Blueberry Massacre

Usually, on waking, I find myself crushed on either side by Ivy and Alistair. Ivy migrates into our bed at some point during the night, even though I’ve repeatedly told her not to. Today was an unusual morning, in that I felt only Ivy’s small warm body pressed against me. She was murmuring in her sleep, her head pressed against my shoulder.

Rolling away from her, I registered the dent Alistair’s head had made on the pillow. A sharp burst of fury reared up inside me at the thought of him, then flickered and died.

As I got up and headed towards the bathroom, my hangover felt blurry. I padded down the hall, hands outstretched, as if walking through a snow flurry. After taking a long shower, I dressed and went downstairs.

I went into the kitchen and kissed Ivy, who was, amazingly, already wearing her school uniform. Constanza, in a low cut top featuring a diamante-encrusted lion’s head, was sizzling waffles in a griddle which I had no recollection of owning. Her skin looked as fresh and dewy as a rose petal, which was truly incredible, seeing as she’d spent all night dancing at a sweaty club. Or had she?

As Alistair dashed into the kitchen, I looked him over objectively. His broad shoulders really filled out his well-tailored navy suit, making him look powerful, sexy even. What was going on? Was that? Could it be? Yes, something was definitely stirring in my nether regions. A languid stirring, like a dozing cat rearranging itself on a windowsill, but still, a sign, maybe, that our marriage wasn’t quite dead yet.

Ivy shrieked, “Daddy!” before running over and hooking herself onto one of his feet, a habit she’d developed as a one year old, and which she was now a good twenty pounds too heavy for.

“Ah, Constanza!” Alistair hobbled over to where she stood at the stove, dragging Ivy along with him. “I really owe you one, big time.”

Looking up from putting waffles on plates and smothering them in blueberry sauce, she said, “I am happy to help out.” Then, as Alistair gave her a dopey grin, she slowly dipped her finger into the batter and licked off the pale goo. Cripes, Tanya was right. The woman really did have an oral fixation.

“Ivy, why you not get off your Dad’s foot?” said Constanza.

“No I won’t,” Ivy said. “I don’t have to do what she says, do I Daddy?”

Alistair wasn’t listening, he was too busy ogling Constanza’s behind, as she carried the plates over to the table.

“I can’t stand her,” Ivy whined, still shackled to Alistair’s foot. “She took the TV out of my room. And she says I have to get up and be dressed by seven. I feel like I’m living in a prism.”

“Don’t you mean prison?” Alistair said distractedly.

“No I don’t. I mean prism.”

“Don’t be a silly, Ivy,” said a smiling Constanza, evidently not noticing that Ivy had rapidly dismounted Alistair’s foot and thrown herself in her path. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched her trip over Ivy, giving a high pitched scream as she tumbled to the ground. After the waffles had stopped flying and the plates had stopped shattering, Alistair was left looking down at the blueberry splotches on his white shirt.

Once Constanza had dragged Ivy upstairs, both of them splattered with blue clumps, I went up to Alistair, who was dabbing at his shirt with a dishcloth.

“You know I waited all bloody evening for you, don’t you?” I said, trying to keep calm.

He looked up at me blankly.

“The anniversary dinner I cooked for you last night? I left a message on your voice-mail and with your PA. Ring any bells?”

“Not really. I was too busy working from a client’s office to check my voice-mail, and Joanna didn’t pass on any message.”

“Or maybe you told her not to bother you if your wife called.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“I don’t think so.” I couldn’t really see any other explanation for his PA not passing on the message. “By the way, what do you owe Constanza for?”

“Oh, she walked in on me this morning while I was in the laundry room. I was trying to iron a shirt and making a pig’s ear of it. She offered to iron it, that’s all.”

“And you let her?”

“What was I meant to do, wake you up and ask you to do it?” He threw the dishcloth into the sink and walked over to the wall mirror. Taking a tie from his jacket pocket, he started to knot it over the blueberry-splattered shirt.

Despite the fact that something about Constanza ironing his shirt was riling me, I also felt guilty. I usually did his shirts myself. I actually find ironing quite therapeutic. But what with one thing and another, like spending too much time fantasizing about Irish hunks and not enough time fantasizing about bleach, I had recently gotten behind on the laundry.

“By the way, what time did you come in last night?” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Two or three. I don’t really remember.” When he turned to face me, his eyes were blazing. “Honestly,” he hissed. “You wanted the fancy frigging house and the best school for Ivy and the exclusive gym membership you don’t use, and the holidays in Mustique. It doesn’t all appear out of thin air you know. I work. In a damn good job. And when the shit hits the fan, I’ve got to be there to unstick it from the fan.” He raked his fingers through his hair, so that it stuck up all over the place.

