Proving Them Wrong

       Primula Bond

      Marrying a guy eight years younger than me was always going to stir up a debate, but I never could have foreseen how toxic people’s opinions would become, how paradoxical the noxious mix of fierce criticism and green-eyed jealousy. I was too troubled by the poison they were pouring in my ears to stand back and laugh at the sheer hypocrisy of it all.

      ‘He’ll be off once you forget to dye out the grey,’ mused my friend Rose as we sat in the salon with foil on our heads.

      ‘He’ll be having cybersex with impossibly skinny avatars to take his mind off that wobble you can’t hide when you’re naked,’ whispered my younger sister Suzie, dropping off my niece to babysit.

      ‘Mum says I’m to watch out he doesn’t try to grab me when I’m here, but he’s too old for me,’ confided my niece. ‘My boyfriend Ollie thinks he’s ace, though. He’s seen him play rugby and lead sax all in the same weekend!’

      Yes indeedy, he really is that fantastic, my husband. Rugby for fun, jazz for a living, and able to put in dream kitchens to please his wife. Sex on a stick, obviously. A brilliant father. Scandinavian. Too good to be true, you’re all thinking.

      But late last summer the comments got too much. We’d been married five years by then, our eldest was four and our twins were two years old. I was happy but I was tired and out of shape. They were all round for lunch and Rose was helping me thread tikka chicken chunks onto skewers.

      She has blonde hair to match my husband’s. Except hers is all soft, blow-dried curls. His is tough, manly hair that springs upright with a life of its own from his handsome head.

      ‘Don’t you have to keep your eyes peeled the whole time, Sara?’

      Sven was lighting the barbie and opening a beer bottle with his teeth. He wasn’t topless like the Pepsi ad, but he was in jeans and a pink T-shirt which showed the ripple of muscle down his ribs, and he was wiping sweat from his forehead, his hair sticking up in natural, naughty spikes.

      ‘Only for looking at him,’ I said, taking a swig of Pimm’s.

      ‘Oh, I could look at him all day. All the mummies cluster round at the school gate, you should see it. He’s like a magnet.’

      ‘Just like they are now, you mean?’ I threw some more mint into the Pimm’s jug. ‘What’s wrong with their own men, for God’s sake?’

      ‘They’d rather spend all day in the pub than take their wives for romantic dinners like your Sven does. They all want a piece of him.’

      ‘Who? The husbands or the wives?’

      She laughed. ‘Both!’

      ‘They can go throw stones at another greenhouse.’ I tossed some salad leaves, enjoying the wet mess of olive oil and balsamic on my fingers.

      ‘Just saying. You sure he never gets restive?’ Her lips were hanging open as her husband Jon and my Sven, still holding their beer bottles, kicked a beach ball round the lawn for the kids.

      ‘As sure as I can be.’ I picked up the plate of kebabs, trying to ignore the cold uncertainty in my chest. ‘He’s loving, sexy and faithful.’

      ‘You’re a lucky girl, Sara. Let’s just hope he doesn’t try to hump me behind the shed by the time we get to the ice-cream.’

      A couple of months later I was able to prove my so-called sisters spectacularly wrong. And after the lesson I taught them, they toe the line now. Believe me.

      * * *

      When Sven got tickets for a rugby match at Twickenham, Rose’s man Jon, my brother-in-law Rick and young Ollie all begged to come along.

      It was cold, foggy and late when they all came back to ours.

      ‘Darling, they couldn’t stop for a bit, could they, finish off that casserole and have some more to drink?’

      Sven had found me sitting at my art deco dressing table, preening in my nightie. A rather glam one, actually, dark-red silk, trimmed with lace. Not my usual attire, and probably more sophisticated than my younger mates would wear, but I was planning to remind him how much better my company would be than that of the yelling blokes he’d been with all day.

      ‘I was hoping they were all going to bugger off and leave us on our own.’ I turned my mouth down sulkily. It was painted dark red to match my negligee. Could he not see the effort I was making? ‘But I’m quite happy up here, halfway through a bottle of Chablis –’

      ‘They’re all on hall passes.’ He put his arms tight around me, kissed me on the neck, made me shiver as he knew it would. He drew his tongue down the bony ladder of my spine. ‘But they love coming to our house. It’s so laid back here, you’re always so welcoming –’

      ‘OK, you’ve sucked up enough.’ I batted him away with a smack on his cute ass. ‘Go enjoy.’

      ‘We want you to join the party. You’re nothing like the other girls. The boys have the hots for you, Sara.’

      ‘You would say that.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘You disgusting lot, all smelling of beer.’

      ‘All on best behaviour. They asked me to come and get you.’

      He was kissing round my face to my mouth. He knows I’m putty in his hands when he does that with