Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
Then, as we’d set off, I’d
ask him if we could have some music on. He’d pulled a face, looked like he’d
been put on the spot. ‘I’ve got a CD stuck in the player,’ he’d grimaced. ‘It’s
the only thing that’ll play and, err, it’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘What is it?’ I’d asked,
immediately curious.
He’d
sighed
the sigh of someone who was resigned to his fate; he’d known there was no
getting out of confessing now. ‘It’s Barry White…’
‘The
Lurve
Walrus?’
I’d burst out, smile
widening to a grin.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I
bought it for a laugh the other day and it’s stuck. I’ve tried thumping it but
it doesn’t make any difference, so what can I do?’ he’d shrugged.
‘Go on…play it,’ I’d coaxed,
teasing. And he had.
You’re My First, My
Last, My Everything
had started up, and we’d ended up singing along to it
as it played over and over again until Daryl had pulled into a gastro pub where
we ate.
I can’t tell you what we
talked about for the rest of the night, although clearly the date went well
because here we are all these years on and still together. But I will always,
always remember singing along to Barry White, and the sheer joy of that moment,
the connection I felt with this man as we messed around.
And now, in the cab of his
truck, I felt that same connection with him as we bombed along the motorway. Yes,
this trip away had been a good idea.
As we drove Daryl told me
about the rig and motorways and life on the road as a ‘
tramper
’
(I find the slang name for truck drivers hilarious, but there you go. Sounds
like he puts it about a bit, and I do love the expression on people’s faces
when they ask what my husband does for a living and I reply ‘Oh, he’s a
tramper
.’ Then I have to explain that it’s the name for a
lorry driver who lives in his truck all week, which is actually quite dull). He
was telling me stuff I’d heard a million times before but for once I didn’t
just shut him out and daydream, I tried to listen. Well, if he’s making an
effort then I have to.
Although sometimes it was hard work…
‘When you’ve 44 tonne on the
back of the truck you don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s a killing
machine; you brake too hard or go into a bend too quick and…game over,’ he
said. ‘It takes a real man to drive one of these, to control it.’
He looked so serious. He
really thinks driving a big truck is the manliest thing in the world. Wow, if a
Porche
or a Ferrari is a penis extension, what the
hell is a truck? Still, I nodded, wide-eyed. He didn’t look in the mood for a
laugh, he looked like he was desperate to impress me and have me in awe of him
the way I had been when we first started dating. It made me sad, to be honest,
because I can’t be that young woman again, so in love that just the thought of
seeing Daryl would make me feel the biggest rush that I swear he should have
been made illegal, like a drug.
After a few hours we pulled
into a café and had a cuppa,
then
while Daryl tinkered
with the engine I had a lie down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfy and I
closed my eyes, tired from the early start and all that travelling – honestly,
how Daryl manages to do so much driving without falling asleep is beyond me. I
seem to get shattered just from the motion of a vehicle, be it a car, train or
lorry, and the constant hum of the engine acts as instant lullaby. Well, it
works on babies, doesn’t it, that’s why so many parents drive round for hours
with their kids in a car seat, and I must be the same.
The truck door opening
toppled me over the edge from dozing to wakefulness. Daryl had clambered into
the cab and was just pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves, like surgeons
wear.
‘Something
wrong?’
I murmured, shading my eyes from the low, bright sun
that was slanting through the windscreen and half blinding me.
‘No, no, just going to clean
off one of the spark plugs a bit, that’s all, ‘ he said, holding the wrist end
of the glove with one hand and opening and closing the other to pull it down
until it was entirely encased. He let go and it made an audible snap against
his skin.
Clean freak that he is
,
he always wears these gloves if he has to mess with the
engine. The oil gets everywhere and he hates the way it ingrains itself into
the skin around and under his fingernails, making him look like he hasn’t
washed in months. Says it makes him feel like he looks homeless because they
are so blackened and dirty. It doesn’t look great, I have to admit, and it’s
virtually impossible to get off – and as for clothes…! It’s a real pain, has
ruined many a decent shirt of his. That’s why he’s started wearing a kind of
boiler suit when he is driving, that way he can whip it off in a flash if needs
be to reveal a smart shirt and trousers beneath. Then all he has to do is pop
on a tie and voila, he is ready in seconds to have a meeting with clients even
at short notice. He still chucks shirts away every so often though; he’ll go
out with one then come home without one, saying it’s been ruined. Wish he’d
just bring them home so I could at least try to get the oil out, but never
mind.
