Good Husband Material. Trisha AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
a house-warming present,’ I muttered ungraciously, seeing him off. And the sort of gesture we couldn’t afford now – it must have cost a fortune to have them delivered all the way out here, and why cream roses? They would be invisible against all the pale walls.
If he wanted to give me a present I’d have preferred that brass stencil of vine leaves from Homebase.
You know, I used to think James’s profligacy with posies romantic, but really it’s easy enough to phone up a Teleflorist and read your credit card number. Feeling dissatisfied, I rammed the scentless and useless roses into a cream vase and stood them on a cream table against the cream wall, where they vanished.
Fergal: March 1999
‘GONERIL: FAREWELL TO ALL THAT?
Fergal Rocco says his next tour really is his last.’
Trendsetter magazine
Not only me – we’re all saying it, though no one outside the band seems to believe we really mean it. We’re not breaking up, we’ll still record together and do the odd gig, but we all have other parts of our lives we want to develop.
And we’re sick to death of touring.
Mike and Col want to spend more time with their families, Carlo’s getting married, and I want to concentrate on the song-writing and painting for a while.
Funnily enough, it was seeing Tish so suddenly at the gallery that made me really stop and take stock of myself: where I was going with my life. (And where I’d been. When I could remember where I’d been.)
She sparked off a whole new series of songs, too, but that’s by the bye.
She still looked good …
Can I be the only man who finds fiery-haired, militant Pre-Raphaelite angels a big turn on?
Chapter 7: Drained
James came home next day exhausted: some kind of party had developed at Howard’s and he had hardly had a wink’s sleep all night.
I refrained from comment with some effort (apart from suggesting he go for a shower, since Howard usually lives in some squalid squat fermenting germs), but later I wished I’d let rip when he looked up from the paper and sneered, ‘I see your boyfriend’s band are going on a farewell tour of seven countries – he must be getting a bit old for all that touring!’
‘He’s quite a bit younger than you,’ I pointed out. (‘Your boyfriend’ indeed!) ‘And age doesn’t seem to hinder the Rolling Stones much, does it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t have your musical interests.’
He doesn’t have any musical interests, but that doesn’t excuse the cheap gibe.
‘Never mind, James,’ I said sweetly, ‘at least being tone-deaf makes you able to appreciate that busty blonde country singer with the nasal whine.’
He let the subject drop then, but I wish he’d forget it altogether. I’m getting very tired of all these snide little remarks.
Later I had a sneaky look at the paper, and there was Fergal at an airport, looking jetlagged, unshaven and mildly dangerous. I hope the photographer didn’t get too close.
I debated whether to cut the article out in case it set James off again, then thought that perhaps a hole where it had been might be even worse, since he’d think I’d cut it out to keep. Besides, why should I pander to his warped imaginings?
Speaking of warped imaginings, I had a dream last night about Fergal: one of those blush-making ones. I know a wholesome drink of water is what I need, but once you’ve had champagne, part of you still thirsts for it, even if you know it doesn’t agree with you. (And I’m not even getting the water lately!)
Usually I feel guilty the morning after, but this time I was still miffed with James and decided he didn’t deserve it. I gave him a kiss of the tight-lipped variety and, after he’d gone, retired to the bathroom with the crossword, where, enthroned and mid-clue, I was startled by the sound of men’s voices from the garden right beneath the window.
Hastily flushing the loo I went out only to discover, to my complete embarrassment, three men in fluorescent orange waistcoats staring down into the swirling sewage trap from which they had just removed the lid.
I wanted to curl up and die, but they’d seen me, so I brazened it out with a cheery ‘Good morning!’
You could have roasted chestnuts on my cheeks (all of them).
The men wore uniformly blank expressions and after an answering chorus of ‘Good morning’ resumed their absorbed study.
‘Blockage isn’t here, then?’ said one, after some ten minutes of silent scrutiny.
‘No, must be further along,’ said Second Workman.
‘Yes. Must be somewhere else,’ said Third Workman.
‘Perhaps it’s further along,’ said the first. ‘Funny – I thought it was sure to be this one.’
‘Never mind, Dan – it’ll be further along.’
And so on until, after another ten or fifteen minutes of this tediously Beckett-like dialogue, they dropped the manhole cover and went off into Mrs Peach’s garden to try their luck.
It took copious amounts of coffee to soothe my shattered nerves, and even then I still wanted to cringe. I kept remembering the workmen’s blank faces as they peered into the manhole.
Later, the most stupendous thunderstorm broke over the cottage and the Wrath of God in the form of a bolt of lightning flashed down the telephone cable and blasted the answerphone into little melted pieces.
I don’t know what I did to deserve that.
Nothing like this ever happened when we lived in the flat.
Chapter 8: Busted Flush
We’ve been here a whole month now, and I’ve settled into a more professional working schedule: mornings for the book, afternoons for the house. How nice it is not to feel guilty about writing instead of doing housework, and being able to do it without James’s constant interruptions. I don’t know how Jane Austen ever managed to write a word with her family coming and going like yo-yos.
My little room is very inviting, with walls of palest pink (not any kind of cream!) though it needs a touch or two of a strong colour – lime green, possibly. When I’d said as much to James, he’d replied, ‘Why spoil a good colour scheme?’
He hasn’t seen the leaves yet. Or the patchwork curtains.
My desk is set in the little window, with everything neat and tidy: pile of manuscript on one side of the typewriter, unused paper on the other. James says I should be fully computerised, seeing we’re hovering on the brink of a new century, but I’m quite happy as I am: I type my first draft, then rewrite it onto my Amstrad word processor and print it out. I suppose publishers will soon refuse to accept typewritten manuscripts, as they do now with handwritten ones, but I bet if your name is something bestselling like Archer, they’d accept them written in lipstick on slices of bread.
The present book is going well. The heroine is about to meet the radio ham who heard her distress call when her yacht was sinking and so saved her life, and he’s going to be terribly handsome and exciting, although scarred in some way and hiding himself away because of it, only communicating through his radio messages.
I thought Love on the Waves would be a good title, but I don’t know if Thripp, Thripp and Jameson, my publishers, will like it. Mr Thripp – Mr H. Thripp – has appalling taste in titles and book covers.
I need to go into town and find