Puppies Are For Life. Linda Phillips
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gone to bed hours ago.
‘Well, you can see what it is. It’s a teapot stand. Made out of mosaic tiles. I’ve just finished it.’
Paul blinked and looked more closely. ‘Ah,’ was his only comment.
‘Is that all you have to say, Ah?’ Susannah glared first at her husband, then at the article in her hand. ‘What’s wrong with it then?’
‘Um …’ He scratched the back of his head and cast her a sideways glance. ‘You do want an honest opinion?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, not meaning it, and something inside her went phut.
‘Well,’ he said, frowning, ‘it’s a bit – I don’t know. What’s the word – crude, maybe?’
‘Crude? Crude? What do you mean, crude? This, I’ll have you know, happens to be based on a Graeco-Roman design!’
‘Is that so?’ He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his bony heels and treated her to one of his crooked, most supercilious little smiles. ‘And did they actually have teapots in those days, do you think?’
‘What? Who? Oh, you – aargh!’ She snarled furiously, and flung it at his grinning head. It missed by inches and hit the wall, making a gash in the new magnolia silk-finish before bursting out of its wooden frame.
It was still lying in pieces on the carpet back at home, as shattered as her dreams.
No, Susannah decided, she couldn’t tell Molly all that; it was somehow much too private. Ignoring her salad she leaned forward on her elbows.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we had a bit of a barney last night, Paul and I.’
‘You and –?’ Molly’s eyes grew round. ‘Good heavens.’
‘Yes. It’s not like us, is it? Well, it wasn’t exactly Paul’s doing, really; more my fault, I suppose.’
‘Never accept the blame for anything,’ was Molly’s prompt advice. ‘Takes two to tango, remember.’ She chewed thoughtfully on a bread roll, as though a picture of Paul doing a tango – all knotty knees and elbows – had temporarily taken her attention.
‘Mmm …’ Susannah was considering her friend’s advice. She wished she could be assertive like Molly. And wasn’t that just her problem? There had been few occasions in her life when she had held out for what she believed to be right. Normally she was placid and easy-going, doing herself down, deferring to others for the sake of a quiet life. She hated scenes; it was only when pushed to extremes that she was inclined to dig in her heels and say all manner of things that she wouldn’t have dreamed of saying in the normal course of events.
One such incident came to mind right now – one that she had long since lived to regret, because parents were always right in the long run, weren’t they? At eighteen she had defied her father and refused to re-sit a history A-level that she had badly failed. What was the point, she’d wanted to know? Taking after her mother, she was hopelessly non-academic; she would never achieve a pass. She might as well give up any idea she might have had about going to college.
Her father had been livid. A teacher at the boys’ part of the grammar school she attended, and struggling for excellence in all things so that he might one day make it to headmaster, it was hardly surprising that he did not take kindly to his daughter’s new-found independence. But Susannah had stuck to her guns. She left school with her one A-level in Art and launched herself into the job market, landing – to her delight – a reasonably well-paid clerical job with a travel agent. Those were the days! Money in her purse. Clothes. The swinging sixties. And she had met Paul.
‘Anyway –’ Molly brought her back to the matter in hand – ‘what was it that triggered off the row? That is, if it’s not a state secret?’
‘No-o, no, it’s more – well – embarrassing.’ Susannah hesitated while she picked open a minuscule paper napkin. ‘I ended up throwing something at him, would you believe?’
Molly’s next look was one of amazed admiration. ‘Lord, what I would have given to see that! You, losing your cool for once, and the mighty Paul with his dignity in shreds.’ She shook her head, chuckling.
‘But I was the one who lost my dignity,’ Susannah was quick to point out. She stared miserably at her plate. ‘Paul remained his usual gentlemanly self. He just looked at me kind of stunned and walked away. Oh dear. I’m going to have to apologise this evening, I know I am, and I’m not looking forward to it one bit.’
‘Don’t do it then.’ Molly grunted. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She began to dig into a bowl of cold pasta, bringing fat rubbery twirls to her mouth in bundles of no less than six. ‘I’m sure he must have asked for it. Men usually do.’ She chewed quickly and gulped down a stream of Coke. ‘But really, I can’t imagine you two rowing. There can’t be anything to row about. You’ve got everything you could possibly want in life: more money than you really need; a cottage most people would die for. And your kids are off your hands. What more do you want, Susannah – jam on your wodge of cake? Cream on top of the jam?’
‘But – but material things aren’t everything,’ Susannah argued timidly. She stared at a distant window. ‘Molly … haven’t you ever wanted – well – personal fulfilment, I suppose is what I’m getting at? And – and recognition? Oh, not just for being a mother and a boring old pay-clerk, but for being good at something that counts? For doing something you’ve always wanted to do and –’
But then she noticed the lines of discontent that had gathered round Molly’s lips, and was suffused with guilt. Molly was struggling to bring up three growing children on a pittance in a council house, she hadn’t had a holiday in years and there was no man in her life at all. How could she be expected to understand?
‘Oh –’ Susannah ran a hand through her short hair – ‘you don’t want to hear about my petty little problems, Molly. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘They weren’t petty little problems just now. I thought the world had come to an end.’
‘But things get on top of me at times, just like they do with anyone. Oh, I don’t know, Moll. Perhaps all the decorating’s taken it out of me.’
‘Perhaps you should take another holiday,’ Molly couldn’t help adding with more than a touch of sarcasm. The Hardings had only recently returned from a Lake District weekend in a plush hotel. They were always bombing off somewhere for ‘a little treat’.
Susannah pushed away her plate with an air of resignation. ‘OK, fair enough. So I’m a spoilt bitch. I’ve got a wonderful life and I should be grateful for it. Let’s just say I’m going through some sort of mid-life crisis and leave it at that.’ She stood up and tucked her bag under her arm. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, Molly, but I must get back to the office. I need all the Flexi I can muster for that funeral I’m going to tomorrow.’
She began to hurry away, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid hearing Molly mutter to herself: ‘Mid-life crisis my giddy aunt!’ Her tone implied that life for most people was a whole series of crises – real ones. And that Susannah didn’t know she was born.
Not a single red light. Not one tail-back of traffic. Susannah’s Peugeot hummed homeward that evening on virtual auto-pilot, leaving her too much time to think. Time to think about uncomfortable things like whether Molly was right about not apologising: should she apologise to Paul, or he to her? He had practically asked to have something thrown at him, after all.
The gears clashed from fifth to second as she changed down for the Sainsbury’s roundabout. Why should she be the one to climb down? Where had his support been when she needed it? All he had done was belittle her efforts. But then, wasn’t that what he had always done?
Her thoughts flew back to their early days together, when Simon was just a toddler and Katy no more than an infant. Paul had risen