To love and to cherish, 'till...

Saturday 6th January 2007

Eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, I’m already gnawing at Green and Black’s chocolate with my huge and steaming mug of organic herbal healing tea, caressing the keys of the laptop as a type of therapy. It’s still black outside, the kids are still asleep, and weariness is throbbing behind my temples. Martin left an hour ago to the gym to push weights, probably to ease his frustration. I was just grateful to see him go. I woke up to catch him, through half-sleep-encrusted eyes, pulling on expensive track-pants, the type that wick away the sweat, the bulk of his back turned to me in the grey darkness of the room, bedside light a dull glow.
Last night he returned from a business dinner with cocktails on his breath. I’d been exhausted from a particularly trying day of tantrums as Angel nurses a cold, and the added worry of having to prepare for the start of spring term. Starting to feel like I’m unsuccessfully fighting off some nasty fluey symptoms myself, a dull pulling and ache along the length of my backbone, I’d drifted off to some very welcome healing sleep. I’d vaguely heard the front door bang, the tap running in the bathroom, then felt his hands, in my semi-conscious state, drift along the contours of my side, feeling under my pyjamas. I pulled away, my body wanting only rest, my shattered mind yearning for the oblivion of sleep. “Please, Martin, I’m so tired, I need to sleep, I don’t feel well!” An annoyed grunt and he turned his shoulder theatrically, pulling the bedclothes with him. He’s drunk, I thought, and my insides curdled. At the worst of times, my husband’s childish, self-centred and arrogant. Son of Italian immigrants to South Africa, spoilt rotten by his mother, I should’ve seen it coming. At his best, he’s got charm and style, a sexy insoucience. The same easy charm that hooked me, until we had kids and I went off sex and Martin started to work late and we stopped talking, really talking. Now I’ve said it. But he’s the father of my children, and a very good father at that. It’s just a shame that I can, and do, imagine a different husband, or even - admittedly a wild hypothesis, considering the kids - not having one at all!
I take a break from writing and put the kettle on again. It may be an Alessi design (for kudos), but it’s soothingly old fashioned in that you’re actually boiling it on the hob (for comfort!). The bubbling sounds make me feel relaxed, allow me to stop and take breath, the ritual of having to wait and be patient for once in life. And the little blue bird which whistles when the water is boiled is just too cute. So, I love my tea. There’s a whole cupboard given over to this indulgence, from ‘Dr. Stuart’s Detox (a cleansing herbal infusion including dandelion root, burdock root, peppermint and spearmint to help detoxify the body...’ to ‘Clarity - Organic herbal blend to focus and uplift’, to ‘Calm – Camomile, Redbush, Lavender and Cocoa Beans’, as well as a blend to ‘Cleanse’, and my favourite: ‘Digestif – a refreshing infusion with fennel seeds and peppermint’ which stops the nervous stomach cramps! Similarly, I have a whole drawer given over to my chocolate addiction, my favourite being ‘Handmade truffles with Tarragon, Toasted Almonds and Calvados in 87% Costa Rican Chocolate’! 70% with chilli is also a great combo! And my top, top favourite: pink champagne truffles from Charbonell & Walker, chocolatier by Royal Appointment. Martin first bought them for me as a Christmas present, and when the novelty wore off for him I had to beg my Mum for a box for my birthday instead.
Just as I settle down to my moment of zen, Martin arrives with a click of the front-door latch and streams into the kitchen. I open my mouth to speak, but he walks straight past me. Straight to the washing machine in the tiny laundry room just off the right of the kitchen, opening his Nike sports-pack as he goes. One of Martin’s better habits to put his sweaty gym gear away(I'm grateful for small mercies)... I hear the Bosch’s round lid clunk, and then Martin’s back and it’s the turn of the stainless-steel fridge door to arch open, orange juice is poured, a too-loud waterfall in the reverberating silence. Then that too shuts with a bang. Like my marriage, says a little voice inside me. All thoughts of reconciliation dashed as Martin strides out, icy as the cold glass in his hand. I sit, feeling my blood drain away with the hurt but through my fingers catch a glimpse of the oversized station clock above the sink, its black hand stopped at just past midnight. Practicality in this life of motherly duty overrides feeling sorry for yourself so I get up, drag a chair over, fetch it down and change the battery. I wish I could do the same for myself.