Guilty freedom

Sunday 7th January 2007

As a family, we did nevertheless spend Saturday in enthusiastic and animated activities with the kids. Any observer would have put us down I’m sure as poster people for A Very Happy Family. But all the while, Martin and I hardly exchanged a word. All our communication centred on the children or necessary logistics. And the very minute the kids were in bed, Martin announced flatly that he was off to the driving range and would eat up the leftovers with a fried egg on his return. He shuffled his clubs together, slung them over his shoulder, and the door slammed, me sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of tea, ‘Soothing’ this time. And so the day ended almost in the same way as it had begun. And the following day, Sunday, today, was really just like a Monday, because Martin disappeared off to work. Then, this evening, on his return from the office Martin ordered me to pack his Zegna suit bag and his Samsonite wheelie-case for the early Monday morning ‘red eye’ flight to Dublin (a new limited edition version, with riveted aluminium ‘industrial flooring’ effect casing, which he’d bought himself at Christmas – very statement and very Italian stallion: dreams of impressing, perhaps, female execs at the airport - those with glasses, sexy secretary suits and carefully coiffed hair, all begging to end up dismantled and crumpled? That's how marital paranoia begins, methinks...)

I don't get myself involved in the details of my husband's job, but apparently it's all about some Irish venture capitalists buying up a block of landmark properties in London, needing Martin and his P.R.associates to do whatever it is they do to bring together the deal makers in style and blow their trumpets loudly, while everyone gets hammered on champagne. More interesting, no doubt, than conversations with one's wife, the mother of your kids. More interesting maybe even then sex, but I really wouldn't know nowadays, sadly. The need for such an early wake-up excluded any further attempt at physical intimacy, and we were still barely communicating beyond the basics when we hit the sack on Sunday night. The children were, as always, disappointed at the thought of Daddy being so far away but buoyed at the promise of presents on his return. Myself, I don't really get the presents anymore I used to get when we were dating or engaged, so I'm just relieved at the prospect of being alone: freedom of a sort - until Friday evening!