Husbands Read Free Page B

prepare my body forpregnancy. Look, he might be right. I might conclude the same after my ‘me-time’. Or I might not. I have issues. It’s complex.
    I can see that some kids are nice kids. My friends’ kids, for example. Amelie’s eight-year-old, Freya, and six-year-old Davey, and Laura’s Eddie, are ‘nice kids’. If they weren’t I probably wouldn’t see their mums or at least not until the children were safely tucked up in bed. If, one day, I was ever to have kids I’d definitely want ‘nice ones’, like Freya, Davey and Eddie. But ‘if’ and ‘one day’ are the phrases I’m most likely to use when I talk about kids, whereas Philip has chosen names and picked out schools for an entire football team.
    I keep telling him there’s no rush, I’m just thirty. Phil and my friends view my considered approach out of character; I’m famed for making rash decisions (few of which, in retrospect, are ever too brilliant, which is my point). In the past I changed job and home with the same frequency as other people change their sheets. Historically, I haven’t been too reliable with men either. So, I’m rather proud of my cautious and considered approach to motherhood. Philip doesn’t see it that way; he thinks I’m being obstreperous. We’ve been married just shy of six months and in his ideal world I would now be five months up the duff. I’m just getting used to ordering for
two
when I ring the pizza delivery guy.
    ‘I like getting up to see you off to work,’ I smile and I plant a fat kiss on Phil’s lips. He pats my bum and grins appreciatively. Secretly, he likes the fact that I always scramble out of bed to wave him off to work in the mornings; he values any effort I make. I yawn widely.
    ‘Were you on the phone to Amelie until late last night?’ he asks.
    I nod. ‘Amelie and then Laura.’
    ‘How are they?’
    ‘Amelie was a bit quiet. It was Ben’s birthday yesterday. He would have been thirty-seven.’
    ‘That poor woman. She’s done so well.’
    ‘I know. She’s endured Christmas, the children’s birthdays, her birthday. It’s so sad, isn’t it? Previously, these were such joyous occasions, now they are just horrible days she has to get through. It just keeps going on and on.’
    I met Amelie Gordon six years ago when I got a job as a cleaner and general dogsbody at Richmond Rep Theatre. At that time I had a vague notion that I might like to ‘get into theatre’, perhaps be a make-up artist or a set designer. Ben was a playwright and, that season, Amelie was producing one of his plays. It soon became apparent to me that Amelie was a trooper. Not only had she just given birth to Davey but she managed everything from ticket sales to resolving artistic differences between the cast. She even rolled up her sleeves and painted scenery alongside me. Lots of Ben’s success can be attributed to Amelie’s talents and dedication.
    Amelie is the sort who glares back at the bullying brutality and realities of life with courage and humour. I haven’t got the same va-va-voom. I’m not a shrinking violet but then nor am I the sort of woman who faces problems full on. When inevitable difficulties or even inconveniences come my way, I try to ignore them. I can be very boy-like. I fill my life with inconsequentialconcerns; I dance, duck and dive past harsh realities. I used to hate it when it came to handing in my notice, however frequently I did it. Invariably I’d resort to sending an e-mail as I walked out of the office on Friday night. Neither I nor my staple gun was ever to be seen again. I was also a bit of a wuss when it came to giving guys the elbow. I’d ignore calls, break dates and let bunches of flowers wilt rather than say that I didn’t fancy someone any longer.
    If Amelie is an owl, then I’m an ostrich and my friend Laura is a swan. She’d tell you she is a duck because her self-esteem isn’t what it should be. But she is a swan.
    Even though Amelie is one of my best friends