Normally I think he looks
quite sexy in his overalls, in a rough kind of way. But those gloves… Yuck!
Enough to put anyone off.
‘You look like a gynaecologist
when you’re wearing them,’ I said, wrinkling my nose.
‘Like
you’re ready to give some poor unfortunate woman an internal.’
He wriggled his eyebrows up
and down suggestively, posing with his hands in the air like some kind of
magician’s assistant.
‘Oh yeah?’
His eyebrows were
working overtime. ‘Hmmm, I’ll give you an internal right now, if you want.’
‘
Eurgh
!’
I blurted. Then he wriggled
onto the bed, pinning me down with his weight and almost knocking the breath
out of me. He is 14 stone of solid muscle, so I didn’t stand a chance as I
giggled and bucked beneath him, pretending to try to kick him off.
‘Now then, keep still, this
won’t hurt a bit,’ he promised, kissing me, latex-clad fingers exploring my body….
Bloody hell, was the sex
HOT. Bit weird that he kept the gloves on the whole time, but there was no time
to rip them off, he was like a man possessed. We did everything, and I mean everything.
It was sweaty, crazy stuff that was enough to make the watching nodding dogs on
the dashboard blush; it hasn’t felt like that in a while, umm, if ever,
actually! It certainly wasn’t making love, but we both just…exploded.
Sometimes, just his kisses turn me on, and his hands were all over me, those
massive, massive hands that are so strong but so gentle.
Afterwards we hit the road
for another couple of hours then went to bed early. Snuggled down and popped on
the night heater for a little while to make things extra cosy. And lay in total
silence. We’d got nothing to say to each other at all. For a few hours I’d been
fooled into thinking things were improving already, just because our sex life
is looking up. What an idiot I am to think it was going to be that easy to fix
things.
I’m ashamed to say it, but I
pretended I was asleep. Well it had to be better than us blatantly lying side
by side in awkward, hideous silence. At least this way, it seemed like we
weren’t speaking for a reason, and that has to be an improvement.
Right?
Saturday dawned bright and
early, and we got on the road again. ‘Can’t hang around, can’t be late. Come
on, hurry up,’ Daryl romantically told me as soon as I woke.
Maybe he’d guessed I hadn’t
been asleep, but the good mood he’d been in the day before had disappeared.
Conversation was stilted and hard work, and I found myself wracking my brains
for things to say. And as soon as I do that it always has the opposite effect,
because it seems to make my mind freeze completely so that all I can think is,
‘think of something!’ which isn’t very helpful really.
Perhaps the only reason why
we work is because we never see each other. He’s away so much with his trucking
job that he’s only home a few days a week at most. Perhaps, for all I complain
about it, that’s actually what keeps us going. Because as our weekend together
progressed, I had this horrible realisation. I feel disloyal even thinking it
let alone writing it down, but here goes…
Sometimes when we spend a
lot of time together I realise I don’t actually like Daryl.
There, I’ve said it. I am a
horrible, horrible person.
I do love him, most
definitely, but I don’t like him that much. I wouldn’t want to be his friend.
We’d never just hang out together. Thing is, I feel on edge so much of the time
when he’s around. I’ll be trying to guess what kind of mood he’ll be in. And if
he’s in a bad mood I’ll bend over backwards to change it; if he’s in a good
mood then even when we’re having fun there is a bit of me holding back,
analysing, making sure I don’t do anything to ruin the atmosphere.
Oh, and he’s always telling
me the ‘right way’ of doing things, but what he really means is his way. Making
a cup of tea, washing the car, filling up the car with petrol (you must always,
always, always, give the pump a little wiggle before pulling it out of your car
because there are a couple of drops of petrol that will fall from it. The logic
is that as you’ve paid for them so you’re entitled to them, and if you don’t
take them,
think
of how much petrol you’re wasting
over a lifetime. ‘You’ve paid for it but never taken it? Then you’re stupid,’
he always says. I’m willing to bet that if I saved it all it would only be
enough to turn the engine on and then for it to die, but the way Daryl talks it
is probably enough to fly me to the moon and back, or possibly for me to become
the next oil tycoon, a new JR Ewing). Apparently I wasn’t even capable of
stacking washing up properly until he came into my life and set me on the path
of enlightenment.
