The Secrets of Married Women Read Free

door?’
    ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Don’t put that unpleasant thought in my head right now.’ She gawps at the offending lads who are now chatting up the two babies who look like they’ve forgotten to put their tops on. ‘Oh come on Jill, this place is making me gag. I don’t even know what we’re doing here. I feel like going home and scrubbing myself in a shower.’
    I neglect to remind her that coming here was her idea.
    We finish our drinks and leave. It’s refreshingly chilly, and spitting on to rain, a fine spray visible only under the blue of the streetlamps. I breathe in the oily Newcastle dampness, aware that my hearing has almost gone dim from all the loud music. I love this revamped part of the city, especially at night. The Blinking Eye bridge lit up with blue lights . The Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, a converted flourmill, floodlit against the night sky. And the new Sage Centre for Music that reminds you of a stainless steel seashell, or a giant cream horn as my dad calls it. The new Newcastle that has lost its scent of coalmines and unemployment lines. A group of girls jig past us, linking arms, singing Kylie songs, and doing their drunken version of the Can-Can. Leigh and I walk without saying much, as lights from the Sage Centre bob a reflection on the river and cars drum noisily over the Tyne Bridge. She seems bleak again. I realise that sometimes the people I know the most are the ones I least understand. I listen to our heels clack on the wet cobblestones.
    The lovely silver Mercedes SL 500, whose alarm I set off when I accidentally nudged it as I tried to squeeze my Jetta between it and a BMW X5, is still parked behind me. I’m about to get in my car when I notice something under my wiper. ‘What’s that?’ Leigh asks.
    It doesn’t look like a parking ticket. I pull out the somewhat soggy piece of paper and read: I saw you scratch my car. So instead of compensation, how about a drink ? And under that is the name Andrey and a phone number.
    I am rather amazed and taken aback. My eyes dart from his very fancy car to the steamed-up window of Still Life, where, without looking obvious, I try to see if I can see a man who looks like an Andrey, not that I know what an Andrey would look like. But there’s just a lot of silhouettes planted against the glass. I stand there lost in a big smirk, staring at that car and biting the paper. I have to admit, this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me every day. I wonder if he’s gorgeous. Like he would be if my life were a movie.
    ‘What is it then?’ Leigh’s white face peers across the car roof, through a blue-lit rain.
    It’s on the tip of my tongue to show her. And on better nights we’d have a chuckle and speculate whether he’d be good in bed, and she’d share some sordid story about a past hi-jinx with a man named Andrey. Then she’d wave me off at her door, and I’d sparkle all the way home—that fabulous after-effect of having a good night out with a great friend. But something tells me not to bother. So I slip the paper into my bag. ‘Oh nothing. Just a flyer.’
     
    ~ * * * ~
     
    ‘Leigh had a bit of a freak-out,’ I tell Rob when I slip under the duvet beside him, relieved to be home beside him. Rob always loves the stories of the girls’ nights out. Rob never has stories of his nights out. Rob thinks if he talks about anything other than sport with his pals, they’re all being gay or something.
    He turns and lifts an arm for me to snuggle under, sniffs my hair. ‘You smell like an ashtray.’
    ‘Eau du Fags. It’s the new fragrance by Givenchy.’ I poke him in the ribs. ‘Anyway, what you doing in bed this early? Did your girlfriend just leave?’
    ‘Didn’t you pass her on the way in?’ I feel him smile against my cheek. ‘Why did Leigh throw a wobbler then?’
    The cold steel rain, heavy now, scatters on the windows that flank our bed, and nestling under Rob’s arm is truly the closest thing to my heaven.