A cleaned-up Ivy had appeared at his elbow. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

We both ignored her.

“I work too.”

He laughed. “Yeah, okay you work. Then let’s get a flipping cleaner in to do the laundry. We can well afford it.”

Constanza came up behind Ivy, handed her a Hello Kitty backpack and silently led her into the hall.

As soon as the door had closed, I let rip. “I’ll do my own washing, thank you very much. We had that cleaner, remember, and she buggered up my silk underwear, because she couldn’t be bothered to hand wash it.” I shook my head and shuddered. “I mean, how could she? Putting my silks in the machine, on a hot wash! And it could just as easily happen again.”

He barged passed me, saying, “Excuse me if I don’t have time to discuss your underwear,” and stormed out.

I hoped he had a clean shirt to change into at the office. But he probably didn’t. Because I’d got behind with washing his shirts.

He was heading off to the office wearing a badly stained shirt.

Why that fact should have made me feel impossibly depressed, I really don’t know. But it did.

Flipping heck, I’m so stressed out I could scream. I really need some pampering, any ideas?

It's called the Ten-Year Itch apparently!

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Is Alistair Up To No Good?

Today, Mr Haemorrhoid popped his head into my office. He was all hot and flustered. What was it now? Not Curly Mackaw again, surely?

“I really need to talk to you,” he said.

Well, that was a good start. Maybe I’d been too hasty in writing him off. Maybe he was just incredibly backward about coming forward.

As I jumped up and walked round to the front of my desk, I noticed that he was looking particularly delectable today, in a charcoal suit and pale pink shirt. His mauve tie made the intense blue of his eyes pop. The colour of forget-me-nots, I thought dreamily, as he cocked his head to one side and said, “Have you ever had a problem with people eating your product?”

What?

What the hell kind of chat up line was that?

I kept my smile glued to my face. I wasn’t beaten yet. According to Tanya, any conversation could be turned into a flirting opportunity, as long as you made sure you were displaying your body in the most seductive way possible. And since my legs were bare and I was wearing a short white skirt, what could be simpler than giving another of Tanya’s top tips, the Sharon Stone, a whirl?

So, giving him my sexiest look, I swung myself up onto the desk and started crossing and uncrossing my newly fake tanned legs, à la Basic Instinct. But I needn’t have bothered. Maybe I didn’t look enough like Sharon Stone, or maybe it was simply the fact that I was wearing panties. In any case, he seemed far more interested in the drooping spider plant behind me.

“Well, have you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes of course. They use Flowerette in old people’s homes all the time. And, as you can imagine, some of the old ‘uns are a bit gaga and mistake them for bread rolls.” I laughed. Uncrossed my legs. His glance hovered over my bare knees. I thought I detected his eyes flickering with lust, but it may just have been the strip lighting, which had been playing up lately. “Flowerette responded a few years ago by changing the formula of their products. Now they’re completely non-toxic. So, who’s been eating Villorex?”

“Only some moron who got stomach ulcers because of it, and is threatening to sue. I mean, how hard can it be to follow the instructions on the packet? They clearly state, ‘apply only to the affected area.’ I mean, Jesus, have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”

He started to pace the room, clearly preoccupied with the nutter who’d eaten haemorrhoid cream. Fine, I thought, feeling just a tad pissed off. If he wasn’t in the mood for flirting, I’d allow myself a little fun at his expense instead.

“Well, there was that case in the US where a woman kept spreading contraceptive jelly on her toast.”

“What happened?” He stopped pacing and took a step towards me. “Did she fall ill?”

“No, she fell pregnant.”

“Oh God.” Connor’s face had suddenly turned pale beige. “Don’t tell me, she got millions in compensation?”

I waited a moment, allowing the full satisfaction of the situation to sink in.

“Of course she didn’t. It’s an urban myth. Because even in the US, you can’t sue because you’re simply too dumb to understand the instructions.”

He looked hopeful. “But even if it doesn’t get to court, what if this guy goes to the papers?”

“Send him a case of cream as a sweetener to get him not to blab. But make sure you put big stickers on each tube saying ‘Only for use on the bottom.’ No, that’s too obscure, he’ll smear it on the soles of his feet. Put, ‘Only to be used on the haemorrhoid.’ There you go, case closed. You owe me one, buster.”

And then, I almost tumbled off my desk in shock, because he was right up near me, smelling of citrusy aftershave and leaning in towards me.

Finally. Finally he had read the signals. He was going to kiss me and make love to me on my desk. He’d take me roughly, thoroughly, like no man ever had before.

Or maybe he’d just kiss me on the cheek and make me whimper with disappointment.

“Sorry, are you in pain?” he said, giving a slight smile.

