- I saw how you ogled that blonde with the low-cut top.- What of it? A man can look.
I grimaced. This was not the same man as the one on our honeymoon in Fiji, just 10 days ago. How could I make him see that I could not stand him flirting with other women?
It was early evening after a meal of bolognese. Richard put his pink coffee cup into the sink, adding to the pile, the two-day old pile smelling of frying oil. Was this how married life was supposed to start? Then he said he was going out, hardly paused to answer my question.
- Oh, I guess I'll be back when we've drunk enough.
That wasn't what I wanted to hear. Was this the guy I had been super keen to marry just four weeks ago? After he slammed the door, I attacked the dishes with a fury. They seemed like symbols of servitude. The rushing sound of the water did nothing to calm me.
I slipped into our sheets patterned with magpies at midnight, giving in to sleep, giving up waiting. I awoke with a bang that seemed to be a plane crash in my dream of flying to Africa. When the dream dissipated, I was relieved to be unharmed. He had knocked over the bedside lamp.
- Sorry, was all he said.
- What's the time?
- Two, I think, said he, plonking down next to me half undressed.
- You stink of liquor.
- Why wouldn't I?, he answered, turning away. Before I could think of a reply, he began snoring softly.
He was still smelly in the morning when I woke at eight. I had slept badly, felt as hung-over as he looked. I shook him awake and told him to shower. Surprisingly, he complied without protesting. As I banged our technicolour muesli bowls on the plastic table, I asked whether this was his new normal.
- Nah, only on Fridays, when I see the guys.
- And where did you go?
- Oh, just to a gentleman's club and a handful of bars.
It was time to take a stand. My voice rose in pitch despite my efforts.
- Your carousing days are over. You are now a married man. Did you forget?
- Actually, it might be time to clear something up.
- Like what?
- This monogamy business. It's a sort of prison, don't you think?
- I don't.
- Maybe I should've told you this before, but when it comes down to it, I'm all for polyamory.
- What the heck is that? Something to do with guns?
- It's like open marriage, where each person remains free.
- You mean sexually, to sleep around?
- You got it.
I didn't know how to respond. We had not discussed this before. I just assumed we'd be a normal couple. What was wrong with this guy? I needed time to think and to absorb this.
We were sharing a meal at a dhaba, an Indian eatery with Virasana. It was noisy so we could hardly hear each other, with the background sitar music almost inaudible. Cooking smells and spices were thick in the air. She was my good friend, with a smile as wide as the Ganges, where her father came from. Her skin was the colour of low octane chocolate and her long black hair would shine in total darkness. As usual, she wore bright colours, contrasting reds and greens, which looked better than they would on any white woman. We sat on hard wooden chairs, sharing Punjabi dishes and drinking mango lassis when suddenly, it happened.
I was swamped by a surge of sexual feeling, of desire. I felt my vagina lubricate, my heart palpitate and my muscles tense. I must have gone red, though no-one seemed to notice. The feeling was directed not at Richard, but at Virasana. I had no lesbian tendencies, so why this sudden rush for another woman? Then I knew... It wasn't me. I was feeling directly what was happening to Richard. It was his fired up response to my friend. She ignited him like a blowtorch. I felt a primal attraction to Virasana. Physically, internally I felt for the first time what it was like to be Richard. To be at the mercy of hormones. It was doubly uncomfortable, because of being a tsunami of feeling and also for it being directed at a woman rather than a man.
Then, as abruptly as it came, it vanished. I was back in my own skin. I felt almost empty, deadened after the ebb of sexual energy. I was numb, trying to process what had happened. The burning chilli in my mouth became almost bland. Virasana and Richard chatted about the food, with no apparent sexual tension between them. They were unaware of what I had just experienced. That I would never see Richard the same way as before. What I had taken to be aggressive sexuality was actually vulnerability. He was not in charge. The brain below ruled his system. Yet it gave me no feeling of sympathy. It made me realise how little I really knew him. How alien he was. To make it worse, I knew that he would never feel for me what he could so readily feel for another female who caught his fancy. I wondered where did this leave me, what were my options? Should I confront him? I thought he would brush it off if I did. I did not know what to do with my anger and confusion.
It was our Sunday evening together time, with incense burning pungently. We were sitting close together on the spongy, beige corduroy couch. I was watching a barely believable romcom, he was scrolling his mobile. I paused the movie. I could not hold back any longer.
- My clock is ticking, do you know?
- What? You don't wear a watch.
- I mean the body clock.
- Oh, well, you've got time.
- You know what they call women my age who have a child?
- Mid-term electors?
- Elderly primates.
- That sounds funny.
- Not funny. We need to talk.
- Can we do it another time? I just found this super game I want to play.
- All you do is play. I'm telling you straight. I want a baby.
- What?! We just came back from our honeymoon, we're about to move home, our cat is neurotic, I'm on probation in a new job, the outlaws hate me, and you want a baby on top of all that? Already?
- Not already. At last. I'm 37.
He started playing his game using earphones. End of conversation. A week passed.
- Guess what? I asked him. We were starting to undress before bedtime in our minuscule bedroom with its prison-grey walls and window facing a brick wall. He may have felt randy, I was anything but.
- What?
- What's the capital of Burkina Faso?
- Who cares?
- Can you find out?
- Sure. My phone knows it all.
He padded his pockets and checked all the usual places he leaves it.
- Where is the damn thing?
- Hidden. Hidden where you'll never find it.
He looked at me sharply.
- What do you want?
- A conversation.
- Not babies again, for Christ's sake!
- You got it.
He threw his head back, groaned and raised his arms in the air.
- You have to give me some time. Let things settle down, get into married life. Let's not rush into this.
- How long? - I pressed.
He pondered for a while.
- Oh, one year. Can you wait that long?
- Is that a firm commitment?
Then it came again. That spike of transferred feeling. Despite his calm voice, inside burned panic. I could almost feel sorry for him. Except that I hated being lied to. Hated him for being a liar.
- Yes, scout's honour. Twelve months.
There was no point discussing further. I pretended to be satisfied with his reply. Inwardly, it was my turn to panic, but on my own account. I saw divorce, a desperate search for another man against the clock. Getting older, too old. It was all I could do to prevent him seeing the tears that were welling up.
A week later, warm at dusk, I sat wearing a pink tracksuit on a smooth rock by the bay. Vague sounds of boats were drifting across to me. Exposed seaweed imparted its smell to the evening. I let my feet submerge in the cold water, despite wearing sandshoes. I didn't care. My feet felt just like my wedded bliss. I savoured the lingering bitter taste of an espresso. Richard was not the solution to my quest to become a mother. But did I need a man? Many fathers are little more than sperm donors anyway. I could be a single mum. I'd not be the first to make that choice. There was IVF too. It worked well these days, expensive but effective. You could even choose the father!
Did I have the courage to go it alone? I would not know till I tried.
I would.