Anyway, we went to Tilbury
Docks. It wasn’t the same as Salzburg, funnily enough.
Another
day in the cab, making conversation about landmarks.
I even went through
the newspaper, reading bits out of The Sun to Daryl so that we could talk about
them – that was quite nice actually. He loves the news, is fascinated by it,
from politics to nasty crimes. I’m not bothered really, but I suppose that’s
why he’s cleverer than me. I don’t know though, I just felt a bit…awkward and
depressed. Even sleeping in the cab had lost a bit of its novelty value.
To be honest, it was a
relief to get home yesterday at lunchtime.
First thing I did was nip to the corner shop for some chocolate. Just
hearing the cheery ting of the bell made me
relax,
grabbing a bar of something yummy made me feel even better. By the time
Ric
had grinned from behind the counter, ‘Have a lovely
evening, lady, thank you so much’ the world was a better place.
Back at home, I had a bloody
long soak in the bath and munched on my treat; it felt great to be alone again
for a while. I could hear Daryl pacing up and down the hallway, talking on the
phone. From the tension in his voice I guessed it was his mum. He really can’t
stand Cynthia… I once found a birthday card she’d sent him, screwed up and
chucked in the bin.
Saturday 2
I’m so angry. Daryl is
always in control, always in the driving seat. I can’t even phone him if he
doesn’t feel like it; he’s always switching his sodding mobile off because he
says the boss has a real thing about the possibility of him even talking on the
phone while driving and does spot checks to see if they’ve been using them.
Pah
!
There are two things that
make me not believe him. First, he’s freelance, so even though he pretty much
constantly works for one company because they are always subcontracting to him,
he is in fact his own boss; and Daryl is not a man who likes being told what to
do by anyone, especially if he is meant to be the one in charge. And secondly,
it’s amazing how he breaks the ‘no calls’ rule when he wants to talk to me, but
suddenly when I talk to him it is a different story. And yes, it could be
argued that he is sweet and wonderful for ever breaking the rules for me and
that I should be grateful instead of narky, but I am really not currently in
the mood for accepting that sort of thing.
Grrrr
!
We’ve just had an argument
and the childish git put the phone down on me and has switched it off so I
can’t call him back. It’s so typical of him – if in doubt run away, put your
head in the sand and ignore the problem. Make the other person sweat so that
then at least he feels he has control over the situation. It’s pathetic,
infuriating, patronising, and has all the hallmarks of a control-freak who has
to be in control because they’re too damn cowardly to trust anyone else.
Manipulative bollocks!
The bastard actually said he
fancied Kim the other day (actually what he said was…and it is so un-PC I can
barely make myself
write
it… ‘That
chinky
mate of yours is all right looking; I’d have her.’ His nickname for her used to
be Thai Bride until I pointed out that she was born in Chelmsford and that her
mum is originally from China. I’d foolishly thought it might make him remember
her by her name, but instead he simply started calling her That
Chinky
Mate). I was annoyed by his comment, of course, but
held it in. I shouldn’t have done that, should have let rip there and then but
of course I didn’t because it’s not my way, for all he calls me a stroppy mare.
So in a way it’s my fault. I let it fester. But he shouldn’t have said it in
the first place! After all the talks we’ve had recently, the fragile state of
our marriage, it’s hardly surprising I’m feeling a little insecure. The last
thing I need to hear is that he’d ‘have her’. Flipping great! I can’t believe
the insensitivity of the man. He really has no idea at all.
So I tried to talk to him about
it last night. ‘Christ, I’ve just had a really stressful day; an accident
happened right in front of me, virtually. I got stuck in a massive tailback
because of it, and wound up delivering late. I’m so tired. We’ll talk about it
tomorrow, promise,’ he sighed.
That got my goat a bit but I
tried to understand. But when he called today he didn’t mention it, instead
simply asked me what I was doing. ‘Cooking salmon,’ I told him tersely. Then he
just went on about his bloody rota, which sounds more like a work of fiction
the more he talks about it (am convinced he has more say in it than he makes
out).
All I wanted him to say was:
‘Sorry about last night, let’s talk about it now.’ It should have been the
first thing he said to me. It wasn’t. So I waited and waited, listening to him
more and more impatiently and becoming increasingly furious and frustrated.
