options would be both a kindness and a relief.

  ‘Daddy funny,’ says Ben.

  I notice him smiling at me, eyes twinkling, like I’m a particularly clever monkey who’s just performed a particularly clever trick. He giggles at me, and points.

  ‘Daddy funny, Mummy,’ he repeats, starting to giggle.

  Something about the sound makes the scarf-wearing woman relax. I see it in her face.

  Hey, she must be thinking, if the kid thinks he’s OK, then maybe he’s not a serial sex pest, after all . . .

  Ben makes me relax too, the same as he always does the moment I see him, the same as the sight of my mum always used to when I was a kid. Ben makes me feel solid, a part of something bigger than myself. He puts my problems in perspective and makes me feel safe and strong.

  I walk right up to him and kiss him on the nose.

  I don’t take my eyes off his for a second.

  My son, my boy, the apple of my eye, the kid I’m looking forward to playing football with when he’s seven, and who I’m itching to buy a beer for when he’s seventeen . . . the kid who lights up my day, every day.

  ‘Buzz, buzz,’ I tell him, pressing his nose like it’s a bell.

  ‘Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz,’ he repeats, grinning with delight.

  If only adults were this easy to please.

  But one glance up at Amy’s glowering face tells me that this isn’t the case.

  Michael Douglas’s Wrinkly Finger

  ‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ Amy says.

  She’s standing with her back to the closed bedroom door, which has got so much paint peeling off it that it looks like a eucalyptus shedding its bark. She’s just followed me through from the kitchen, leaving Ben with the woman in the scarf, who I now know to be none other than our new babysitter, Yitka.

  ‘I already told you,’ I answer, as I perch on the edge of the bed and haul off my sweat-heavy socks, ‘it was an accident. I’m not to blame. She was in disguise.’

  ‘In disguise?’

  ‘She was wearing a scarf,’ I remind her.

  ‘Oh, right, well, that does make it her fault, then, doesn’t it?’

  I knew Amy would see reason in the end. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And to avoid any possible confusion in the future,’ Amy continues, ‘perhaps I should ask her to wear a sign on her back, saying, “My name is Yitka, not Amy. So please don’t grab my arse or squeeze my tits.” ’

  ‘I didn’t squeeze them, actually,’ I point out. ‘I merely caressed.’

  This important distinction seems to pass Amy by.

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming into the street,’ she says. ‘Not that she could,’ she adds, staring accusingly at my midriff. ‘Not with you wedging your packet up against her like that.’

  I groan, as I begin unbuttoning my shirt. ‘Can we just drop this? I only goosed her, OK? By mistake. It’s hardly the sex crime of the century.’

  Amy’s upper lip curls in distaste, as I stand up and drop my trousers. ‘Rubbing yourself against her like that . . . like . . . like a dog on heat . . . it’s disgusting . . . God, the poor girl. It must have been like . . . I don’t know, like being assaulted by a male version of Mrs Robinson.’

  ‘Hah,’ I tell her triumphantly, standing here naked now, with my hands on my hips, ‘so that’s what this is really about. Not what I did, but who I did it to. Not the crime itself, but the profile of the victim. You think that what I did is worse, because of Yitka’s age.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You just accused me of being a stubbly Anne Bancroft.’

  Amy says nothing. Because she can’t. Because her Freudian slip has clearly betrayed the fact that my inadvertent groping of another woman is nothing, compared to the fact that this other woman is younger than her.

  It should make me laugh, of course, how ludicrous this is, but what it actually does is rile and depress me in equal measure.

  Because there was a time when it would have been considered perfectly acceptable for me to have made a move on a woman Yitka’s age. But it seems that time has passed. In Amy’s eyes, I’ve clearly crossed that fine line from Lothario to . . . pervert. Another couple of years and I’ll no doubt be promoted to the rank of Dirty Old Man (trench coat and Razzle magazine subscription de rigueur).

  ‘Which is typical,’ I add.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of you. Of women. Of women’s attitudes to men and younger women. I mean, sure, it’s fine for Demi Moore to go out with Ashton Kutcher. Or for Diane Keaton to see Keanu Reeves. That’s feminism in action. But the moment Michael Douglas lays one wrinkly finger on Catherine Zeta-Jones . . . well, everyone slams him for being a dirty old man.’

  ‘Which is probably exactly what Yitka thinks of you.’

  I grab a towel from where it’s hanging on the back of a chair. ‘Rubbish. And besides, Yitka’s only a few years younger than me.’

  ‘Just a few?’

  ‘OK. Several.’

  ‘Seventeen, actually, Jack. You’re thirty-five and she’s eighteen. You’re old enough to be her father.’

  ‘Well, biologically, I suppose,’ I concede.

  ‘And legally. And normally. There are plenty of thirty-five-year-olds with kids her age.’

