Page 111 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Well, no.’
I think Danny might be crying. I’m not exactly sure if it’s from the absence of fellatio this evening or the fact he may be in physical pain from carrying one medium-sized child home, along with the three bags of crap we acquired at the bazaar, whilst also having to hold my hair back so I could throw up all over the wheels of a Toyota Prius. Tess has gone into meltdown from having spent six pounds on the tombola and coming away with absolutely nothing whereas Eve was crafty and just spent all her money on sweets and some mysterious endeavour which means that she has acquired three giant cuddly toys. By the time we’ve pushed them through that door, they are banshees, wired on sugar and fatigue.
‘BED! Just go upstairs, brush the candy floss out of your teeth and go to bed,’ I say.
‘But you said…’
Danny is having as much trouble as me putting sentences together and standing up straight.
‘Bed. If you go to bed, I will give you actual money,’ he pleads.
‘Like the tooth fairy?’
‘Yes, Dimples. Whatever.’
‘But I’m thirsty.’
‘And I’m Daddy. Bed.’
I stand at the bottom of the stairs watching the Captain usher the troops upstairs, trying his best to act sober and responsible, a tired limp baby on his shoulder. He’s infinitely better at it than me because when they’re out of sight, I collapse into a heap and put my cheek against the cold hard floor to remedy the woeful thumping in my head. I think of that hedge that housed some of the Christmas bunting created by Year 3, now speckled in maroon vomit. No one will ever know it came from me. We weren’t there. We didn’t get off our nut at a school Christmas bazaar.
Maybe I can sleep here. Mr T comes over and I heave slightly, thinking he may be licking the remnants of my spew off my face. Come lie with me furry creature and be my blanket. But the state of me obviously doesn’t appeal as he doesn’t budge. Stu’s words echo in my head. He sorted it. Sorted what?
‘Oi, wench.’ Danny sits on the third step from the top. ‘Get upstairs, I’m not carrying you. You know what happens when we try that.’
‘Girls?’
‘Getting in their onesies. Water all round. Tea for me.’
‘But I’m dying.’
‘Best to die in your own bed so we don’t have to step over you in the morning.’
‘Will you at least come to my funeral?’
‘I’ll sing at a fooking piano if you make me a cup of tea.’
For some reason, this makes me sit up. I hear a small child get whacked by a sibling in the bathroom and feel I may have got the better deal here. He returns to the bathroom to referee the action. I scrape myself off the floor and zombie walk to the kitchen, kicking off my boots halfway. Kettle. Tea. Crumbs, got to let the dog out to have a whizz too. I open up the back door and the cold hits me like a stab to the chest. I think about those slow cookers they used for the wine. Maybe they used them to cook meat. Raw meat. I may have salmonella. I rest my head against the doorframe. Mr T sidles up next to me to tell me he’s done. Dog. I like you, dog. Have a biscuit and my affection. I’m supposed to make tea.
By the time I get upstairs, the girls are passed out and I find Danny in the bedroom sat on the edge of the bed in his pants and socks. He still looks pained and rubs his belly.
‘I think those sausages were underdone.’
A loud fart resonates through our bedroom. Enough to make Magnum the cat who was sat in the hallway shriek a little and shoot down the stairs. For the love of monkeys, that’s an ungodly smell.
‘Danny, did you just soil yourself?’
I put the tray of drinks and mugs of tea on the bed. He hobbles to the bathroom and locks the door. I hear noises that no one should have to hear but when you’ve lived with a person for twelve odd years, they become part of the sketchy soundtrack of your marriage. The day you hear your partner through the bathroom door is the day when the love has crossed a threshold into forever and more.
‘Are you OK?’ I shout, trying to take off my dress, my eyes heavy.
I hear groans, flushing, taps running. The shower’s going too which makes me fear the worst. He returns sopping wet, clutching his belly like a woman does when the first contractions kick in. Body hair clings to him like seaweed.
I chuck Danny a towel. He dries his undercarriage but then collapses into bed, naked and spread-eagled. It is a good arse but not today. He buries his head into the duvet.
‘You’re sopping wet, hun. Dry yourself, you’re leaving an imprint on the bed.’
‘I’ll make you sopping wet.’ He says, straining, trying to be sexual. ‘Actually, I can’t move,’ he admits.
