Page 62 of Storm in a D Cup

‘Opportunity for what?’

‘To tell the world about your opinions. The media gives you power.’

‘I’ve no doubt, but what am I going to do with it?’

‘Don’t say no. I’ll call you back at the end of the week. They pay really well.’

And with that the phone clicked and he was gone. I imagined Terry being born with his rough looks and manners, smoking his cigar in his crib. Power. What kind of power could a housewife possibly have from writing a few thoughts down? Really, this guy was unreal. And yet… me getting paid for expressing my opinions? It was, really, a no-brainer.

So the next day, after a night of unanswered questions to myself, debating about Julian and our future and the baby and Maddy and a thousand other things, I rung Terry up and said I’d do it. Ten minutes later he emailed me the contract. And immediately Julian called me.

‘Terry told me you accepted an offer for a column?’ Julian asked, sounding loud and clear as if he was calling me from a payphone around the corner and not the other side of the world. The subtext was:Why didn’t you tell me?

‘Yes, I accepted.’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Why not? You afraid of a bit of competition?’

‘Don’t be silly, Erica. It’s just that Terry can be very persuasive, and I want to make sure you’re not being bullied into it.’

‘Bullied into speaking my mind? Have we met?’

He thought about it. ‘OK, have it your way.’

‘Good. You don’t mind if I mention you in my articles, do you?’

‘Me?’

‘Well, the wife of a celebrity can hardly talk about men without mentioning her own man, can she?’

Julian said, ‘Just as long as you keep our private stuff private.’

‘But I can talk about your career, right?’

‘Well, don’t make it too obvious. I don’t want to look like my wife is pimping me.’

‘Of course not. You have an agent for that.’

‘OK, hon, gotta go.’

‘Wait, Julian – did you read the contract Terry sent me?’

‘What? Yeah – it’s pretty much standard. Welcome to my world, luv. Got to go now. Bye!’

And he hung up. End of conversation.

Was that it? No, I’m so proud of you or anything?Blimey, as he would say, we had a friggin’ parade when he’d decide to start writing again and all I got was a ‘Welcome to my world’? Did my accomplishment mean absolutely nothing to him? Maybe he was a talented writer, but I was a housewife with a new career. Well, maybe not a career, but a fun thing to do in the mornings rather than do the ironing. Or think about ominous, secret weddings.

Don’t misunderstand me here. I left a fantastic career in Boston because it was killing me. I wanted to be a housewife and have my own business. And now I do. So answering a few letters every morning is not a career move – it’s not denying who I wanted to be. I’m still a housewife. Only I’ll have a little more fun.

*

So out of the blue and with absolutely no merit whatsoever, I was answering the questions of poor, unwitting women writing for help for my new blog called ‘Erica Can Tell U’. Boy, at least that part was true – the stories I could tell you. Terry recommended I should be honest and not afraid of speaking my mind. Ha. Some of the questions were light and breezy. Like what was it like to be the wife of a celebrity,et cetera.But others brought me straight back to my past, like this one:

Q: Dear Erica,

My husband is not a physically violent man but he is verbally abusive. He’ll mutter nasty words under his breath – so only I can hear him – about how fat I’ve become. This really hurts and I swear I don’t recognize the man I married fifteen years ago. Everybody else, including my family, thinks he’s a saint. I feel so lonely and hopeless. What should I do?

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