  I have to admit that these cold statistics do come as something of a shock, but I’m determined not to let them put me off my stride. Or put me in the wrong.

  ‘Which is exactly why,’ I continue, ‘if anything, you should take what happened in the kitchen just now as a compliment.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Well, Yitka’s clearly a good-looking girl. So my mistaking her eighteen-year-old rump for yours has got to be flattering, right?’

  ‘Oh, and there was me thinking that someone telling me I’ve had a smart idea, or that my hair looks great today is flattering . . .’

  I notice that she has indeed ha
d her hair highlighted and trimmed. ‘Your hair does look great today,’ I hurriedly say, trying to make amends. It does, too.

  ‘Spontaneous, Jack. Why don’t you look it up in the dictionary? You’ll find it there between shithead and stupid.’

  She turns to leave, but I catch her by the elbow.

  ‘Come on,’ I say gently, stepping up close to her. ‘Let’s not argue. Not tonight.’

  There’s an instant, as her eyes narrow, that I think that my attempt at appeasement has come too late, and that we’re about to tip over from argument into full-blown row, an event which seems to happen all too frequently and easily these days.

  But then her expression softens and I feel her arm relax.

  ‘You need a shower, shit seller,’ she tells me, affectionately, screwing up her nose.

  I slowly smile and shrug because there’s no denying it. It’s smeared across my work clothes, and even encrusted under my unmanicured nails: horse manure.

  It’s what I’ve spent my afternoon doing, spreading horse shit on Mrs Wilson’s flowerbeds. Thoroughbred horse shit, mind you – driven in from an Essex stud farm at a quid a kilo, no less.

  That (amongst a few other things) is what I do for a living now: sell shit to people richer than myself.

  Or as Amy once put it: ‘You used to just talk it, but now you flog it as well.’

  This isn’t to say that she’s ashamed of what I do. It’s just that sometimes I think she wishes it was a tad more glamorous. It’s not surprising, really, when you consider that that’s how things really were for a while, back around when we got married. When she was still working in fashion and I was still making a decent living selling my paintings to city firms.

  But then Amy got pregnant. And my corporate commissions tailed off.

  I had a crisis meeting with my old friend Chloe, who’s now a financial adviser down in Brighton, and we talked through what I liked doing and what I could do – and actually get paid for.

  She shot down my first idea: a Mafia-themed sandwich shop, called Baguetteaboutit.

  But she went for my second: landscape gardening.

  And so I took out a bank loan and did a twelve-week course, and then I got the job at Greensleeves, a London-based firm that designs and manages rich people’s gardens.

  I work for them five days a week, and then help staff their organic veg store at the Queen’s Park Farmers’ Market every Sunday.

  I slog my guts out, in other words. But then I have to: I need the money.

  We’re mortgaged up to the eyeballs on the flat, and I’m still paying off the loan I took out for the gardening course, as well as juggling various credit card debts and our overdraft.

  There’s not a lot left, in other words, at the end of each month. Especially now that Amy’s no longer bringing in a wage. But we do get by. And we don’t complain. Which keeps me going and keeps me proud.

  Just like Amy’s smile does now, as she watches me wrap the towel around my waist and pick up my trousers and shirt and chuck them into the laundry basket.

  I’d normally leave my work clothes at the Greensleeves store over in Queen’s Park, where I’d normally shower and scrub up as well, but I was in a hurry to get home tonight.

  Tonight is special. It’s my wedding anniversary. It’s seven years since I married Amy Crosbie, the love of my life and the mother of my child. It’s seven years today since I said the only two truly smart words of my life: ‘I do.’

  ‘Hurry up and shower,’ Amy says, taking out a lip liner and crouching down and applying it in front of the mirror on the bedside table. ‘I’ve got the cinema booked for half past.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say. ‘The cinema. I can’t wait.’

  Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby

  We never actually reach the cinema, of course, in spite of the fact that we’ve already prepaid for our tickets online.

  What we do is walk down Mortimer Road and stand alongside a trio of gobbing, shuffling, teenage hoodies by the bus stop on Kensal Rise, and wait for the Number 52 bus that will deliver us to the Electric Cinema on Portobello Road.

  And while we’re waiting, we stare enviously, like a pair of starving Dickensian waifs outside Ye Olde Candee Shoppe, at the couples framed like magic lantern cut-outs in the warm amber glow of the pub windows opposite.

  Wordlessly, we watch the bus arrive. Wordlessly, we watch the hoodies get on. Wordlessly, we stay right where we are and watch the bus depart.

  Then, like two schoolkids cutting class, we scamper back across Chamberlayne Road and into The Greyhound pub.

