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The Last Year Of Being Married
Sarah Tucker
A tipsy confession of infidelity during their engagement hadn’t been the best start to Sarah’s marriage.It had taken Paul O’Brian five years to propose, and even then he’d made only occasional guest appearances in Sarah’s bed – so how could he complain? Now, five years and one child later, Paul had decided it was time to cut their losses. What had happened to them? Weren’t they once the perfect couple? Thrown into a state of denial, then self-doubt, followed by determination not to go under without a fight, Sarah is catapulted into an unforgettable last year of being married.“Tucker tackles infidelity and sexual repression with aplomb” Mirror
the last year of being single
Sarah Tucker’s intensely honest and wickedly funny prequel to The Last Year of Being Married.
For better or for worse?
Everyone tells Sarah Giles how lucky she is to be with Paul O’Brian – a handsome city hot-shot who’s steady, financially secure and knows how to throw the perfect dinner party. But what no one else knows is that her seemingly blissful relationship has been celibate for nearly five years.
Sarah isn’t looking to be rescued – least of all by a man called John wayne! But what began as an innocent office flirtation is fast turning into erotic obsession. Sarah’s plunging deeper into a double life. But which life is the lie?
Torn between two men, the clock is ticking as Sarah writes a scandalously honest diary of one life-changing year, and faces the challenge of creating her own happy ending…
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Read on for an exclusive extract!
Sarah Tucker is an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for The Guardian newspaper and The Times, she is the author of Have Toddler, Will Travel and Have Baby, Will Travel. She has also presented award-winning documentaries for the Discovery Channel.
Sarah lives in Richmond, Surrey and France with her son. Find out more about Sarah at www.mirabooks.co.uk/ sarahtucker
Also available bySarah Tucker
THE LAST YEAR OF BEING SINGLE
Sarah Tucker
The Last Year of Being Married
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you…
To my editor, Sam, who refused the first draft of this book. It wouldn’t have been this funny or sexy first time ’round.
To Sarah Shurety, who has always led me in the right direction. You are a breath of fresh air, Sarah.
To friends, some of whom happen to be family: Jo, Amanda, Claire, Helen, Chris, kim, Linda, Gina, Caroline, Fulva, Helen, Nim, Coline, karin, Paul (not the one in the book) and Hazel. Thank you for your love and support. This book is about friendship more than anything else – and I couldn’t ask or wish for better friends than you.
And to Doreen, you star.
To Thomas, who is sunshine. And my dad, who is looking down on usnow and smiling. Daddy, I will never ever give in.
SUMMER INTO AUTUMN
AUGUST
Sleeping with the enemy
My husband is an alien. My husband of seven years is an alien. He still looks like Paul, but it’s not Paul. This person doesn’t walk like Paul, talk like Paul, drink, eat, or even smell like Paul. He’s like that character taken over by the hideous fire-breathing insect in Men In Black. He’s an alien in a human suit. Only Paul is marginally better looking. And I’m worried. As in lost-a-dress-size-in-a-week worried. So I’m meeting Kim Bradshaw, thirty-eight, no-bullshit best friend and Financial Times columnist, in Circle, hip-happening funky restaurant in the heart of London’s medialand. I know I’m worried because I’m on time for our meeting, and I am never on time for anything. Ever.
Kim—‘God, Sarah, you’re on time. I was hoping to catch up with work. I usually get about half an hour before you turn up. I’ve just interviewed some twat about an Internet scandal and Dick has given me a ridiculous deadline for tomorrow’s paper. I’ve only just got here myself.’
Kim is a girl who calls a spade a fucking shovel. Dick, her editor, loves her because, he tells her, he’s surrounded by stupid sycophants and she’s brighter than him and tells him the truth. Even when it hurts.
I like her for the same reason. That and the fact I’ve known her for over ten years and we know each other inside out. We’ve agreed we’ll end up as the Golden Girls. Or at least the Witches of Eastwick. As long as I’m Michelle Pfeiffer and she’s Cher.
Sarah—‘I know I’m on time. Sorry.’
Kim—‘Don’t say sorry. You’re on time. That’s great. Shit, girl, you look thin.’
A size eight Ghost dress is hanging off me. I look like a coat-hanger these days. I reassure myself that if I ever get a break on TV I will look fabulous.
Sarah—‘I haven’t eaten for, I think, a week. Maybe longer.’
Kim—‘Sit down. Have something to eat. Try not to throw up. You look thinner than the models in here.’
