LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Two Wives/Girlfriends

       The Interrogator

       What she does

      Quizzes, questions, cross-examines. This would be great if she was trying to crack the leader of the Tooting Triads, but this is relationship interrogation: an ultimately futile and utterly draining pursuit.

      Everything you do, everything you say, every little mannerism, tick, scratch, cough, sniffle and sigh will be scrutinised and digested, to be spat out in your face when you least expect it. It could be today, tomorrow or in six years’ time, but it will happen.

      That time you gave her a ‘funny look’ in 1994, the time you told her you were too tired to see her and having an early night, the day you didn’t answer your mobile because you were having an MRI scan—it’s all in the file marked ‘Vengeance’.

      When you get home from work, don’t expect a cheery ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and the offer of a cup of tea. You will be ordered to account for your every move from 8 a.m. to 6.43 p.m., including fag and toilet breaks.

      Imagine, if you will, that you popped out to buy a paper in the morning. And stopped to stroke a cat. Bad move—you now have two minutes unaccounted for in her book. Or, say you took a phone call and laughed too heartily. You fool! You now have to explain for the next four hours why you don’t laugh like that with her.

      Carelessly, you chat to a woman at a function you and TI are both attending. Are you demented? You may as well tie yourself to a kitchen chair, put Stuck in the Middle with You on the CD player and beat yourself repeatedly around the face with a wet tea towel.

      Don’t bother complaining that your post has been tampered with, your computer’s been hacked into and your phone calls are being bugged. It’s her. Making sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing, when you’re supposed to be doing it, where you’re supposed to be doing it, and with whom.

      It’s no accident her DVD library comprises box sets of Judge John Deed, Crown Court, Rumpole of the Bailey, Prime Suspect and Alice in Wonderland (that Queen of Hearts, she was on the knave’s case).

       You and TI side by side in the Multiplex.

      You (thoroughly relaxed): Do you want a Malteser?

      TI (whispering): Why did you wear that brown suit last Friday?

      You: Whaat?

      TI (whispering urgently): Last Friday. The brown suit. You normally wear the grey.

       You (through gritted teeth): What are you on about? I’m trying to watch the film.

      TI (whispering furiously): Did you actually go to work?

      You: Course I did, where do you think I went?

      TI (hissing loudly): You tell me.

      You (quietly): Let’s Just Watch the Film.

      TI (out loud): Not until I have a straight answer from you.

       Much shushing from assembled cinemagoers.

      You: I don’t know. I probably wore the brown suit because the grey one was dirty.

      TI: How did it get dirty? It was only dry cleaned last Wednesday.

      You: I don’t know. Things get stained.

      TI (shouting): Stained! Stained! (Standing up) YOU BASTARD!

      She’s not your girlfriend, she’s your stalker. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder. And that’s just in the kitchen. When she comes out of the ensuite at lights-out time, you’re not lying in a come-hither pose, you’re curled up in the foetal position at the bottom of the duvet.

      Your relationship is a trial. Literally. And she’s the self-appointed judge, juror and jailer. You’re insecure, anxious, paranoid. Sitting at the Formica kitchen table as she strides the room, you cry out, ‘What have I done? What have I done wrong?’

      ‘Everything.’

      Interview terminated 12.04 a.m. Suspect not cooperating.

       What she says

      ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you? By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be whistling like a canary. You’re a wisecracking,

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