  This undebated, yet unified, change of destination comes as no surprise to either of us, because this is what we always do. We book tickets for things, for movies, or musicals, or comedy shows, because such cultural excursions justify the expense of a babysitter. (Which going to the pub clearly doesn’t, as we could just as easily get hammered at home.)

  ‘We don’t use London enough,’ we’ll austerely bemoan, as we studiously surf theatrical websites and plan our nights out.

  ‘We put up with all of this city’s downsides: the traffic, the taxes, the packed-out tubes,’ we’ll wisely declare, as we book in a babysitter, ‘when what we should be doing is immersing ourselves in its great cultural wealth.’

  And yet, always, lurking behind these verbal charades of intellectual self-improvement, there’s the tacit agreement that we’ll never actually see any of these theatrical productions.

  They’re facilitators, excuses, a means to an end.

  They allow us to exit the house kid-free, and rewind time and feel young again, and hang out in the boozer the same as we always used to before we had Ben.

  It’s the best way we know, in other words, to get back to us.

  Or at least it should be. It used to be.

  Only, two hours after entering The Greyhound tonight, I’m no longer sure that this is the case.

  It’s not the pub itself that’s the problem. The pub’s fine. It’s busy and vibrant and the food’s awesome. They’ve got the Gotan Project’s latest coming out through the Bose, and all the other punters seem chirpy and relaxed.

  No, the environment isn’t the issue here. It’s us. Amy and I. We’re the ones who no longer fit in. Where we used to slide smoothly into pub-mode (rolling conversations, flirtation, and fun), we now seem to remain locked in home-mode – witness what we’re talking about now . . .

  ‘Can you believe she actually said that?’ Amy’s asking me. ‘I mean, can you believe that she actually used the phrase “Shrek-like”? Don’t you think that’s incredible?’

  ‘Gobsmackingly so,’ I answer, but not because I cannot actually believe how vile Faith was to Linda about the shape of her kid’s ears.

  No, my incredulity stems from the fact that I cannot actually believe that Amy thinks this story is worth repeating. Especially in the hallowed adult environs of the pub. Even more so on our wedding anniversary, with less than an hour to go before our Cinderella-like excursion into the nocturnal world of adults draws to an end.

  Amy takes another sip of white wine and continues to tell me what happened next between Faith and Shrek Senior, but it’s hard to stay focused on what she’s saying.

  This isn’t because Amy’s a boring person. She’s not. (For example: I hope and suspect that she’s only relaying these domestic titbits to me now, because she thinks I’m missing out.)

  And it’s not that I don’t care about her. (I do. Just like I care about Ben. Passionately.)

  It’s just that motherhood’s a boring subject. As in coma-inducing. At least it is to me (and, I suspect, to anyone else who’s not a mum).

  It’s the relentless tedium of it all: the daily routine; the petty politics up at the park; the tiny, frankly imperceptible, daily steps taken towards maturity by my son . . .

  Being subjected to this mountain of mundane details is like being forced to watch the news when you’re a kid, or the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day. You know it’s important, but, really
, wouldn’t it be much more fun to watch cartoons or a Bond film instead?

  Most dads I know feel the same way. Which is why you’ll never find us in a group discussing motherhood. Or fatherhood, for that matter. Or anything else to do with rearing kids.

  If a dad asks another dad the question, ‘How are the kids?’ the answer – excepting serious illness or death – is always the same: ‘Fine.’

  Whereas if a mum asks another mum the very same question, the answer always begins with ‘Well . . .’ and can go on for hours.

  This isn’t because dads love their kids any less, it’s just that we know less about them than the mums. Most dads I know are parenting part-timers, temps, good for the odd bit of emergency cover, but not a lot else.

  The plain fact is that we just don’t get it.

  And that makes talking about it all a bit women’s turf, like detox, or exfoliation – and all the other subjects we don’t discuss, not because we don’t want to, but because we don’t know how.

  ‘So what do you think we should get him?’ Amy asks.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ben. For his birthday.’

  ‘Oh.’ I picture all the toys we’ve got left over from Christmas which he hasn’t even looked at. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, think,’ she tells me. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Only, in case you don’t remember, the last present I gave him – the Fireman Sam engine – he rammed it down the toilet and flushed it so many times that we had to get a plumber round to fish it out.’

  ‘He thought it was a submarine,’ Amy says defensively, the same way she always does whenever I criticise our little boy. ‘He didn’t mean to –’

  ‘I know, I know, but all I’m saying is, I don’t think he really cares what he gets for his birthday. We could get him a Bob the Builder house and he’d demolish it. Or a Star Wars doll and he’d decapitate it. The fact is, he’d probably be just as happy if we gave him a metal frying pan out of the cupboard and a wooden spoon to hit it with.’

  ‘Or perhaps we could give him a wooden spoon to hit you with,’ Amy says.