Name & Address Withheld (12 page)

‘Bye.’

So it was Sunday already. Since Boxing Day she’d thrown herself at her postbag and, thanks to a couple of marathon sessions, only had a couple more hours to go. But next week would herald the onslaught of the post-Christmas pre-Valentines blues. January to March was Lizzie’s busiest time of year.

She returned her focus to her next letter of the week. In fact it was less of a letter and more of a stream of consciousness. Like many of the people who wrote, this woman had more or less answered her own questions, but Lizzie knew that plenty of her readers would identify with her.

Dear Lizzie

My marriage is in dire straits.

Lizzie had to concentrate hard to override the ‘Money for Nothing’ chorus which had just surfaced from the recesses of her inbuilt jukebox and smiled to herself idiotically. It was amazing what these letters could trigger. People’s lives in crisis and she was humming songs from 1985.

I’ve been married for five years now, but things haven’t really been right for the last six months—well, probably more like a year. I know you must get hundreds of people writing to you with this sort of problem, but I read your column this week for the first time and, whilst I’d always thought that agony aunts were for teenagers, manic depressives and people with no friends at all, you do seem to talk a lot of sense. I have friends, but right now I don’t know who to turn to. Most of them have no idea how bad things have become, plus there is the added problem of my husband and I sharing friends who would feel divided loyalty, and the last thing I want is a series of lectures. So, I thought I’d see what you think I should do. I can always ignore your advice if I don’t like it. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s a bit like reading your horoscope, I suppose. You only see what you want to see when it suits you.

A bit of background for you: I’m in my thirties, a typical product of the go-get-it-and-while-I’m-at-it-why-can’t-I-have-it-all generation, and while I concede that I do work very hard and my career is coming first at the moment, my husband has always understood that side of me (or I thought he did). I am under a lot of pressure at the office, but I do genuinely feel that real success is just around the corner.

My husband’s a really nice guy; he’s not a cross-dresser, or an S&M aficionado or even a difficult bloke… If only he can just hang in there I feel certain that we can make things work again, and I honestly believe that things will quieten down a bit at work when I get to the next level. The trouble is that he seems to be giving up. I’m beginning to wonder whether he might be thinking about having, or even have started, an affair and I don’t think that I could ever forgive him for that. Without being too graphic (although I know these are the details that voyeurs who read these pages are holding out for), we’re not exactly sleeping together much these days. I’m exhausted and totally immersed in my work, I’m stressed out, and to be honest having sex is the last thing I feel like at the moment. Luckily, he’s usually in bed asleep or out when I get home.

For the last few months I’ve been burying my head in the sand, just believing that everything will be fine because we did the marriage thing together, but I know he’s feeling neglected. He’s even stopped bothering to talk to me about things, and seems to be trying to make a point by working all hours now as if to compete and prove that he doesn’t need me any more. We used to be really happy. I just worry that it’s too late to do anything about it, so I’m writing to you. Why…? I don’t know. In case you have a magic wand, I suppose. Anyway, any tips you have would be very welcome.

Name & Address Withheld

Lizzie found herself composing her response before she’d even finished reading.

Dear Career Girl

I’m afraid there’s no magic solution to your problem, but the fact that you’re so aware that things aren’t right is a huge help. You’ve hinted at many of the answers in your letter, but if it helps to have a total stranger point them out then here goes…

Being a woman in the twenty-first century is almost impossible. There are too many demands on too little time and this, coupled with the capabilities that many women now realise that they have and naturally want to utilise, causes many conflicts of interest. At least when women were uneducated they would never have dreamed of doing half the things that they do today—often not only as well as, but better than their male counterparts. Sorry, guys who are reading this, but that’s how we feel. Ignorance must have been bliss. Washing yourself, washing clothes, reading, sewing, cooking, riding and shagging—even if you had to wear lace collars, petticoats and skirts all the time—that was it. There was plenty of time for you to adore and appreciate your husband when he got back from earning the family income, and lots of uncluttered head space for you to think about him and his needs when he wasn’t around, in comparison to now when he is just one more ball to juggle.

