Page 26 of Wife After Wife

Harry

December 1991

Harry finally managed to connect the key with the keyhole. It had been a challenge. Every time his hand came close, some unseen force made his hand swing to the left or right, and he’d ended up stabbing the glossy black paint of the front door.

The door swung inward with more speed than he’d been expecting. He stumbled through it, swearing, falling sideways against the enormous Christmas wreath that had been hanging from the knocker. It fell to the floor.

“Bugger.” Harry stared at it, then decided to leave it where it was. He slammed the door behind him.

“Harry?” Katie’s face appeared around the living room door.

“You sshhouldn’t have waited up,” Harry slurred.

“I’ve been at carol practice, we went to the pub afterward.”

“I’ve been at lunch,” said Harry.

“Till eleven thirty?”

“It’s Chrishmash, season of good beer. Cheer.”

Katie pursed her lips. She was wearing her white bathrobe and slippers, ready for bed. Through the living room doorway, Harry saw a large Christmas tree strung with pretty lights and silver tinsel. Katie andMaria must have put up the decorations sometime this week. Harry hadn’t been home before eleven since Monday, so had missed out on all that.

A golden star sat atop the tree, glowing in the darkened room like the star of Bethlehem, guiding Harry back to his family.

He was knocked sideways by a wave of sentimentality. Dear old Katie, with her carols and her Christmas trees and her Christmas baking. Katie loved Christmas as much as he did, although hers was a lot more Jesus and a lot less wassail.

“Come here, darling,” he said, holding out his arms.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Lovely idea. I’ll be right with you.”

“Harry, please. You’re drunk; it’s not appealing. I’d rather you kept to your side of the bed tonight.”

“But, Katie, I want a big cuddle.”

“Sorry, Harry. I don’t.” She turned abruptly and headed for the stairs.

“Wash wrong, Katie?” he said, following. “C’mon, it’s Chrishmash!”

Ten minutes later she was sitting up in bed reading her novel, and Harry was lying on his side watching. He hadn’t seen Merry for three weeks; they’d both been too busy with all the extra work and engagements this time of year brought for a supplier of alcohol and a media company. So Harry was feeling frustrated. A man had his needs. His hand crept toward Katie’s body, and she swatted it away.

“Stop it, Harry. I’ve told you, I don’t find you remotely attractive when you’ve been drinking.” She shuffled further toward the edge of the bed.

Harry’s mood shifted abruptly. “Not the right time of the month? You don’t need my services this week?”

“Go to sleep, Harry.”

“No, c’mon, let’s talk about this. You’re only interested when your charts say, ‘Brace yourself, it’s time for a bonk.’ Am I right?”

The volume of his voice increased along with his self-pity, fueled by his indignation. “Well, what aboutme? What about—”

“Be quiet. You’ll wake Maria.”

“I don’t give a shit. Do you realize how hard I work to keep you two in—in Chrishmash trees and this big house and—”

“Daddy, stop shouting at Mummy.”