Confessions of a Demented Housewife Read online

  Not sure about that. If this is the kind of unsavoury weather you can expect in Portugal, I may prefer a holiday home in Hollywood, just like Angelica Law.

  4 November

  The weather was better this morning, although still not balmy and tropical or in any way suitable for my M&S tie-dye multiway sarong.

  Mum and Dad tried to persuade Joe and me to play a round of golf with them while Katie and Jack spent the afternoon in the on-site crèche. But than I discovered that just driving round the course in a golf-buggy for fun was not an option.

  ‘Don’t be so over-protective,’ Dad said, when I queried the crèche staff’s qualifications and suitability as a way to get out of it. ‘We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.’

  ‘Come on, Susie,’ Joe coaxed, ready and willing to abandon our children for the sake of eighteen holes under grey skies. ‘They’d love the chance to play with the other kids.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d just leave them with strangers,’ I hissed, annoyed he wasn’t volunteering to stay behind and watch over them while I went for a manicure in the on-site beauty salon.

  Spent the rest of the afternoon huddled under a blanket, watching Katie and Jack’s every move in case they fell into the toddler pool. (Although this was unlikely: they didn’t get any further than sticking their toes into the freezing water and squealing in horror.)

  Was glad I’d stuck to my guns, even if Katie and Jack were a bit cross when some other resort children marched past us on a treasure hunt, led by two cheerful staff members in red T-shirts and bandanas.

  PS May have to make a quick trip to the nearest shopping centre. Am so cold after sitting by the pool that I can no longer feel some of my extremities.

  5 November

  Almost became tragic young widow à la Jackie Kennedy this evening.

  At seven, after hours of bickering over Katie’s Dora the Explorer Scrabble, the only board game to hand, we decided to brave the cold and make a break for the fish restaurant at the marina.

  ‘You won’t be sorry!’ Mum enthused, as we donned several layers to withstand the hundred-mile-an-hour winds and lashing rain. ‘Antonio’s serves the best sea bass this side of Lagos. The local fishermen catch it every afternoon.’

  Got to the restaurant and Jack went into meltdown when he discovered Captain Bird’s Eye’s fish fingers weren’t available and that he had to eat fresh fish like everyone else.

  ‘I love fresh fish,’ Katie announced, in a superior voice, smiling coyly at the waiter and fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It makes you big and strong, doesn’t it?’

  I’d just managed to persuade Jack that sea bass wasn’t ‘yuk’, when Joe suddenly started choking.

  ‘That’ll be the bones,’ Dad said, as he licked his fingers with relish. ‘They take a bit of getting used to.’

  Suddenly Joe’s eyes were bulging and I realized he couldn’t breathe. But instead of leaping to his rescue and saving him, like a heroic intern in ER, I was rooted to the spot in horror, unable to move.

  Then Mum screamed and Antonio, the owner, leapt to the rescue. He grasped Joe round the abdomen and squeezed hard until a small chunk of bone popped out of his mouth and flew across the table, hitting me in the eye.

  Joe spluttered while Dad slapped him violently on the back and Antonio puffed out his chest, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘God, Joe,’ Dad said, ‘we thought you were faking it. It’s a good thing Antonio knew what to do or you’d have been a goner.’

  PS Feel quite traumatized. May never be able to eat sea bass again. Also, am worried that Katie and Jack may suffer disturbing psychological flashbacks of Antonio squeezing Joe with enormous force as his eyes bulged from his head. They seem unusually subdued.

  PPS Mrs H will be raging when she hears. She’s been desperate to try out the Heimlich manoeuvre and this would have been the perfect opportunity.

  PPPS Joe seems quite affected by his near-death experience. Half suspect he may be faking it so he can avoid childcare duties.

  6 November

  Joe has upped the ante on the fallout of his near-death experience. He spent the entire day mumbling about ‘reassessing priorities’ and ‘living in the now’. ‘When you have a brush with death, it really makes you sit up and rethink your life,’ he said to me sorrowfully, as he tucked into his third croissant.

  ‘I’m not sure it was a brush with death,’ I offered, wondering if I could sneak a pastry past without him noticing and whether I should suggest that he could reassess his cholesterol intake while he was at it.