That said, don’t forget this is an intimidating age for men. They’re adapting as fast as they can, but as we women know only too well they can rarely anticipate our latest demand and need to be nurtured and loved along the way. I know how hard it is to combine success at work with a successful relationship. It is no coincidence that I have no Mr Lizzie to look after or to look after me. But if you have found someone special it is worth putting in the effort. You say that success is just around the corner. Might it still be there if you step back for a fortnight? I know it’s hard, but try and retain some perspective. At what cost do you want it?

From where he’s standing, there is nothing worse than feeling rejected. We all want to be loved and all need to be needed. Women don’t have the monopoly on feeling insecure. He has to believe that he’s an important part of your life and that you’re still interested in him, or yes, he may well look for someone he feels can be a real soul mate, or even just someone to massage his flagging ego, or some other bits of him that need attention… And, more importantly, however busy you both are, you need to have a part of your life which is yours together. Just because you are married it doesn’t mean you can sit back and count the years to your silver wedding anniversary. Communicate. Talk to him. Explain how you are feeling…and, hardest of all, don’t be defensive. Admit you are at fault. Take some responsibility. Telling him that you are perfect and that he needs to be more understanding and flexible will not have the desired effect.

Don’t wait until it’s too late. Make time now, even if it’s only a day. (Lunch in Paris, thanks to Eurostar, can’t do any harm and won’t break the bank either.) We all get sucked into the work whirlpool, but it’s only a job and the world will still be rotating on its axis if you take a few hours to sort yourself out. You’ve taken the first step; you’ve written to me. But it’s him you should be talking to. He may not realise how you’re feeling. It may sound ludicrous, but men specialise in being obtuse.

Before you start, though, please do me a favour. Ask yourself whether you really love him or whether it’s just the thought of failing that you can’t deal with. If you do love him then make sure he knows. If you’re trying to save your marriage because of what other people might think then, hard as it may be, save yourself a lot of heartache and call a solicitor.

Keep me posted. If you want any more information, or the name of a good restaurant in Paris, please e-mail me at [email protected]

Good luck.

Lizzie typed the last sentence with a flourish before scanning the original letter in and e-mailing them both, along with her column, to her editor for the next edition. Time for a congratulatory tea and biscuit break.

She was still thinking about the letter as she waited for the kettle to boil, disappearing momentarily into a cloud of pore-cleansing steam as it wobbled and rattled its way towards boiling point. Worrying about her readers was an occupational hazard, and suspected infidelity was a tricky one. As a child Lizzie had daydreamed of her big white day on afternoons when she was bored and apparently had nothing else to do. But the older she got the less she could visualise herself walking down any aisle that wasn’t in a supermarket or a cinema.

Laughably, she was still waiting to be swept off her feet by an irresistible man who wouldn’t let her down, for days and nights of passion, a relationship of equals and perfect children. She wanted the happy and successful first marriage that had eluded her mother. Like many of the children of divorcees, she had grown up determined to get it right. Matt had been the first ray of hope in a long time, and while he’d been doing well be
fore he left, she had secretly been hoping for a slurred Christmas greeting on her answer-phone. There had been nothing.

Lizzie was in pursuit of the perfect cup of tea when the phone rang. She rushed to answer it, only the phone wasn’t in its holder on the wall. It was in her study, where she had left it. Damn. Phone calls were the only proof that her life wasn’t being lived in a vacuum at the moment, and if 1471 couldn’t shed any light on the caller, missing one could lead to hours of speculation as to who’d phoned and why they hadn’t left a message. Taking the stairs two at a time, Lizzie legged it down to her study.

She made it just in time. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Lizzie felt quite light-headed after her burst of activity. Maybe it was time to resurrect ‘keep fit’—or, at least add ‘get fit’ to her rapidly growing list of New Year’s Resolutions, but she hated exercising in January. There were always about eight million mince-pie eaters swearing the New Year was all about the New Them. She’d wait until February, when the bulk had given up, having paid a large enough gym subscription to make themselves feel better.

