Sushi for Beginners
Page 88
She was a big girl now and expecting the earth to move was unrealistic. Anyway, the first time she’d had sex with Phelim it hadn’t set the world on fire either.
38
On Sunday morning Clodagh woke, perched precariously on the six inches at the edge of the bed. Craig had shunted her to the margin of the bed, but it could quite easily have been Molly or both of them. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Dylan had slept unchaperoned, and she was so well practised at sleeping hanging over the side that she was sure she could manage a great night’s sleep on the edge of a cliff, at this stage.
Something was telling her it was very early. Five o’clock early. The sun was up and the gap where the calico curtains didn’t quite meet glowed in a line of acid-bright light, but she knew it was too soon to be awake. The unseen seagulls beyond her window wailed shrill and plaintive. They sounded like babies from a horror film. Beside Craig, Dylan slept heavily, his limbs thrown across the bed in a random tangle, his breath whistling rhythmically in and out, each exhalation lifting his hair from his forehead.
Despondency lay heavy upon her. She’d had a bad week. After the disaster with the employment agency, Ashling had urged her to get a second opinion. So she’d put her expensive suit back on and tried again. The second employment agency treated her with almost as much disdain as the first had. But to her enormous surprise, the third proposed sending her for a two-day trial, making tea and answering the phone at a radiator-supply firm. ‘The pay is… modest,’ the recruitment man had admitted, ‘but for someone like you who’s been out of the workplace for a long time, it’s a good start. They’re bound to love you, so off you go. Good luck!’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ As soon as Clodagh knew she might have a job, she didn’t want it. Making tea and answering the phone, where was the fun in that? She did it at home all the time. And a radiator-supply firm? It sounded so dreary. In a strange way, getting a job and then finding she didn’t want it was almost worse than being told she was unemployable. Though not much given to introspection, she vaguely realized that she wasn’t actually looking for a job – she certainly didn’t need the money – she was looking for glamour and excitement. And the reality was she wasn’t going to find them at a radiator-supply firm.
So she rang Mr Recruitment and pretended she couldn’t start because Craig had got measles. Children had their uses, she reflected. If there was something you didn’t want to do, you could say they had a high temperature and that you were worried about meningitis. It had absolved her from attending Dylan’s Christmas party last year. And the year before. And she fully intended to use it this year as well.
She shifted uncomfortably. Something sharp was digging into her back. A forage revealed it to be Buzz Lightyear. Outside the window the seagulls shrieked again, their ugly forlorn cries echoing within her. She felt trapped, painted into a corner, blocked. As though she was locked in a small dark airless box, which was getting ever tighter – she couldn’t understand it. She’d always been happy with her lot. Her life had happened exactly as it should and its progress had been ever forward, ever positive. Then, with no warning, it seemed to have stopped. Going nowhere with nothing to look forward to. A horrible thought wormed in – was it going to be like this for ever?
Suddenly she noticed that Dylan’s whistling had reached crescendo level. Seized by a frenzy of intolerance she exploded, ‘Stop breathing!’ With a rough shove to his head she changed the angle of his windpipe.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, without waking up. She envied his uncomplicated slumber. Flattened against the mattress, she half-listened to the seagulls until Molly clambered into bed beside her and hit her in the face. Time to get up.
An emergency appendectomy, she thought longingly. Or a mild stroke. Nothing too serious. But one that involved a long stay in a hospital that had very restricted visiting hours.
After her shower she dried herself and spoke briskly to Dylan, who was sitting, yawning, on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t give Craig any Frosties, he’s asked for them all week, but then he won’t touch them. There’s a new playgroup opening at the bottom of the road, we’re all invited to see it today. I don’t know whether or not to disturb Molly with a move, but she’s so unpopular with the old boot at her current one that maybe it might be a good idea –’
‘We used to talk about more than the kids.’ Dylan sounded weird.
‘Like what?’ Clodagh asked defensively.
‘Don’t know. Nothing… anything. Music, films, people…’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ she said angrily. ‘The kids are the only people I see, I can’t help it. But while we’re on the subject of outside interests, I was thinking we might do some decorating.’
‘Decorate what?’ he asked tightly.
‘Here, our bedroom.’ She slapped on some body cream and speedily rubbed it in.
‘It’s only a year since we did this room.’
‘It’s at least eighteen months.’
‘But…’
Clodagh began to pull on her underwear.
‘You missed a bit.’ Dylan reached over to rub in the blob of cream at the back of her thigh.
‘Get off!’ she snapped, shoving his arm away. The touch of his hand on her skin enraged her.
‘Would you calm down!’ Dylan shouted. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Too late, her response frightened her. She shouldn’t have done that. Dylan’s expression scared her even more – anger twisted and troubled with pain.
‘Sorry, I’m just tired,’ she managed. ‘Sorry. Can you make a start on dressing Molly?’
Trying to dress Molly when she didn’t want to be dressed was like trying to put a reluctant octopus into a string bag.
‘No!’ she screamed, wriggling and writhing.
‘Clodagh, give us a hand,’ Dylan called, trying to catch a flailing arm and shove it in a sleeve.
‘Mummy, nooooooo!’
While Clodagh held Molly still, Dylan crooned in a patient, sing-song voice. Ameliorative nonsense about how Molly was going to look lovely when her shorts and T-shirt were on and how pretty the colours were.
When the final shoe was wedged on to Molly’s kicking foot, Dylan smiled in triumph at Clodagh.
