Did I really start irritating my own husband?
For eight years, everything went smoothly, but in the ninth, it felt as if everything about me, Emma, had begun to annoy my husband. Every little thing, but mostlyme.
Hed come home late, eat dinner in silence, mutter some grumpy nonsense, then open his laptop and play violent shooter games until the early hours. And if he did glance at me, it was with a look that suggested hed rather have root canal without anaesthetic. More often, hed dryly inform me hed be staying at his mums that night.
One evening, I couldnt take it any longer and rang my mother-in-law:
Mrs. Harrison, is Thomas with you right now?
She replied in the sickliest sweet tone, A good wife, Emma, always knows where her husband is.
Id even bought a book called How to Keep Your Husband and, for some reason, started explaining to the cashier it was for a friend. The girl looked at me with barely disguised pity.
Then it hit me: there was something dodgy about the book. How many husbands do you need to successfully keep before you can write hundreds of pages about it? And where do all these surplus husbands come from, assuming the previous ones are still being kept?
There were more than a hundred pages of tips: your husband should want to come home to a cosy house, invest in sultry lingerie, take an interest in his hobbies. I even mastered making yeast dough, something I never could before, but Thomas still didnt find our flat any cosier. Maybe I needed to knead bread in seductive underwear. Or turn up to his mums like that, where, legend had it, my husband was hiding out.
Trying to share in Thomass interests was also a failure. I beat his high score in his favourite shoot-em-up game after one go, a level hed been stuck on all week. That certainly didnt add any warmth to our relationship.
One day, out shopping for winter boots, I came home with a chubby puppy instead, for about the same amount Idve spent. Looking at him, I realised that what Id always truly wanted was a proper dog, not a lap yappy thing, but a real companion.
The woman who sold him, calling herself a breeder, said, Do you know dogs, love?
When I admitted I didnt, she said, Well, hes a golden retriever. Grows up, his coatll shine, very fashionable, pure-bred, the parents champshell be a stunner! All the paperwork, Im letting him go for a bargain.
She named the price. I didnt have that much, but she agreed to what I had on me.
Someone ought to be pleased to see you come home, I thought. Boots wont wag their tails or gaze up at you with pure devotion, let alone bring you your slippers.
That evening, Thomas actually decided to put in an appearance.
What on earth is that?!
A golden retriever, pure-bred, I said, and a bargain, look at his papers.
Except the papers said the puppy was a pure-bred Alapaha Blue Blood Bulldog. The breeders number turned out to be the office line for a construction firm, where mention of dogsretriever or bulldogelicited laughter and some colourful language.
Have you got eyes in your head? Tell me, where, exactly, do you see a retriever OR a bulldog? How much did you pay? HOW MUCH?! I cant believe how daft you are sometimes!
The puppy didnt like Thomass shouting; he tried to growl, but only managed to leave a very large puddle on the carpet.
Dear God, what sort of life is this? he moaned ceiling-ward, returning to his laptop, looking like hed rather blast away at me than at pixels on a screen.
By morning, the puppy had made himself at home, carefully targeting Thomass trainers overnight and chewing through his best shoes. That was the final straw.
Suddenly, everything about me became intolerable: my face, clothes, thoughts, even my soul. And apparently, the fact I earned double what he didjust to rub his nose in it. Oh, and we had no children.
But Thomas, you said you didnt want children, I ventured.
Well, whod want a kid with an idiot? Youd only pass on your stupidity! Just look at yourselfwhod be interested in a fool like you?
The puppy listened for a bit, then waddled over and made a brave attempt to nip Thomass ankle.
As for me, my throat closed with hurt over my unborn children, and I could only watch as Thomas hurled his things into a suitcase.
Thirty years old. No life left. The end, full stop. Nowhere left to go.
But life doesnt explain itself to a puppy. There he was, looking terribly sorry for himself, chewing on my sock, playing the part of a neglected waif. He couldnt care less about my misery; he just wanted food, water, a bit of fuss and to be told he was wonderful.
I named him Max. He grew like the clappers. Despite his Baskerville looks, he wasnt much of a guard dog. His grab-and-bite instinct never developed; instead, hed greet everyone with a wag and a lick.
Every evening, Id walk him late into the night. Then one December, building works had left trenches dug all around our close. It was snowing and raining in turns, the ground a sticky mess, and poor Max fell into one of the enormous pits. He started whining so pitifully that without thinking, I jumped in after him, lucky not to break my neck.
We landed in a proper hole, deep and slick with clay sides, no way out. It was nearly midnight, and, typically, Id forgotten my phone.
At first, embarrassment stopped me from shouting out, but after a few failed attempts to climb out, I yelled for help at the top of my lungs. Eventually, two young goth blokes wandered over, looking positively ghoulish in the glow of the lamplight. Mercifully, they didnt start any rituals, just called the fire brigade and waited, giggling about their own gothic interests.
The firefighters hauled out Max first, who promptly slobbered over everyone within reach, goths included. Then they pulled me up, and I was shivering so hard I couldnt even feel embarrassed.
The chief rescuer launched into a colourful tirade about daft dogs, useless owners, idle council workers, and the government for good measure. Max was so delighted by this unfamiliar vocabulary that he promptly leapt up and mashed the poor mans nose with his own skull.
So, at one in the morning, the scene was this: muddy but exultant Max, myself in layers of dried clay, the goths and firemen all splattered, and the chief clutching his bloody nose.
You really should train your monster, love, said the chief, scowling.
Im trying, but you know, hes a bit…challenging.
Just like me, one goth said to the other, grinning as he broke character.
Im in the flats over there if anyone wants to come in and wash up, I chattered.
Go on, the other firemen teased their commander, dont be so Hannibal Lecter.
Maybe I should dig myself a pit, my friend Sarah would later say. With those council clowns, youll be single forever waiting for them to fill it in!
P.S. My children didnt grow up to be prodigiesjust happy, clever, ordinary kids. Jack and Molly. For a school project in year one, Jack proudly said, Our dad is a hero who saves people! And our mum works with computers! Quiet little Molly piped up, And our dog can watch telly!
From everything Ive been through, Ive learned that life carries on, with or without anyone elses approval. We all need a bit of loyalty, a laugh, and the courage to pick ourselves upmudstained or not. And sometimes, you find your purpose in unexpected company: sometimes, the best comfort is a wagging tail and a muddy paw.