Suddenly I knew. I knew he knew I was gagging for him. And that smile showed that he knew I knew he knew.

“What?” I said, looking at his mouth, which had now stretched out into a smug bastard smile.

“Only you started to moan,” he said, pretending to be perplexed.

“Right. No. I mean yes. Yes.” I nodded. “I have toothache.”

“You should get that seen to.”

“I certainly will.”

And then, whatever erotic charge had hummed between us for a moment was broken, as he took a step back. “Thanks for your advice. You always manage to put things in perspective.”

As he started to walk away, a voice screamed, “Don’t go!” inside my head, while he slipped away, out the door, leaving me wildly turned on and slumped on my desk.

There was no doubt about it. Mr Haemorrhoid was going to be a very tough nut to crack.

Just Do It!

Today, I drove to work, my stomach knotted up with nerves. I’d decided I was going to ask Mr Haemorrhoid out. But what if he turned me down? What then?

The screeching of shock jock Curly Mackaw on the radio interrupted my train of thought. Curly, who was in the middle of judging a Whose Got the Biggest Haemorrhoid? competition, could be funny, albeit in a rather crude way, but I had an additional reason to tune in. The show was sponsored by Villorex, allowing me a tenuous, rather pathetic connection with Mr Haemorrhoid on my morning commute.

“We’ve got contestant number six here, bent over, and oh sweet Jesus, I think I’m going to lose my breakfast,” squealed Curly. “Good God! It’s as big as a golf ball. You say you’ve had it three years? Well, let me tell you, Pete Johnson, you are a very strong contender to win five thousand pounds and a lifetime’s supply of Villorex haemorrhoid cream.”

Wiping the dreadful vision of the golf ball sized haemorrhoid from my mind, I replaced it with the much more edifying image of Mr Haemorrhoid. No, he wouldn’t turn me down, I told myself firmly. Now it would simply be a matter of days before he kissed me, before he wrapped me in those big, strong arms and told me he’d been in love with me from the very first moment he clapped eyes on me …

The car behind beeped. Snapping out of my reverie, I noticed I’d been sitting at a green light, deep in contemplation. Get a grip, I told myself, nosing my pale blue SUV into the flow of traffic. Now Curly was screaming about a haemorrhoid that looked like Yoda. And there was more screaming awaiting me when I got to work. I was in the tiny kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee, when Mr Haemorrhoid, all six foot three, dark hair, piercing blue eyes and panty-melting Irish accent, wedged himself in beside me and started ranting.

“Did you hear it, that haemorrhoid competition on The Curly Mackaw Show?”

“Yeah, I did,” I said, inhaling him hungrily. His scent, citrusy aftershave mixed with the fresh sweat that shimmered at his temples, made me long to grab his tie and just reel him in, inch by inch, until we were face to face, mouth to mouth.

Connor was looking at me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to continue, so I said, “Great brand recognition for Villorex, wouldn’t you say?”

“No I would not.” He loosened his tie a fraction. It was the middle of flipping August, and while the rest of the office was in polo shirts and chinos, he was roasting, all done up like a turkey in foil that’s just been pulled from the oven. “Haemorrhoids are not a joke. Those poor contestants. They should have seen a doctor years ago. Villorex can’t save them now. When I did that sponsorship deal for Curly’s show, there was no mention of a contest. This is so not the kind of publicity I need for Villorex.”

I spooned instant coffee into two mugs. God it was exciting, to be standing next to someone who was so passionate, so ready to blow. It was getting very steamy in here, and the steam definitely wasn’t coming from the kettle, as I had flicked off the switch, preferring to stir the coffee granules into hot but not boiling water, as it saved me burning my mouth. I poured water into the mugs and looked at him coquettishly.

“You seem like you need to relax.”

He snorted. “Fat chance of that. I could brain that Curly Mackaw, I really could.”

I gave him my most alluring smile and said softly, “How about a quick one, after work?” Then, realizing what I’d said, I swiftly added, “I mean, a drink.”

“Look Scarlett, I’d love to, but I’m going to be working late doing damage limitation on this Curly thing.” He picked up his coffee and wandered off.

“Of course. I understand,” I said to his retreating back. Like hell I did. What in God’s name was so wrong with me that I was playing second fiddle to a haemorrhoid competition?

I stormed into my office and slammed my coffee onto my desk.

Fine, I thought. From now on I would no longer expend my energies flirting with a man who was clearly disinterested.

Mr Haemorrhoid was history.

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Grrr.... Mr Haemmorhoid playing it cool just fuels my fire and makes me want him all the more, even though rationally I know I’m going to get burned…don’t you think?

Should I have it off with Mr Haemorrhoid?

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