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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, dumb ass sonofabitch and you don’t know shit from Shinola. All you’re giving me is sketchy details, but you’ve come in here with dirty hands, a lot to hide. Get me a steno pad. Call it a hunch, but you’re going to spill. I’m onto you, punk.’

‘I’m not one to read into things.’

What you need to do

Next time she grills you, come over all Beckettian. Ask her exactly what she means by ‘Where?’ counter her question ‘What are you doing?’ with an existential riposte, ‘Hmmm, “doing”, are we anything when we are not “doing”?’ And as to her constant ‘Who were you with?’ reply enigmatically, ‘Do you mean in the corporeal sense? Or are we talking metaphorically?’

The Town Crier

What she does

Spends so much time bawling, it’s a wonder she doesn’t drown. Your whole relationship is a snivel and phlegm fest. She’s just so sensitive. Actually, she’s not. She’s more expert at manipulation than a chiropractor.

How’s this for sensitive? She can flirt with your best friend, run down your job, and denigrate your family but if at any point you raise the slightest objection, you’ll get instant waterworks and, ‘Boo hoo, why are you always so mean to me?’ And if she can do it in public, so much the better.

You on barstool, flicking beer mat. TC on stool next to you, inspecting fingernails.

You: Do you want another drink?

TC: No.

You: Shall we go home then?

TC: I’m here with my friends.

You (sighing): Is this about Christmas?

TC: What about Christmas?

You: Look. My mum’s not well. She’d love to see all the family this year. We’ve always been away, this is just one year when I’d like to do the family thing. It’s not much to ask.

TC: I want a holiday. I need to get away. Your sister can look after your mum.

You: That’s not fair—she’s got the girls. Besides, I want to see my mum.

TC (imitating whiny toddler): ‘I wanna see my mum.’ Oh grow up.

You: That’s out of order. You’re being really selfish. You can forget about going on holiday now.

TC starts to cry, as friends emerge from dark corners and flock around, twittering, ‘Oh my God, what’s up?’ ‘Are you alright?’ ‘Oh sweetheart, ahhh, don’t get upset, has he made you cry?’

TC: I don’t want to talk about it. He’s just called me a selfish bitch. (Gasps from friends, accusing eyes on you)

You: I’m really sorry…I didn’t say bitch…I…just…

TC: Sob. But. Sob. You. Sob. Said. Sob. I. Sob. Was. Sob. Selfish. Sob sob.

You: I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s go home. (Now. Quickly. Away from the baying mob)

Whoever gave her Tiny Tears as a child didn’t realise she was going to use the doll as her role model for the rest of her life. If only scientists could figure out a way of regulating the ebb and flow of water as deftly as she does, East Anglia would breathe a sigh of relief.

You will soon learn never to thwart her. Because if you do, she will wield the water torture. You, the kind-hearted gent that you are, will be struggling to come to terms with the fact that all you ever do is make your girlfriend cry.

You awful, unfeeling, callous bastard. But wait—think about it. The tears are for you and you alone. Funny how she can sit granite-faced as a friend tells her about a heartbreaking love split, or remain unmoved and dry-eyed through TV scenes of famine and war. But then she would, because there’s absolutely nothing in it for her if she blubbers over starving orphans.

Crying isn’t an indication of her empathy with the suffering of humanity. Crying is control. And if she hasn’t got her own tragedy to use as a weapon against you, she’ll just hijack someone else’s.

You and TC in bed; you reading, TC, back to you, huffing.

You (resignedly): You OK?

TC huffs.

You (placing book down): I am not driving all the way to Inverness in one day.

TC huffs.

You: It’s ridiculous. If we take the sleeper, we can make an adventure of it, we arrive fresh…

TC huffs.

You:…we’ll have the whole day to ourselves. I won’t be knackered from driving. And anyway, the weather’s rubbish—we wouldn’t even be able to have the soft top down…