Sarah—‘I’m fine. I’ll have the tuna. I always have the tuna in here.’
Waiter arrives and smiles warmly. Duncan Simpkins, tall, slim, dark and gay. Knows me. I used to work round the corner and this is a regular of mine. Light floods in even on miserable winter afternoons. The place is blessed with huge picture windows to watch the people-watchers. Large round white tables, pristine tablecloths, no centrepiece flowers to move, not too close together so the media buyers can’t eavesdrop on a competitor’s pitch for business. Simple yet eclectic menu, good champagne, unobtrusive service. Duncan sits us at a corner table out of ear-and eyeshot of everyone else.
Duncan—‘Tuna, Sarah?’
Sarah—‘Yes, please. And just some sparkling water. No ice. And a jug of lime cordial on the side. Side salad. Something different for a change.’
Duncan—‘And for your guest?’
Kim likes her food. As in, she would have two of everything if she could. And in Circle she realises everything is the size of a starter even when it’s not.
Kim—‘Which choice has most food? Do I get more if I have the tuna or the cod?’
Duncan—‘Well, the portions are about the same, madam. Would you perhaps like to order side dishes? The homemade chips are good.’
Kim—‘That sounds good. Will they go with the cod?’
Duncan—‘Yes, madam. Cod ’n chips. I think it has a certain ring to it.’
Duncan goes, and Kim gets up and gives me a hug.
Kim—‘You look as though you need this.’
Sarah—‘I do. I’m okay. I’m okay.’
Kim—‘You sounded completely wired on the phone. Were you pacing, or something? You were up about four decibels on your normal pitch. Thought you would be chilled after the week’s holiday in France, but sounds as though it didn’t go to plan.’
Sarah—‘No, it didn’t. Paul’s behaving very strangely.’
Kim—‘He always behaves strangely, Sarah. What’s he doing that’s different from his norm?’
Sarah—‘You know he never goes to the gym? Well, he’s decided to go now. Twice a week. He has a personal trainer. The boys—well, they’re not boys, they’re forty-year-old men, most of them—anyway, the boys in the office are doing it, and now Paul’s doing it. He tells me his body is a temple. A fucking temple. He showers for an hour each morning. Then there’s the underpants…’
Kim—‘What about the underpants?’
Sarah—‘He has to buy new ones every week. Designer. Next, M&S, Gap won’t do. Must be Gucci or Prada. Anything with a huge initial on the crotch area.’
Kim—‘I didn’t know Prada did underpants.’
Sarah—‘Nor did I, but maybe they do. They’ve got a big P on them, anyway.’
Kim—‘Appropriate, really.’
Sarah—‘And now he wants separate holidays and thinks it’s a good idea if we give each other space. I’m a travel journalist, for fuck’s sake, Kim. How much more space can I give him? I spend three months each year travelling and get us free holidays together when I can. It’s unnerving me.’
Kim—‘Sarah, this has all the signs of a mid-life crisis. How old is he now?’
Sarah—‘Thirty-five. Bit early for a mid-life crisis. But perhaps men are having them younger these days. Plus stress at work. It’s been tough, and he’s been a bit depressed about his weight.’
Kim—‘What else is he doing and saying?’
Sarah—‘He’s coming back late. Often drunk. Been drinking with the boys.’
Kim—‘Sounds as though his body is being treated more like a pub than a temple.’
Sarah—‘And there’s more. He keeps buying really strong-smelling aftershave. Smells like a brothel in the morning. Always humming to himself, too. And he’s bought one of those—you know—soap on a rope things. But with a hole in the middle of it.’
Kim—‘Wants a clean willy, then.’
Sarah—‘I asked him about it and he said he’d read this article about penis hygiene. I think it was penal hygiene but he took it the wrong way.’
Kim laughs.
Kim—‘Bollocks. He just wants to wank and wash and save time.’
I laugh now.
Kim—‘What else has he said?’
Sarah—‘Serious bit, this. He wants Ben and me to move out of the house. Wants to buy us a little house nearby—not too close, not up the road or anything. He says he doesn’t want to accidentally bump into us. Just be in a neighbouring village. And he suggests I get a job as a PA somewhere local. So I’m able to prove I can look after myself. He feels I haven’t put enough into the marriage and doesn’t respect me anymore. Well, he says I haven’t put anything into the marriage and doesn’t respect me at all, actually. That’s the bit that is worrying me.’
Kim—‘He wants you to do fucking what? You’re a travel journalist, Sarah. Why would you want to be a PA? You’ve worked so hard to get this far. Is the man nuts? Okay, he wants space. Let him move out. Let him get a bachelor pad in London.’
