Free Spinning Around by Catherine Jinks Page B

bloke who looks years older than his age, which is around forty-four, I think. He used to be a surfer, but you could never tell it now. Sometimes, when I’m sighing over the fact that he can put up lattice, spray weeds and fix chairs, I remind myself that he’s also one of the most physically unattractive men of my acquaintance, all belly and boiled skin, whereas Matt is tall and dark and handsome, and will open his mouth in mixed company.
    I reminded myself of this fact again today, before it suddenly struck me, like a bucket of cold water in the face, that I might no longer be justified in laying claim to Matt’s rakish good looks and lazy charm.
    â€˜What’s up?’ said Lisa. ‘Are you okay?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜You haven’t got a cramp, or something?’
    â€˜No. I’m fine.’
    â€˜That’s one thing you can say about kids. At least they put an end to period pains. Did you find that? After you had Emily?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I used to get killer cramps, I’d be doubled over, right from when I was a kid. And back then I was so embarrassed about it. I told someone I had appendicitis once, would you believe? Now I’d just say that my uterus is going into spasm , you got a problem with that?’
    As she rattled on, I wondered if I should tell her. I wondered how she would respond: by dismissing my fears as laughable, or by stridently condemning Matt as a ‘typical bloody male, someone ought to bring out a line of chastity jocks’? In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words, though for all I knew she might have had her own problems with Simon (despite his unappealing gut). What’s more, she possessed all the qualifications of an excellent confidante and counsellor: the psychiatric training, the quick wit, the sympathetic manner, the trustworthy moral code.
    But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was too shaming— too revealing.
    Besides, I thought, with a spark of hope, who’s to say that I’m not mistaken? I mean, I haven’t even checked those last two phone numbers yet.
    I finally did it this evening, after Matt arrived home. He was late again—an hour late—and blamed it on farewell drinks for somebody-or-other. Even so, he was back in time to put Jonah to bed, and then Emily. If he hadn’t been, we would have Had Words. The kids are always keen to have Daddy put them to bed on the weekends, because Mummy does it the rest of the week (except Tuesdays). They also prefer Daddy’s putting-to-bed technique because he plays the ‘bouncing game’—something he inherited from his own father—and doesn’t have such a fetish about teeth cleaning. Not that I mind. Let’s face it, I’d rather have Matt put me to bed. His voice is so rough and warm, it’s like a woolly blanket.
    While Matt was reading books and singing songs, I had a shower. I emerged from the steamy bathroom to find my husband chopping vegetables for dinner, and instead of melting with gratitude became instantly suspicious. Only guilt would have driven him into the kitchen without prompting, I decided.
    Was it guilt for being late, or guilt for being late because the Girl With Purple Hair had detained him?
    â€˜It’s chilli, right?’ he asked.
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Feelin’ better?’
    â€˜A bit.’ I mean, it wasn’t as if I’d had a long, scented bubble bath, or anything. ‘What’s this? A menu?’
    â€˜It was in the letterbox. New Thai place. No mail today?’
    â€˜It’s Saturday, Matt.’
    â€˜Oops! That’s right. I forgot. Bugger it—I thought my tax refund might have arrived. I should have got it by now.’
    Matt’s an optimist; he always looks forward to getting mail. I don’t. The mail always seems to be bills, these days.
    I looked at him standing there, stooped over the cutting board with his