Читать книгу Bullies, Bitches and Bastards - Eileen Condon - Страница 15

Sheds his cashmere jumper and jumbo cord trews to reveal the snakeskin beneath, the minute he’s got you where he wants you. While other men stampede shrieking from commitment, he’s in like Flynn. No sooner have you added his name to ‘My Numbers’, than you’re flashing his engagement ring.

He must really love you. Oh yeah, like a farmer loves his branded cow. The only time he’s ever serenaded you it was with The Python’s Song from The Jungle Book.

You were an intelligent, independent woman: you used to book priority seating online at easyJet; you were known to pick up the FT, peruse it and understand a smidgen of it; you could even take a conference call while simultaneously pacing the room with an air of self-importance.

Since when did you add ‘must become a chattel’ to your ‘life list’? Since he turned from charmer to snake—which was midway through the wedding reception, when he took you to one side, kissed you tenderly on the cheek and told you, ‘You look beautiful. Don’t wear your hair up again.’

Your instinct was screaming, ‘Pick up the hem of your meringue, grab a bottle of cava and get the hell out!’ But the reasoning part of your brain was telling you, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, this man is perfect. He always says and does the right thing.’

Course he does. He graduated from charm school with honours, has an MA in mesmerism, and a PhD in swallowing mice whole. Before the handover, sorry, wedding, he never put a foot wrong: ‘It doesn’t matter that it’s been three hours; I could listen to you for three more’; ‘Tell me again about your ex-boyfriends. All of them’; ‘Would you like me to organise flowers for your mum for Mother’s Day while I’m at the florist’s at lunchtime?’

What’s not to marry?

A balmy day in July. Squirrels are squirrelling, birds are twittering, the late afternoon sun slants through the willows’ frail fronds. You and SC recline on a Cath Kidston picnic rug, while champagne flutes gently fizz and strawberries are exchanged lip to lip. Aaaaaahh.

SC (to mother with baby passing by): They’re so lovely at that age, aren’t they?

You sigh blissfully.

SC (to elderly couple passing by): Glorious weather, isn’t it? Lovely day for a stroll.

You emit a heavenly sigh.

SC leans back on Cath Kidston, turns, and looks at you intently for some moments.

You (smiling expectantly): What?

SC: Your eyes. Never noticed them before.

You (still smiling expectantly): What about them?

SC: No, I’ve just never noticed them before.

You (crestfallen): Oh.

A New Year’s Eve bash in full swing: champagne fizzing, the moonlight slanting through the Georgian windows, a Cath Kidston throw adorns the chaise longue, etc., etc.

SC (to your best friend): Is that Arôme de la Recherche du Temps Perdu? Thought so. Once smelt, never forgotten. And that dress is definitely your blue.

Friend floats away on a cloud of compliments.

You: I’ve got something in that blue. I could wear it to your brother’s party.

SC: Yeah right. You’d look like a pig in it.

You (crestfallen): Oh.

A crowded, festive restaurant: champagne fizzing, candlelight casting slanting shadows across the table. (No Cath Kidston here; it’s oriental minimalism.)

You:…what would make sense would be if the developing countries were allowed to increase their CO₂ emissions, while the richer nations cut back drastically on theirs and eventually you’d have a balance…

SC: Hark at thicket! Just kidding.

Embarrassed silence and sidelong glances all round.

Mission accomplished: next time you’re in Robert Dyas, customers will have a hard time distinguishing between you and the doormats. Charming!