  He turned doleful eyes on me. ‘Oh, but it was, Susie. If Antonio hadn’t saved me, who knows what might have happened? I really thought I’d had it.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re fine now,’ I said, as reassuringly as I could, suppressing an urge to ask sarcastically if he’d noticed a white light on the other side.

  ‘Yes, but life is short, don’t you see?’ he went on, looking intense – and a bit wild-eyed. ‘It can be snatched away from you at a moment’s notice. That’s why you have to make every minute count.’

  Then he went back to chewing on his croissant and looking thoughtful.

  PS Hope Joe doesn’t think he can become an inspirational speaker or some such. Not sure he has the charisma to carry it off. Mind you, he could probably make lots of money doing TV appearances to discuss his brush with the spirit world.

  PPS Crept back to the kitchen after midnight to find a spare croissant, but all that was left was a trail of crumbs across the tiled floor. Joe’s selfishness in the wake of his near-death experience is really starting to grate on my nerves.

  7 November

  Mum and Dad are seemingly unaffected by our imminent departure. They are also refusing to confirm when they’ll next visit us. Or when we can next visit them for that matter.

  ‘It depends, darling,’ Mum said vaguely, when I tried to pin her down on her next trip home to Dublin.

  ‘Depends on what exactly?’ I said, determined not to be fobbed off with generalities.

  ‘Oh, lots of things,’ she said, avoiding my eye. ‘Let’s just concentrate on enjoying our last day together tomorrow.’

  I thought I saw the glint of a tear as she turned away. She’s probably gutted that we’re leaving her to her own devices again among strangers so far from home, but she doesn’t want to show it and is being brave to protect me. Maybe I should encourage her to express her feelings more – I’d love to hear how devastated she’ll be.

  PS Dad seems unusually jolly now that we’re leaving. If I hear him whistling ‘Copacabana’ one more time, I’ll scream.

  8 November

  Woke to sunny blue skies so decided to wear my new M&S tie-dye multiway sarong. It provides excellent overall coverage, with no need for waxing of intimate body parts, except ankles. Luckily, fake tans are now so advanced that I’ll be able to slap some on when we get back and I don’t need to panic that my skin seems whiter now than it was when we arrived. Which is a good thing – it’s vital that I’m glowing and healthy at the school gate on Monday and preferably looking a good five years younger than when we left. Especially if I’m going to a glamorous charity gig with Angelica soon.

  Dad almost choked on his organic fruit salad when I appeared at the breakfast table with the ingenious sarong wrapped round my bust (turned out the instructions that boasted it would take you from the beach to the boardroom in three simple steps proved impossible to follow so I just tucked it under my arms and hoped for the best).

  ‘What on earth is that, Susie?’ he snickered, when I shuffled in, hoping it wouldn’t collapse round my defuzzed ankles.

  ‘A sarong.’ I sniffed, annoyed he found me so hilarious. ‘It offers excellent protection against UVA and UVB rays.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly interesting.’ He winked at Katie and Jack.

  I attempted to storm off, furious that he was ridiculing me in front of my children, which everyone knows can sow the seeds of destructive behaviour patterns in lat
er years. It will be his fault if they turn into disrespectful lager louts who won’t listen to a word I say when they hit their teens. Unfortunately, though, I was unable to make a really good sort of storming-off motion as the sarong had wrapped itself round my inner thighs, so I had to shuffle at a hobble, like a geisha (although maybe not as gracefully).

  Spent ages on the beach building sandcastles with Katie and Jack and collecting shells. It was just like a proper old-fashioned family holiday. Sadly, it ended in tears when Katie gave Jack’s dinosaur sandcastle a sly kick and he retaliated by bulldozing her Bratz sand palace. But at least I captured some fond family memories on camera, even if Joe sat at the water’s edge, ignoring us and looking sorrowful.

  PS Am dreading the flight back to Dublin tomorrow. Thankfully, I have devised a detailed plan of action to ensure that Katie and Jack are occupied at all times and cannot run amok in the cabin, mortifying me again.

