Page 64 of Storm in a D Cup

‘Meaning you’re OK if we stop trying?’

So that was what he was up to? He’d changed plans mid-way, obviously after I’d almost killed him with my hazelnut underwear. That night had been like a watershed in our relationship, along with Genie Stacie’s presence. After that, things had started to go awry. We hadn’t had sex since. Which had never happened before, if you don’t count our Alberto row years ago. So he didn’t want a baby anymore, was that it? Or he didn’t want me anymore, and didn’t know how to tell me? He probably figured that if I was the first to want to stop trying, it wouldn’t be his fault if we never had a baby. Smart guy. But I was no less smart. I decided to call his bluff.

‘No. Monday morning we’ll give it another go.’ Which sounded like‘Let’s see if you’re man enough.’

Silence. He must have thought the same thing.

*

Q: Dear Erica,

My husband is cruel to me. Whilst I appreciated your heartfelt answer to a previous reader to whom you suggested stabbing, I prefer a more bloodless approach. What do you suggest?

So she wanted bloodless?

A: The next time he has a bath, throw your hairdryer in the water and close the door behind you. You don’t want to be bothered by the look on his face once you’ve done it, believe me.

Among my Ira-killing fantasies, that one had been my absolute favorite.

As I continued to scroll through my emails, Terry called.

‘You’ve become a celebrity,’ he said. He’d got into the habit of calling me often. I wondered why he wasted his time. The Q&A got lots of laughs. So what else did Terry want from me, I wondered. I knew him well. He didn’t do nothin’ for nothin’.

I instinctively snorted. ‘Who, me?’

‘Are you kidding? You are huge in the States. Everybody loves your politically incorrect approach. You’re the best thing since Howard Stern.’

‘Who?’

Silence.

‘He’s…’

‘I’m only kidding, Terry.’

‘Ha. You’re like a breath of fresh air. And there’s already a book option for you.’

So that was what he wanted. Was he absolutely nuts? ‘A book? But I’m not a writer,’ I assured him.

‘Not yet, you’re not.’

‘No, and I never will be,’ I protested. I’d had a hard time completing reports on my staff when I worked at the Farthington, let alone parking my ass on a chair to write a book. I mean, anybody can start one – but to actually finish? Yes, I did have stuff to say about husbands, especially my first one. If I said yes to this offer, I’d be trapped. I’d have to finish it. But what if I just went blank and couldn’t?

Plus, Julian was the family writer, not me.

‘Don’t you worry, you will be a writer,’ he assured me. ‘People like you always have something to say.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Terry chuckled. ‘Get back to work. And don’t lose track of the most important thing – your page. Gazillions of women out there are literally waiting for your piece of mind with their morning coffee.’

‘They are not.’ Were they?

‘Of course they are.’

‘Well, Terry, to be honest, I wouldn’t know. I live in the old world. Maybe I should come out there for a bit, get the feel of things. I’ve been away for eight years now.’

Silence. ‘Absolutely not, Erica. Your take is original because youareout there.’