Page 34 of The Husband Diet
I snorted my coffee through my nose. ‘Give me that,’ I ordered, taking the potato from her.
‘No – start on the onions for me. Would you mind?’ she asked.
Mind? I was an expert onion peeler. Plus, I didn’t have any make-up on, so nothing to worry about.
‘Besides,’ I said. ‘Restaurant work has no strict hours. I’d merely be changing address.’
‘Not if you stick to your hours as a regular employee. Drop everything when the clock strikes.’
‘You know I couldn’t do that to you, Zia Maria,’ I said. ‘I can barely do it at the hotel.’
‘Which is becoming your second home,’ she scolds me.
‘I know. That’s why I’m going to do something about it.’
‘Good girl. I’ve wrapped up a chocolate cake for you to take home,’ she said. ‘Think about the job offer.’
‘You’re nuts. But thank you.’
And so I thought about it. Could I do it? The hours were just as crazy; half of Massachusetts showed up at lunchtime sometimes. I’d see the kids even less. No. I had to find another way.
*
‘No more, Warren, or you’ll become a blimp,’ Ira said as we devoured Zia Maria’s cake after dinner that evening.
What Ira hadn’t said was ‘like your mom’, but I knew that was what he meant. The context was clear as crystal. By now, I was counting the weeks until I’d be free.
Even if we managed to avoid direct confrontation in front of the kids, things were still pretty bad between us. We were at the point where he’d sit at the dinner table and read his paper without communicating for hours while I did the dishes and cleaned up in absolute silence. I was done with him. Finito.
Even on weekends, for which I practically made a pact with the devil to be home, we’d ignore each other. He’d sit at that same table with yet another paper while I played with the kids or did some chores. Let me tell you, if only where he was concerned, it was a relief to go back to work on Monday.
Why was it that I could run The Farthington, a responsibility of titanic dimensions, but struggled to keep my own home, a little dinghy with four passengers, afloat? One thing was for sure – there was one passenger whose head I’d gladly hold underwater until he stopped kicking. But enough of my fantasies…
*
Luckily, at home I had Paul, who was living with us more often than not. He took care of the kids until I got home, and then we had dinner and exchanged gossip.
One evening, we were sitting on the sofa drinking a lovely Sicilian Corvo Novello, kids in bed, glad to have some ‘us’ time with my second ideal man (minus the sex). Every time I was sinking and needed a hand, it was Paul, and not Ira, who reached out for me, pulling me back above the surface, bless him.
‘So, how’s your hunky headmaster?’ he asked.
You can imagine how he’d flipped when I told him Spiderman and headmaster were one. He’d professed that it was fate and what the hell more did I need to understand that? I only wished.
‘I haven’t seen him for a while, but I’m assuming he’s as delectable as ever,’ I answered as I took a sip of one of Sicily’s miracles.
He shook his finger at me. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time like this. Things don’t happen without a reason and even you said he was the man of your dreams.’
‘Dreams – exactly. This is reality, Paul, and men like that aren’t interested in women like me.’
‘Meaning?’
I thought about it. As it turned out, dieting wasn’t impossible and I was getting into the swing of things, especially with Paul power-dancing me a few hours a week, along with brisk walks in the park. Slowly but surely, I was starting to see the weight go, ounce after aching ounce. It was slow, like watching paint dry, but it was happening. It was ghastly work, resisting my favorite foods and only having this one glass of wine a week, but every time I stepped onto the bathroom scales, it was pure, unadulterated (if you’ll pardon the pun) bliss. Even if I’d never be a supermodel, who cared? I was me and was happy to be me. I only wanted to be a healthier, fitter me. For myself and my kids.
I huffed. ‘Meaning, Paul, that most men don’t like women who are big.’
‘Oh, big, shmig,’ he said with a wave of his perfectly manicured hand. ‘What’s wrong with having some fun? Look at you, almost thirty-five, two kids you’re raising on your own, a job that totally absorbs you and your soon-to-be ex-husband can’t be bothered to’—he hooked his fingers into quotation marks in my face—‘make the effort.’
Ouch. Put like that, it sounded like pure hell. I gave him the hairy eyeball and crossed my arms in front of my chest. ‘What’s your point?’
