Page 6 of The Woman in the Middle
Shay was wearing a black velvet dress, only a high-streetpurchase, and she’d worn it before, but she felt lovely in it. Coupled with heels, it lengthened her medium height and gave shape to her slim, curveless figure. She’d piled her long, thick hair into a half up-do, a style that suited her oval face, made her look every inch the Italian of her ancestors. In short, she felt as glamorous as she was ever going to get and she was so looking forward to this evening – with her handsome husband.
The waiter gave them both a leather-bound menu and Bruce’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he opened it.
‘Jesus Christ, look how much for a fillet steak. You could buy a bloody yacht for…’
Shay threw him a look that withered Bruce’s words on his lips.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll not look at the prices,’ he relented. Bruce wouldn’t have thought twice about paying ridiculous money for clothes, but he didn’t splash the cash so easily on more transient pleasures.
From the food menu, Shay chose the lobster-tail salad with Thermidor butter starter, then a fillet steak with Bearnaise sauce. Bruce chose the creamed mushrooms and a sirloin. She knew he’d ask for it rare because it sounded classy, but he’d eat around the edges and leave the red-oozing middle section – happened every time.
‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it?’ said Shay, when the waiter had taken their choices to the kitchen and they were settled with a large glass of Chablis each. Bruce had chosen it. He hadn’t a clue about wines but pretended he did. He’d peruse the descriptions, and the prices, at length then pick the second or third cheapest.
‘It’s fantastic,’ replied Bruce. He sighed in the way hedid when he was relaxed and she smiled at that. He’d been working too hard recently and needed this break.
She picked up her glass. ‘Here’s to a lovely couple of days. I can’t remember the last time we went out for a meal, can you? We haven’t done it nearly enough in our marriage, just having you and me time.’
‘Well, we’ve both had too much on, haven’t we? Kids, my parents, your mum… then your mum and dad, then your dad… then your mum again. You really should put your foot down where that sister of yours is concerned and tell her to pull her weight a bit more.’
‘I know. But then she has aproper job, unlike me.’ Shay loaded the two words with all the sarcasm they could carry. She didn’t expect Bruce to say, ‘Well that’s as maybe, but it still doesn’t excuse her not going to see your mother more. She doesn’t exactly live in the Outer Hebrides, does she? It’s less than a twenty-minute drive with a fair wind behind her.’
Shay’s jaw dropped slightly open.
‘What do you mean by “that’s as maybe”? Don’t tell me you don’t think I have a proper job either.’
‘Well it’s not aproperjob in the true sense of the word is it?’
‘Because I work from home at the kitchen table, you mean and I don’t have a swanky plaque on my door that says “Paula Houston, Financial Services Manager”?’
‘Well I don’t either, do I?’ said Bruce.
‘Yet you’d class what you do as a proper job?’ She started bristling so much, she was in danger of popping out spines like a hedgehog.
‘All I’m trying to say is that it’s convenient for Paula to see you as a mug, isn’t it?’ said Bruce. ‘You’re always going to be first call for going to your mother’s when you only live around the corner.’
‘Well I’m not going to be a mug this weekend,’ said Shay. She couldn’t turn off her phone in case her dad’s care home rang, but she’d put it on silent and she’d promised herself that she would not open any texts Paula sent because there were bound to be plenty of them:Where’s the salt/bin-liners/Tenaladys? Is she allowed the sherry she’s just asked me for? How do you turn on the DVD?It would do Paula good to think for herself, tread a couple of days in her shoes.
The waiter arrived with their starters. They looked beautiful, like pieces of artwork on plates.
‘I wish we could go out more often than we do,’ said Shay. ‘We should make it at least once a month…’
‘You what?’ said Bruce, scooping some mushrooms up with his fork and trying to balance them on a miniature slice of bruschetta. ‘We’d be bloody bankrupt.’
‘Let’s talk about selling up and splitting. I know you want to.’
Bruce’s eyes bugged out and he stopped chewing, as if a giant pause button inside him had been depressed. It seemed to take an age before he spoke.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean, Bru—’ Her brain caught up with her mouth then and the penny dropped. ‘Splitting as in going away, not splitting up. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the master plan. Us, villa, sunshine?’
A beat. Then Bruce started chewing again.
‘Well, that’s not going to happen, is it? It’s all right planning that tripe when you’re twenty, but as the years go on… well… you see it for the pipe dream it is.’
‘I’m not asking you to pick an exact date to go, Bruce. It’s just talk. We used to love to talk about it.’
‘What’s the point? Your mother would never leave herhouse and she’ll most likely outlive us all. You’ll probably drop dead making her dinner one night. Then there’s your dad…’ His voice trailed away, as he saw the look of horror his wife was giving him across the table.