  9 November

  Detailed plan to keep Katie and Jack occupied during the flight failed abysmally.

  10.00 a.m. Presented children with colouring pads (extortionate ten euro in airport shop) and an assorted array of crayons (five euro in same). Encouraged them to draw for at least thirty-five minutes in jolly-hockeysticks way. Children glared mutinously at me.

  10.03 a.m. Colouring pads fell to pieces. (OK, Jack ripped them to shreds while he was pretending to be a corgi.) Children threw crayons on the floor with abandon. Attempts to retrieve them proved futile.

  10.07 a.m. Proceeded to try to engage unruly children and explain to them how to play old-fashioned game of Hangman.

  10.10 a.m. Realized Hangman is difficult to explain. And may be psychologically disturbing for young children.

  10.11 a.m. Tried to explain how to play noughts and crosses.

  10.13 a.m. Abandoned noughts and crosses when Katie insisted on being the crosses and Jack violently disagreed.

  10.14 a.m. Poked Joe’s arm with an in-flight aeroplane pen to encourage him to engage with his children.

  10.15 a.m. Pretended to fall into deep, impenetrable sleep and ignored chaos around me.

  10 November

  Think I may be suffering from jet-lag. Feel quite jittery and off-balance – may need Reiki healing to recover from in-flight trauma. Joe says it’s impossible to suffer from jet-lag when travelling from one European destination to another but I have to disagree. Who knows what sort of havoc all that magnetic energy can play with your chi? He’s even acting a bit strangely himself. He asked if I was truly happy over deep-pan pizza this evening. I told him I was, even though I think that lugging my oversized suitcase around may well have dislocated something vitally important that could prevent me finally taking up Pilates.

  PS Spent all night carefully applying fake tan to all visible areas. It’s vital to look bronzed and youthful for school gates tomorrow. Cannot, under any circumstances, admit that the weather was abysmal and that lugging a bag packed to the brim with flimsy summer clothes was a complete waste of time – and led to ridiculous excess-baggage charge by the airline.

  11 November

  Very humiliating morning. Woke up late – suspect my body clock is all over the place after overseas travel – and barely made it to school on time.

  Saw Angelica in the distance, her peroxide teeth flashing against her mahogany skin. Was relieved the hours I’d spent self-tanning meant I was a natural, honey-kissed shade too.

  I smiled serenely as the mothers cooed over my glow, until one silly cow piped up, ‘Oh, Susie, if you want to get those tan marks off you should try toothpaste. It’s really effective.’

  She was pointing at my palms, which, I suddenly saw, were a funny orange colour. Rushed away, cursing Joe. If he hadn’t distracted me with another meaning-of-life conversation last night I would have remembered to scrub my palms in the brisk, yet careful way outlined on the back of the bottle.

  Then Louise called to find out when I was coming to collect the dog. Was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t developed a lifelong bond with him and had decided not to give him back. ‘He really misses you,’ she said, sounding a bit eager to be rid of him. ‘He chewed my Persian rug to bits on the first night and insisted on sleeping in my room the whole time. His snoring kept me awake almost every night.’

  ‘Aw, how sweet,’ I said, hoping she thought so too. ‘He must have been trying to protect you.’

  ‘It wasn’t that sweet, Susie,’ she said. ‘The rug was very expensive, and there’s dog hair everywhere. I’m going to have to get a contract cleaner in before the baby arrives.’

  ‘But I thought you were putting the baby up for adoption?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that – well, I’ve changed my mind,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I’ve decided I’m strong enough to cope on my own. I think I was just having a crisis of confidence – I’m over it now.’

  ‘That’s great, Lou,’ I said, thrilled that my grand plan had worked. The dog had brought out her maternal side, whether she liked it or not. Decided that maybe the time wasn’t right to suggest letting go of her impossibly high standards, though. A little bit of dog hair is nothing compared to the chaos that a newborn’s spit-up and poo will cause. Anyway, was distracted when she asked me to attend her antenatal scan to give her moral support. It seems her ob-gyn is concerned about her unusually large bump and wants to double-check the measurements. Am really looking forward to hearing all the gory details.