Sarah—‘That’s what I told him. And he said the house was his house. And that it’s all his money. And he got very angry and threw a mini-size plastic Badoit bottle on the floor. And that made me laugh and he got angrier. But he looked such a prat, Kim. And, anyway, he doesn’t see why he should move out.’
Kim—‘Don’t you dare, Sarah. You stay put. What planet is he on?’
Sarah—‘As I said. He’s an alien.’
Duncan returns with tuna, water, salad and lime. And no ice. Kim and I change the subject while Duncan hovers.
Sarah—‘Ben’s well.’
Kim—‘That’s good. How old is he now?’
Sarah—‘Three. Four in December. He’s getting to that edible age. You know—I want to bite his bottom all the time. And I can still go in the bath with him and play submarines and it’s not considered indecent or unnatural.’
Kim—‘That’s wonderful. Give him a big kiss from me.’
Sarah—‘I will.’
Duncan stops hovering and leaves. Subject reverts back to alien.
Sarah—‘Paul is a sensible guy, you know. Dependable. Like a rock. Always there for me. Always putting up with me.’
Kim—‘What do you mean, putting up with you? You’re a wonderful, fabulous sexy woman, Sarah Giles. Okay, you look emaciated at the moment, but have a few chips and you’ll be fine. And don’t you forget it, because the man you’ve married obviously has. As for being a rock. Well, rocks may make you stable but they can also hold you down. And I think that’s what he’s done. Bit by bit, day by day, he’s held you down. And chipped away—quite successfully too, it appears—at your confidence.’
Sarah—‘Oh, he’s not that bad. We’ve done some fun things together. You know, holidays and stuff. But what do I bring to the relationship, to be honest?’
Kim—‘What do you bring? You bring you! Or are we talking dowry here? He married you because he loved you. Because you’re fun and full of life and fire and energy. He knew you couldn’t cook. He knew you weren’t domesticated. But so what? He can afford a cook and a cleaner if he wants one. Christ, he can afford one for every day of the week if he wants to. He makes it sound as though he considers you a liability.’
Sarah—‘He does. He says I’m a negative on his balance sheet.’
Kim—‘He says you’re a fucking what?’
Sarah—‘That I’m a liability. That I spend all his money.’
Kim—‘Sarah. This man is full of shit. You know Debbie—my next-door neighbour, helium-voiced Debbie? She’s married to a city oik who earns—I think—half what Paul does. She has manicures, facials, pedicures, and lunches and does Knightsbridge most weeks. She doesn’t do a thing for her man, Mike. Think she probably even charges him for a blow-job. They’ve got a cleaner, gardener, spiritual healer, live-in nanny—and Mike dotes on her. You, on the other hand, look after yourself, buy your own clothes, get your own holidays. You’ve given Paul a wonderful son. What else does he want you to bring to the marriage?’
Sarah—‘Money.’
Kim—‘I should imagine he earns well over a hundred grand a year, Sarah. Plus bonuses. What’s he want with more money? This is all an excuse for something. He’s deflecting you from something. Do you think he’s met someone else?’
Sarah—‘That’s crossed my mind. Makes me feel sick. Best not to think about it. I’m a jealous woman—greeneyed monster and all that. Always have been. Remember the thirtieth birthday party I told you about when that girl was dancing with him? I was at the other side of the room and saw her flirting with him. One minute I was dancing in the corner and the next I zoomed in like a heat-seeking missile and sent her flying into the steaming wontons. And she was just dancing with him. If I thought he’d met or was sleeping with someone else it would kill me. Especially as he’s not sleeping with me. And hasn’t been for years.’
Kim—‘How long has it been now?’
Sarah—‘For most of our marriage, Kim—Ben was a wonderful blip—plus four of the five years we were going out before then.’
Kim—‘What excuse does he give?’
Sarah—‘Same old story. Same reason. Doesn’t respect me. Doesn’t feel I bring anything to the marriage. Doesn’t trust me. He brought up all the past things I’d done when he smashed that Badoit bottle. It’s as if he’s kept a mental list. But he says he still loves me and all that.’
Kim—‘Sounds as though he resents you, Sarah.’
Sarah—‘I think so, too. But I’m no innocent, Kim. I haven’t exactly been squeaky clean, have I? After all, I had an affair. And Paul discovered the affair by reading one of my e-mails. You know? That e-mail from Stephen from Australia.’