Finally he realised
something was wrong and made some half-arsed attempt to find out what. ‘So
what’s up with you? This about the other night?’ he grunted.
‘I don’t think I can be
bothered to talk about it, seen as you attach so little importance to it,’ I
huffed.
‘Fuck off,’ he said - and
put the phone down.
Wanker.
Bet he thinks it’s
all my
fault. Well, stuff him. I’m off out tonight and I’m
going to look bloody glamorous and have lots of fun.
I’m meeting Sophie, Amy, Hannah and
Una
tonight at a bar on Charing Cross Road. I’m really
looking forward to it because I never travel into London for a night out,
really. I refuse to sit moping around in floods of tears because of Daryl,
although it’s tempting.
2am - Before I went though I
did spend quite some time obsessively dialling Daryl’s phone. And despite
having an absolutely wonderful time with my friends (Hannah cried out at the
last minute, but she wasn’t missed much!) every time I ducked to the loo I rang
him too…and on the way home I hit redial until I actually got a sore finger… It’s
ringing out and he’s not answering.
Cunning,
because
now he can see the amount of calls he’s missed and will know I’ve been repeat
dialling him.
He knows damn well the one
thing guaranteed to drive me insane is for him to drop off the face of the
earth. I get so that I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to him, even if I’ve
nothing to say. It’s his little control device and the sad thing is, it works
every time.
Tomorrow I must: tidy house,
change bed sheets and towels, do washing up, exercise, sort present for Sarah
(birthday in a week’s time, but got to allow time to post it to her house in
Lincoln), bikini line, deep condition hair, shave legs, because Daryl is coming
home tomorrow night. But for now I’m going to bed and forgetting about men!
Sunday 3
Well, I did the housework
but that was about it. Deep conditioned hair then waxed bikini line - possibly
the most painful experience of my life and it turns out I’ve done it for no
reason at all. Just as I was about to shave my legs, Daryl called. He’s being
sent direct to Sweden, won’t be home until 12th.
Gutted.
But we had a good talk about
him refusing to talk to me after rows, and he actually apologised, which is
pretty much unheard of. And he was almost crying because I said: ‘When you tell
me stuff like this, that we won’t be seeing each other for ages, you sound so
business-like. I feel like you don’t care.’
He explained that it’s
because he’s so nervous and is really het up, so just comes out with it. ‘I
know I’ll just, if I try to tell you how sorry I really am for what I do, I’ll
just…and if I say how much I love you…I’ll get all nervous, trip over my words,’
he said. He certainly started to stutter and stumble when he said that bit.
My heart melted then, I
don’t mind admitting; a warmth spreading through me, out from my chest. He’s seems
so big and strong and
blokey
, and really it’s all a huge
act to hide an insecure boy. It’s easy to forget that sometimes and only see
the façade he puts up. Then something will happen to make me think of that
bullied child he used to be and I don’t think there are words to describe how I
feel. Protective of him, angry for him, guilty that I could forget for even a
second the tough life he’s had and why he’s the way he is.
I told him I just need him
to keep telling me what’s happening and how he feels, or else I’ll get worried.
I didn’t mention that stuff about him fancying Kim, what’s the point? I
understand now that it was just about him putting his ‘big man’ act on.
Monday 4
Very
sweet today.
Daryl gave me a call before he went to work.
‘Just to say hi and I’m thinking of you and miss you and love you,’ he said.
That really made my day!
Wednesday 5
Why is it that you never get
everything right in life? If work’s fine, then chances are the relationship is
struggling; if the relationship’s fine, then there’s a problem with the family.
As up and down as Daryl and I are, it feels like we’re slowly making headway –
I mean, at least we’re finally talking about our problems a bit instead of just
ignoring them and hoping they will go away. He has promised to try to get round
to booking a counselling session this week, too. So that’s good, and work is
good. But this situation with Hannah is really bugging me.
Even thinking about it makes
me feel like a kid again, it’s all so childish, and I can’t help feeling that
as grown women we should both be handling things a bit better. But I’m not
invited to nights out with her and Amy any more, and when I ask her for a drink
she can’t make it because she’s skint or busy or something, but she always
seems to make it to nights out with other people.
I asked her to that night
out on Saturday and she cried out right at the very last minute because she’d
no money. Fair enough. But I found out today that she went out with a group of
other mates instead.