  PS I’m not sure but I think the dog may have turned up his nose at me this evening when I collected him – his eyes seemed to mock me when I was opening his can of Pedigree Chum.

  12 November

  Louise’s baby is going to be enormous. It may even break countrywide records.

  ‘You have a big one there,’ the ob-gyn announced evenly, as he was doing the scan.

  ‘What do you mean by big?’ Louise said, sounding nervous, as I craned my neck to get a better look at her monster child.

  ‘Conservatively, I would say at least nine or ten pounds,’ the doctor said, wiping the jelly off Louise’s tummy and making a note on her chart.

  ‘Ten pounds!’ Louise turned grey and grabbed my hand in a death-grip, her manicured fingernails digging into my skin. ‘How is a ten-pound baby going to get out of me?’

  ‘You’ve done your Lamaze classes, right?’ For a split second the doctor looked concerned.

  ‘Yes, we have,’ I said. Louise seemed unable to speak.

  ‘Well, I’m sure everything will be fine, then,’ he said patting her hand kindly. ‘We have our special tricks for dealing with these things.’

  Didn’t like to ask what the tricks might be – suspect an industrial-sized pair of forceps and a clamp may be involved.

  To cheer her up, I offered to drive Louise to a top-notch city-centre baby boutique to stock up on necessities. Tried first to persuade her that supermarkets do an excellent range of bargain baby gear – now that she has to dress and feed a freakishly enormous baby on her own, she really should start watching the pennies – but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘My baby may not have a father in its life,’ she pulled her designer cashmere wrap round her and shuddered in distaste, ‘but it will have the best of everything else.’

  Eventually made it to the shop, where Louise, in a panicked fit of nesting, proceeded to earmark all of the most expensive items. That is, until the very helpful assistant asked her when her twins were due and she dissolved into an uncontrollable bout of sobbing.

  She waddled out of the shop without purchasing a solitary item and then cried bitterly in the passenger seat all the way home.

  Tried to comfort her by saying it was an easy mistake to make – not everyone was lucky enough to have neat little bumps like I did – but that didn’t help. In fact, she seemed to cry even harder afterwards.

  PS Just had a great idea! We should ring round the local shops to get a bit of sponsorship or some free stuff at the very least. The local Spar could make the baby its mascot and give Louise free nappies fo
r the privilege. A ten-pounder is going to need a lot of disposables, not to talk of wipes.

  13 November

  Joe has dropped a bombshell. He wants to go for counselling. And he wants me to go with him. ‘That brush with death I had in Portugal has shown me there are issues between us, Susie,’ he announced, his eyes searching my face in an unnerving way. ‘Issues that need to be resolved.’

  ‘What issues?’ I asked, mystified. We hadn’t fought in ages. OK, so we hadn’t had sex in ages either, but that wasn’t unusual. There was no need for this counselling lark.

  ‘I’ve been ignoring what happened for too long,’ he said. ‘I think we need to thrash it out properly.’

  He was talking about Lone Father. My stomach heaved.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about, Joe,’ I stuttered. ‘All that’s in the past. It was nothing anyway.’

  ‘Don’t dismiss it, Susie,’ he went on, looking serious. ‘We have to talk about it. Otherwise it’ll fester. Eventually it could destroy us.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Counselling will give us an arena in which we can air our grievances and try some conflict-resolution techniques to resolve them,’ he said. Then he handed me some brochures. ‘Think about it.’

  Am in a state of shock. Am also seriously concerned by Joe’s unusually high grasp of psycho-speak. Suspect he has been sneakily watching Dr. Phil unbeknown to me.

  Called Mum to tell her that Joe wants to go for relationship counselling.

  ‘That’s probably very wise, darling,’ she said, plainly trying to be supportive. ‘I’m sure things will improve no end once you get a chance to explore your feelings and anxieties.’

  Didn’t like to tell her it was the exploring-my-feelings-and-anxieties part that I was dreading. I’d honestly felt that our relationship was fine and dandy, that we were happier than we’d ever been. It’s been a huge shock to discover that Joe has issues he feels need resolving. And that my semi-adulterous fling is at the top of his list.