Page 30 of The Husband Diet
Whoa. The story of my life spread out for the world on one scribbly page. I let out a storm of air, trying to catch my breath at the same time. The result was that I was choking on my own saliva and Mr. Foxham – Julian – had to give me a smart smack on the back. First, he rips my clothes off, now this. Our encounters were destined to be physical. Which, in a parallel life, would have sounded very promising, at least in theory.
‘Better?’ he asked, offering me a glass of water, which I took gratefully, downing it in one swig.
Maddy Cantelli. She’d used my maiden name, forsaking her own last name. Jesus.
‘She gets the long sentences from me,’ I tittered, clearing my throat, my eyes still watery from my close encounter with asphyxiation. ‘I go on and on, even when I speak, just like I’m doing now, see? And the surname? That’s my maiden name. And this is just one of her many Italian moments,’ I continued, flashing him one of my brilliant pseudo-smiles. ‘I’m Italian and she always wants to hear about Italy. She hates the name Lowenstein. So do I, really, but that’s the way it is,’ I finally sighed, stealing him a hopeful glance.
He wasn’t buying it, of course.
‘So, you’re Italian? So am I. I mean, my mother was.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Not that she’s Italian – that she’s no longer—’
Julian waved it away. ‘My adoptive parents are British. My real mother was Italian.’
So that was where his Mediterranean looks came from. I was fascinated. Somewhere, there was a woman who had abandoned her baby. Oh, if only she could see the man he’d become. I shuddered at the thought of abandoning either of my kids.
‘Oh. Well, we Italians are a bit… well, you know. Original, to quote you. But we’re good, solid people.’
He smiled. ‘I’d like to retrieve my roots. Learn to speak Italian, soak in the culture, cook.’
All things I could do with my eyes closed, but there was no way I was offering to help him achieve his goals and spend time with him. I had enough problems of my own.
He cleared his throat. ‘So, Erica. The contents of the letter – are they true? Is there a problem at home? Please forgive me, but you know, we are—’
Worried, yeah. No shit. Here I was, sitting like a schoolgirl on detention with this guy trying to stick his nose in my family business. And he actually expected me to pour out my soul to him in one go – all the pain and hurt and humiliation I’d been through because my husband saw me as a walrus and the fact I’d always imagined killing him. Consequently, to keep my family together, I had to jump through hoops, day in, day out. How dare he question my love for my children – my reason for living.
He sat there, his long fingers resting on the edge of the armchair, just waiting, like one would for a cappuccino. Easy for him to be so calm and collected, while inside I was screaming.
I jumped to my feet. ‘I’m sorry; I can’t do this right now. I’ll call back to reschedule if you want, but right now, I can’t stay. Thank you for your concern,’ I managed as I brushed past him and out of his office, tears in my eyes, clutching Maddy’s letter in my right hand and Warren’s unread confession in my left.
I wandered aimlessly through the school grounds, watching a game of baseball before finally plopping myself down on a bench, smoothing the wrinkled sheets of Warren’s letter over my thigh. Not that I was dying to hear more about my withering marriage or my fat ass, but it was a ‘now or never’ epiphany moment.
‘My dad is a prick,’ I read and then moaned. I agreed with him fully, of course, but never,everhad I wanted my children to wake from their innocent childhood and see the truth.
He never plays baseball with me, goes to the games on his own and always sits in front of the TV watching the pros play. He never smiles, and always says what do we know about his life and dreams. I have a dream, too. That one day I hit him over the head with a baseball bat. And it feels good. And then we’re all free.
Oh myGod– my poor kid. Was it possible that he’d inherited my not-so-comical visions of murder?
He keeps it behind his bed and at night hits my mother with it.
What?
I know because I can hear her crying sometimes. Even if I give her a hard time, I love my mother. She’s cool, even when she tries to play baseball with me. Last week she swung so hard, she fell on the grass and saw stars, but she laughed and asked me to teach her.
I sat there and, as quietly as I could, bawled my eyes out into my scarf. Our deepest, most intimate secrets were now disclosed, splayed wide open for a stranger to see. Worse than that, a stranger whose job was to judge us. But the baseball bat part was all wrong. Ira had never, ever touched any of us. Images of social services carting my kids away shot through my mind, brandishing my brain cells with words like ‘incompetent and inept mother’, and I was so ashamed. Was I that much of a loser?
‘Erica?’ came the deep voice of scholarly authority.
I stiffened and swiped at my eyes while keeping them trained on his shoes. How long had he been standing there?
‘Are you OK?’ he whispered.
‘No, not really,’ I answered stonily.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s your school.’