The problem isn’t, of
course, that she’s gone out with other people, it’s that she lied. If it were
just once then fair enough, I’d think maybe she did it to spare my feelings or because
she felt awkward, but she always has an excuse. Something has happened between
us, and although I’ve tried hard to think what it can be, I’ve no idea. I’ve
asked her continually what the problem is but she doesn’t want to tell me.
We’ve been friends since
primary school. Surely she knows me well enough to know she can tell me
anything, and that if there is a problem I’ll want to try my best to sort it
out. She’s my oldest friend.
Clearly I’m just going to
have to be the bigger person in all this. I can’t and won’t keep offering the
olive branch forever though, but I am willing to give it one more go. This
morning I sent her a text message asking if she was in tonight so I could talk
to her, as I really want to clear the air. If she’s still weird after this,
then tough, because it’s been going on for months and I’m bored. No more effort
will be made on my part to find out what is wrong or build bridges.
I’m not a doormat, and if she
can’t be bothered to tell her friend (me!!) what is up then it wasn’t much of a
friendship in the first place. Whatever I have done wrong in her eyes, it can’t
be that bad – it’s not like I’ve murdered someone or something, so I’d have
hoped I deserved a bit of honesty, a bit of leeway and support.
Like I’m giving her.
6pm –Still no reply from Hannah.
Stuff her.
On a far more important
note, I’ve lost 4lb for no reason whatsoever. I was 10st exactly on Monday, but
not
any more
! It’s given me the incentive I need to
start exercising. I’m doing a Body Blitz
dvd
followed by yoga before I go to bed tonight.
10.35pm – Heard from Hannah
at about 7pm. She sent me a text saying she’d been working all day and was
going to watch footie tonight. Said she’d come round tomorrow though. We’ll
see. Wish I weren’t so suspicious-natured.
Anyway, I have done my
workout and my legs feel all satisfyingly
wibbly
now.
I feel great, and much less stressed.
Saturday 8
Typical.
I
go all the way through winter without so much as a sniffle, and just as spring
starts I get a stonker. I came home Thursday night thinking ‘hmm, feel a bit
dodgy all of a sudden.’ By yesterday morning I had a full on cold. My
nose,
bunged up and hot, feels like it’s swollen until it
has taken over half my face. Eyes water continually, limbs ache, my voice is
really croaky - and not even in a sexy, husky way; more of an old crone way.
I’m like the ‘before’ in a Tunes ad.
And I’ve got nothing to eat
in the house, so am basically eating a mismatch of leftovers, because of course
Daryl is away and I am too ill to face going outside let alone doing battle in
a supermarket. Seriously, I may as well be single. What’s the point of being
married if he’s not around when I need him?
Mind you, it’s probably just
as well. Once he’s fetched me half of Boots pharmacy, bought some Lucozade, and
fixed me some food, he’d only start bugging me. Far better I
be
left alone while I lie on the sofa, wrapped up in a sweaty,
Olbas
oil-soaked duvet, free to watch whatever rubbish I want as I come round from
one nap and float into another, surrounded by a drift of used tissues.
4pm - Eek, just made the
mistake of looking in the mirror. I have a very white face and a very red nose,
like a washed out clown, all framed with greasy hair. In fact, my nose is so
sore that even thinking about blowing it makes me wince. I’m feeling pretty
sorry for myself as I sit here wiping at my watery eyes so I can see what on
earth I’m writing – I am constantly on the verge of sneezing.
5.30pm - Bless her, Kim text
to see if I needed anything but I didn’t feel right asking her to run errands
for me. Not when she has so much to worry about in her personal life. She’s a
good friend though. Ah, talking of good friends… Hannah. Can’t believe she blew
me out on Thursday night. To be honest I was going to cancel on her because I
felt so rotten but she got in first, using the catch-all phrase ‘something has
come up’.
Pathetic.
I’ve no energy to be annoyed
though. I’m using it all up on keeping my mouth hanging open and breathing in
and out. I want my nose back!!
Sunday 9
I’m snoring. I know this
because I actually woke myself with a particularly loud one. Gross. I’m
sooooooo
tired. Can’t sleep for more than an hour or so in
one hit because my nose is so bunged up I can’t breathe. I wake with a dry
mouth from sleeping with it wide open, while my nose runs like a tap, and my
chest feels heavy from the mucus gathering on it.
Eurgh
,
having a cold is rotten.