‘Hello?’

It was a cautious overture. Whoever it was had obviously been shell-shocked by the frenzy of activity they’d overheard at Lizzie’s end. As long as they were shell-shocked and not shell-suited that was fine. The former wasn’t life threatening.

‘Mum?’

‘No need to sound so disappointed, darling.’

‘I’m not disappointed. I just thought—well, never mind. How are you…?’ Lizzie resisted the urge to add ‘today’ to the end of the sentence.

‘Have you heard from that chap again?’

‘I told you; he’s skiing.’

‘Yes. Of course he is. Silly me.’

God, between them, Clare and her mother were giving her a complex. And she didn’t need any help.

‘How are you, Mum?’

‘Oh, you know. Fine. House seems a bit empty after spend
ing the week with Alex, Jonathan and the kids, but in some ways it’s good to be home. How about you?’

Since Lizzie’s stepfather had died, she knew how hard her mother found the festive period when for two weeks every year the minutiae that usually filled her every waking hour ground to a halt. Annie liked to pretend that she was the busiest, strongest, all-coping widow London had ever seen, but Lizzie knew that underneath her cardigans there was far more raw emotion than she ever revealed. Lizzie berated herself for not having had the sensitivity to call herself, but if there was one person who could wind her up in under twenty seconds it was her mother.

‘I’ve been working really hard. Clare gets back the day after tomorrow, and I’d really like to be up to date before next week kicks in and I get even busier.’

‘You do work very hard, darling. I know that you have to, but do try and make time to have a little fun from time to time. Maybe you and Clare could go out dancing one evening?’

‘Mum…’

‘I know you think I’m interfering, but I just want the best for you. Look at Jonathan and Alex. So happy. Such a team. Jess and Josh are such lovely children. You don’t want to end up on your own.’

‘It’s not a question of “ending up”…’ Her mother was doing it again. ‘If the right person comes along then we’ll see. But look at Clare. She’s much happier since she left Joe. She’s gone from strength to strength. Union Jack’s is doing really well.’

‘Clare’s still angry, though. She’ll calm down eventually, and then she’ll want to meet someone again.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

Her mother chose to ignore her. ‘It’s all nonsense. She’s got to let someone into her life again one day…’

‘She doesn’t have to do anything.’ Lizzie knew she was sounding clipped. But in light of the radio silence from the Alps she was feeling more than a little defensive. ‘Not everyone feels the need to have their 2.4 children. More and more women find that they are just too busy for all that.’

Annie sighed. ‘Darling, having you and Jonathan was the
best thing I ever did. Life doesn’t have to stop just because you have children. Without you two, now my life would be empty.’

Lizzie didn’t want to talk about this. Of course she’d thought about children, but not unless she’d found the perfect relationship first.

‘Mum, you know I love you—very much. But, please. I’m thirty-two. I am quite capable of running my own life. Believe me, if I meet the right man I’m not averse to having a relationship. I’m just not interested in settling for second best.’ Lizzie wanted out. This was supposed to be her tea break, not a psychoanalysis session. ‘Look, I’d better get on. I’ll give you a call later on this evening, OK?’

‘Lovely. Great. Just not between eight and ten because I’ll be watching that drama.’

Lizzie sighed as, a little emotionally fragile, she returned to the kitchen only to discover that—as she had forgotten that the whole point of a portable phone was that you could walk, talk and even brew at the same time—her tea was unsalvageable: a horrendous combination of ‘jumble sale stewed’ and ‘cooling rapidly’. She threw it away and started again. Life was way too short to drink horrible cups of tea in your own home.

She was just taking a five-minute research break on the sofa with a magazine when the phone rang again. What now?

‘This is BT call-minder. You. have. one. new—’

Lizzie cut off the automaton and dialled the number for their message service. It was one of the Laws of Sod. She’d been in solitary for almost forty-eight hours and two people had rung at the same time.