‘Mission accomplished,’ she grinned. ‘Thank you.’
38
On Sunday morning Clodagh woke, perched precariously on the six inches at the edge of the bed. Craig had shunted her to the margin of the bed, but it could quite easily have been Molly or both of them. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Dylan had slept unchaperoned, and she was so well practised at sleeping hanging over the side that she was sure she could manage a great night’s sleep on the edge of a cliff, at this stage.
Something was telling her it was very early. Five o’clock early. The sun was up and the gap where the calico curtains didn’t quite meet glowed in a line of acid-bright light, but she knew it was too soon to be awake. The unseen seagulls beyond her window wailed shrill and plaintive. They sounded like babies from a horror film. Beside Craig, Dylan slept heavily, his limbs thrown across the bed in a random tangle, his breath whistling rhythmically in and out, each exhalation lifting his hair from his forehead.
Despondency lay heavy upon her. She’d had a bad week. After the disaster with the employment agency, Ashling had urged her to get a second opinion. So she’d put her expensive suit back on and tried again. The second employment agency treated her with almost as much disdain as the first had. But to her enormous surprise, the third proposed sending her for a two-day trial, making tea and answering the phone at a radiator-supply firm. ‘The pay is… modest,’ the recruitment man had admitted, ‘but for someone like you who’s been out of the workplace for a long time, it’s a good start. They’re bound to love you, so off you go. Good luck!’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ As soon as Clodagh knew she might have a job, she didn’t want it. Making tea and answering the phone, where was the fun in that? She did it at home all the time. And a radiator-supply firm? It sounded so dreary. In a strange way, getting a job and then finding she didn’t want it was almost worse than being told she was unemployable. Though not much given to introspection, she vaguely realized that she wasn’t actually looking for a job – she certainly didn’t need the money – she was looking for glamour and excitement. And the reality was she wasn’t going to find them at a radiator-supply firm.
So she rang Mr Recruitment and pretended she couldn’t start because Craig had got measles. Children had their uses, she reflected. If there was something you didn’t want to do, you could say they had a high temperature and that you were worried about meningitis. It had absolved her from attending Dylan’s Christmas party last year. And the year before. And she fully intended to use it this year as well.
She shifted uncomfortably. Something sharp was digging into her back. A forage revealed it to be Buzz Lightyear. Outside the window the seagulls shrieked again, their ugly forlorn cries echoing within her. She felt trapped, painted into a corner, blocked. As though she was locked in a small dark airless box, which was getting ever tighter – she couldn’t understand it. She’d always been happy with her lot. Her life had happened exactly as it should and its progress had been ever forward, ever positive. Then, with no warning, it seemed to have stopped. Going nowhere with nothing to look forward to. A horrible thought wormed in – was it going to be like this for ever?
Suddenly she noticed that Dylan’s whistling had reached crescendo level. Seized by a frenzy of intolerance she exploded, ‘Stop breathing!’ With a rough shove to his head she changed the angle of his windpipe.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, without waking up. She envied his uncomplicated slumber. Flattened against the mattress, she half-listened to the seagulls until Molly clambered into bed beside her and hit her in the face. Time to get up.
An emergency appendectomy, she thought longingly. Or a mild stroke. Nothing too serious. But one that involved a long stay in a hospital that had very restricted visiting hours.
After her shower she dried herself and spoke briskly to Dylan, who was sitting, yawning, on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t give Craig any Frosties, he’s asked for them all week, but then he won’t touch them. There’s a new playgroup opening at the bottom of the road, we’re all invited to see it today. I don’t know whether or not to disturb Molly with a move, but she’s so unpopular with the old boot at her current one that maybe it might be a good idea –’
‘We used to talk about more than the kids.’ Dylan sounded weird.
‘Like what?’ Clodagh asked defensively.
‘Don’t know. Nothing… anything. Music, films, people…’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ she said angrily. ‘The kids are the only people I see, I can’t help it. But while we’re on the subject of outside interests, I was thinking we might do some decorating.’
‘Decorate what?’ he asked tightly.
‘Here, our bedroom.’ She slapped on some body cream and speedily rubbed it in.
‘It’s only a year since we did this room.’
‘It’s at least eighteen months.’
‘But…’
Clodagh began to pull on her underwear.
‘You missed a bit.’ Dylan reached over to rub in the blob of cream at the back of her thigh.
‘Get off!’ she snapped, shoving his arm away. The touch of his hand on her skin enraged her.
‘Would you calm down!’ Dylan shouted. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Too late, her response frightened her. She shouldn’t have done that. Dylan’s expression scared her even more – anger twisted and troubled with pain.
‘Sorry, I’m just tired,’ she managed. ‘Sorry. Can you make a start on dressing Molly?’
Trying to dress Molly when she didn’t want to be dressed was like trying to put a reluctant octopus into a string bag.
‘No!’ she screamed, wriggling and writhing.
‘Clodagh, give us a hand,’ Dylan called, trying to catch a flailing arm and shove it in a sleeve.
‘Mummy, nooooooo!’
While Clodagh held Molly still, Dylan crooned in a patient, sing-song voice. Ameliorative nonsense about how Molly was going to look lovely when her shorts and T-shirt were on and how pretty the colours were.
When the final shoe was wedged on to Molly’s kicking foot, Dylan smiled in triumph at Clodagh.
‘Mission accomplished,’ she grinned. ‘Thank you.’
