Page 31 of The Husband Diet
He sat next to me, looking ahead of him, but, funnily, I felt he was tuned into my situation. All this time I’d been fantasizing about him as my dream man, a fresh start, or maybe just a quick scene, and here he was, with a front-row, humongous panoramic view of me, my life – and my exterior vastness and interior littleness. There was no way I could ever hide from him and pretend I was someone else now.
At least he had the decency to remain quiet. I had to hand him that. I enjoyed the silence for a while. He seemed OK with it, too.
‘The baseball bat part – it isn’t true,’ I finally whispered.
He turned to me. I knew he didn’t believe me.
‘Really, it isn’t.’
Stormy eyes bored into mine.
‘The last bell is about to ring, Erica. Why don’t you come into my office and freshen yourself up?’ he suggested gently and then grinned. ‘I have this amazing bathroom with expensive tiles. The previous principal must have splurged the school’s yearly budget on it.’
‘No, that’s OK, thanks. I think I’ll go use the little girls’ room.’
The last thing I needed was to be seen exiting the principal’s toilet. Then, my reputation of lousy mother would be complete. Didn’t he know any better?
‘Yes, on second thoughts, that’s a better idea,’ he said, as if reading my mind and offering me his hand to help me to my feet.
I pretended I didn’t see it and brushed past him.
The little girls’ room wasn’t such a good idea, after all. The mirror was too low and I had to squat to see myself. And I almost fell over again at the sight of me. Yesterday’s mascara (now how the hell had I missed that?) streamed in black lines down my cheeks. Dried whatever-it-was, hopefully not snot, caked my nostrils and my hair, once in a tight, professional bun, was a mess. Plus, I stank too much to be true. I removed my coat and air-dried my armpits. Then I slicked my hair behind my ears into a semblance of a ponytail and rubbed the various kinds of guck off my face. There. Not pristine, but much better. I left the building without saying goodbye and waited in the car to gather my wits.
‘Hi,’ I chirped as the kids tumbled in, school bags landing on the back seat.
‘What happened toyou?’ Warren asked as Madeleine started pulling her drawings out of her satchel to show me.
There were rainbows and colorful flowers everywhere. The drawings of a happy, serene little girl.
How long would this childhood happiness last if I didn’t get my ass into gear pronto? As I turned on the ignition, I realized I need a year-plan with all the things that needed changing, bar none. I’d make a complete list and pin it up in my mind’s eye.
Later that night, I went through my precious stack ofVille &Casali– a glossy Italian home magazine that had an enormous real estate listing of luxury homes and farmhouses throughout Italy. I flipped to the Tuscany section and feasted my eyes on all the possibilities, my mouth watering every single time, despite the fact that I knew each listing verbatim. And also despite the fact that there was no way on earth I could afford them.
Beautiful two-storey stone buildings, solid like a fortress, surrounded by vineyards and green fields and patios and pools, where I could see my kids frolicking and being happy. Inside, magnificent terracotta tiles and chestnut wood beams on the ceilings supporting terracotta vaults. Large spaces, big, sunny rooms and the cicadas singing outside in the sun. Lazy lunches under the wisteria-laden pergola, sipping a glass of my own wine with Paul (in absence of a proper male lead) as my gaze spread over the land I owned. Day in, day out, just my loved ones and me.
I sighed, flipped the magazine shut, hauled the stack back onto the nightstand and pulled out my notepad to stare at the year-long plan I’d written only a few months ago. It was like someone else had scrawled those hopeful words. How things had changed in such a short space of time:
‘Home’, I’d written.
OK with grocery shopping and meals. Need to hire a cleaner. I can’t do it all by myself.
Job: Fulfilling. Well-paid. But need to cut back on the hours.
Kids: Need to spend more time with them to make up for Ira. Warren needs extra attention. Maddy’s a dream.
Now, I scribbled in:
Problem: How to be there for them all the time?
And then I smiled and wrote:
Solution: Leave Ira, move to Tuscany and start my own vacation property business once and for all.
And then my eyes darted to the box at the bottom of the list titled ‘Love Life’, with Ira’s name in it. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I crossed his name out, back and forth, until I made a hole in the page. And then above it, I wrote:
Julian Foxham: in a parallel world.
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