Desperate Husbands Read Free Page A

work, and a little subterfuge, but finally we are momentarily united. I lead her to the bedroom, grateful that we are both at last on the same page.
    When Sunday dawns the atmosphere has chilled. I’ve only just awoken after the frenzied delights of the night before, but I can see Jocasta is already reading. Inwardly I groan: it’s Tolstoy. Even worse: Sunday is a pretty busy day—we’ve got to do the shopping, clean the house and take our two sons to their soccer matches. I cannot imagine the combination with Tolstoy will be a good one.
    I ask her if she’s enjoying the book, but she shooshes me. She says she’s sick of having her brain full of the trivia of this family. ‘Everyone else seems to manage to concentrate on one thing, so I’m concentrating on Tolstoy.’
    It is a worrying development. For a start, the Tolstoy is very long. Even worse, its philosophical tone can stimulate far too much questioning in a person.
    Jocasta swings herself out of bed, her eyes fixed to the book, and wanders out to the back porch. Some hours pass. I send Batboy and his younger brother, The Space Cadet, to check on her. ‘She’s just sitting there, Dad,’ says The Space Cadet. ‘Reading.’
    I whisper to Batboy: ‘Go ask her what time your soccer is and whether it’s our turn to bring the oranges.’ With the right bait, there’s still a chance we’ll be able to hook her back into some sort of reality. I watch Batboy as he goes out and speaks to her. It’s good news. I can see she’s saying something back.
    ‘What was it?’ I ask Batboy when he returns. He grimaces. ‘She says Vronsky has decided to ride into St Petersburg, despite the winter snows.’
    It’s worse than I thought. I give The Space Cadet the empty Weetbix box so he can have a try. ‘Tell her you’re hungry and does she know if there’s any more cereal.’ I creep closer to the back door and listen into the answer. ‘If the Samovar is cold,’ Jocasta says to her son, ‘then one must reheat it.’
    I wonder what happened to my Tennessee Williams neurotic, my virtuous Tibetan and—most of all—my Sex and the City tart. I march out to confront her, only to find that a certain Russian weariness has overtaken her.
    ‘Here’s what it’s like in my head,’ she says, pausing midway through a page, her finger marking the spot. ‘I’m sick of thinking about forty-seven different things at any single time. I’m sick of thinking about really trivial and pedestrian stuff, like the way both the kids need new shoes. And that we need, by tomorrow, to buy a birthday present for Bryonii. And that nobody has rung up your cousin to say we’re sorry her dog died. And that the ironing has piled up so badly it’s spilling out of the baskets and onto the floor. And all this is before I even start thinking about my paid work.’
    In situations like these, it’s important to move beyond mere sympathy and to offer some practical advice. Luckily, I’ve been reading some Hemingway and feel I can channel his manly and straightforward response.
    ‘You’re organising things all wrong, that’s the problem,’ I tell her, leaning back against the back door in a way that allows the sunlight to glance across my chiselled features. ‘I’ll give you an example. We could go to the shop and buy a single present for Bryonii. Or, instead, we could go and buy a whole load of children’s birthday presents—say eight boys’ presents and five girls’ presents. Then just keep them in a box and dole them out when appropriate. Efficiency, youunderstand. And we should do more cooking in bulk and then freeze it for the week.’
    I slap the doorjamb and offer her a reassuring smile. ‘There you go—problem solved.’
    She gives me a look in which all the winters of Russia seem concentrated. It has the chill of a thousand snowdrifts, combined with all the merry bonhomie of a Siberian salt mine. I decide, much like the Germans in Stalingrad in 1942, to beat a hasty