LITMIR.BIZ

       Seven

      I’ve managed to make it to the downstairs toilet before the tea and scones come up in full force, and then I collapse on the couch. I’m torturing myself with the idea that Barry will phone any minute now and say it’s all off. The poor creature has had time to think and he’s had enough. You couldn’t be surprised. I’ve been a royal pain. He’ll say he’s fallen in love with some Vietnamese lady boy or what not. He’ll say he was pushed into the arms of some oriental jezebel, and that he wants his jewellery back. And who can blame the poor guy? I mean, yes, he loves me, but he thinks I’m some sort of mental patient.

      ‘We will have to sell the house,’ I confide in Jess. He is a good listener, but he will really have to do something about his breath – it’s like a tuna fish died or something. ‘And after all of my admirable interior design efforts, too! You’d best scope the neighbourhood for another couch to sleep on, old friend.’

      The cat doesn’t come across as overly concerned. I don’t think he is quite grasping the seriousness of the situation.

      ‘People will have to come and view the property and snoop in the hot press and make insultingly low offers. They will look down their noses at my failed gardening attempts and then traipse muddy footprints over my pristine cream rug. The wretches!’

      The geriatric cat is choking on a hairball. Perhaps he is worried on a more subconscious level, after all. Maybe he’s imagining that he’ll end up in the retired cats’ home being bullied by some bigger more masculine cats. My poor little Jessikins. Jess is a bit of a wimp I don’t think he could stand up for himself. He has trouble just standing, period. Besides, he doesn’t have many teeth.

      When I open a family-sized bag of Kettle Chips, I let the nightmare possibilities wash over me.

      ‘And then I’ll be bankrupt!’

      Jess doesn’t budge. I’m starting to think he’s not even listening. Normally, I let Barry worry about bills, the mortgage and other such tedious things. I give my token financial contribution every month, and spend whatever is left over. Barry balances the books. I don’t pay attention to credit card bills and glaze over when he talks about home insurance. I don’t watch the news and I don’t read newspapers. It’s all recession doom and gloom. I just switch to 80s FM when the headlines come on the radio. My annual subscription to OK!, Hello! and Cosmopolitan magazines hardly counts as keeping up with current affairs in the media. I’d much prefer a bit of celebrity hot gossip.

      Besides, Barry earns an awful lot more than I do. He’s a solicitor and I’m an executive assistant. Although, I don’t mean to brag but I do have sole responsibility for stationery ordering and I’m fully in charge of planning the office Christmas party.

      And another thing, I swallow my worries along with a lavish amount of sour cream dip on my crisps, I’m carrying a light store debit card debt. Nothing to worry about, just a couple of thousand.

      I pull on my pink floral wellington boots and pink tracksuit. Sunday afternoons are the highlight of my week, and I’m not going to let my hangover or argument with Barry ruin that. After a twenty-minute drive, I park my car at the DSPCA animal shelter.

      ‘Hey, Becks,’ Tammie greets me with a hug.

      ‘Hey, Tams. How’s Marmalade?’

      I’ve fallen in love with the orange cat that was brought in last week. Once I’ve patched things up with Barry, I’ll start working on him to agree to a flatmate for Jess.

      ‘Marmalade’s a mama! She had six kits after you left last Sunday.’

      ‘No way!’

      Tammie and I muck out the horse stables and drag the heavy bags of dry dog food towards the dog section. The barking is deafening.

      ‘Five new residents since last week,’ Tammie points to a trembling terrier, who is huddled behind the chicken wire. ‘We’re calling him Bailey. He was in pretty bad shape.’

      ‘Poor chap. Where’s Major?’

      I’ve been harbouring quite the soft spot for the old English sheepdog that has been here for a month now.

      ‘Oh I totally forgot to tell you! A young couple came on Monday, filled in the papers and took him home.’

      Tammie and I have been volunteering together for six months now, and I don’t even know her last name. All we talk about is animals. It’s like taking a holiday from the real world for a couple of hours.

      One day, when Barry and I are married, I’ll jack in my job and volunteer here full time. If I didn’t have to worry about money, I could be here every day, matching little fur babies with adoptive mummies and daddies, and not just Sundays. I’m pretty pants at my day job, and being polite in an office all day is exhausting. At the shelter, I get to do something important, something I’m good at.

      To be honest, I’m quite happy for Barry to play the whole breadwinner role! I’d have no problem trading my grey work suit for my pink floral boots. Barry would benefit too, because I wouldn’t be so worn out from the office. I could even throw the odd dinner party to impress his important corporate types. I’d play the enchanting hostess, presenting a perfectly plump turkey from an immaculate kitchen while Barry pours the sherry and entertains the CEO. I’d laugh at his little jokes. Sure, Samantha from Bewitched makes it look easy!

      All I need are a few cookery lessons. How hard can it be? Oh, and a full-time nanny if we have little ones. Now, I won’t go as far as the old pipe and slippers routine. I’m not a Labrador at the end of the day, for goodness’ sake.

      Back home, I tell Jess the good news about Marmalade. The throbbing in my temples is back, so I open a bottle of white wine. Hair of the dog is the only thing left to try.

      ‘Jesus, Jess. If Barry and I don’t make up, we could become homeless!’

      I’m imagining my bleak future without Barry. My personal hygiene has taken a sharp decline and I’ve shaved my head like Britney Spears after her split with Kevin Federline. I’m forced to shop in Argos and Iceland, and have a cunning disguise so that I can mooch around Lidl for bargains without being spotted. I have no choice but to cash my gold at some seedy pawn-style establishment, and have to hock my large collection of shoes on eBay to scrape some measly euros together. I haggle with grubby types at car boot sales over my Dolce & Gabbanas. I’m living in a sordid trailer park rubbing shoulders with ‘The Great Unwashed’. My teeth have fallen out, and I’ve been invited to appear on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

      ‘Good God!’

      I shudder as I pour another glass of wine and consider moving back to Mum and Dad’s gaff if our relationship horribly crashes and burns. It’ll be a pride-swallowing moment, and I’ll have to resume a child–parent relationship with two people whose intentions are admittedly good but incredibly annoying. On the plus side, the grub is great. There will be lashings of tea and sympathy on tap from the old dears, with Sky Movies hooked up to the flat-screen telly and all the mod cons at my fingertips. Their legendary Sunday dinners with a heavy slathering of gravy will be good enough to make me forget my troubles. My version of events will always be morally superior to those of the ‘Man-of-whom-we-do-not-speak’.

      I realise that the only alternative is that a friend allows me to sleep in their box room amongst their sad collection of dusty books and flowery wallpaper. Most of my friends are loved up, so I will end up as the gooseberry from hell clutching my earplugs as they frolic in the night through frighteningly thin walls.

      ‘Welcome to hell, Jess.’

      Jess yawns. He is so emotionally unavailable.

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