6

  Sandra lived in an immaculate little cottage in one of the swankiest streets in the area. She was happily married, although her husband worked away for the majority of the time – the two statements, perhaps, being not entirely unconnected.

  She’d found him that job herself, as a matter of fact.

  He’d never looked smarter, in his life, than he had on the morning of that interview: she’d personally made sure of that.

  She’d even promised him a bit of extra special love action if – and when – he signed that permanent contract.

  What did she care?

  It’d meant a little bit of extra effort in the short term but the potential rewards were almost limitless.

  A tidy house.

  The toilet seat reassuringly horizontal.

  The freedom to be able to express herself, whenever she liked, by breaking wind, biting her toenails or scratching her bum.

  All of this, with the added romance of a long-distance relationship as well; a relationship sustained, for the most part, by passionate telephone conversations, an account with Interflora and two vivid and sex-starved imaginations.

  Anthea had always been jealous of her.

  Of course she had. A lifetime of her sister being prettier than she was; more popular than she was and – most importantly – younger than she was, had definitely taken its toll on the poor old bag.

  The discovery that Humphrey was nothing but an annoyingly useless waste of space when compared to a real man like Sandra’s had been a slow, gradual process.

  It was a question of romance really. While Sandra’s husband was sending her two dozen roses, Humphrey was unblocking his wife’s U-bend. While Sandra’s husband was calling her from Hong Kong with a list of his passions and desires, Humphrey had been calling Anthea from Sainsbury’s, with a list of that day’s special offers.

  While Sandra was allowed to live with the intrigue and mystery of the unknown, Anthea had been anchored, very much, in the known.

  And the predictable.

  With Humphrey.

  The money that miraculously appeared in Sandra’s joint bank account each month was more than sufficient to keep her from either the dole queue or the rush-hour commute. Instead, she was able to indulge herself and to relax: always with the very important caveat that she was doing whatever it was ‘for her husband’.

  She helped Anthea out in her shop sometimes, usually when she felt a bit low and needed someone to stand next to who would instantly make her feel better.

  Apart from that, how could she work?

  How could she keep regular toiling hours when her husband’s time back with her might only be a few hours? What employer would ever give her time off at the drop of a hat so she could quickly run home to massage her husband’s feet, crotch and ego – and not necessarily in that order – and then not mind in the least when she then had to call in sick for the rest of the week because of a sudden inability to walk properly?

  No.

  She owed it to her husband to be there whenever – and indeed, wherever – he needed her. When he phoned her late at night and asked what she was wearing, she had a duty to be modelling the full lingerie ensemble.

  Well, that was to say, she had a duty to have nothing else on her mind to distract her while she attempted to convince her husband that was what she was actually wearing.

  After all, he couldn’t see her.

  And a tracksuit was so much more comfortable.

  And a lot less draughty.

  Sandra did miss her husband immensely while he was away though and she would always count down the days until his return. He would, simultaneously, be doing the same: allowing for whichever time difference happened to be relevant at the time.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She’d asked him to always give her a week’s advance notice of any return. That allowed her to concentrate on him and to realise just how much she’d missed him. It enabled her to look forward to seeing him again, and to feel the thrill of organising the various pampering, polishing and pruning sessions that would ensure she looked her best for him. New underwear would always have to be purchased, too: something very similar to the sort of stuff she’d been pretending to wear anyway, during those late night, hot and heavy phone conversations.

  The house would be cleaned to within an inch of its life and every surface would be completely cleared of clutter. She’d learned the hard way that her husband had a tendency to want to continue his travels, even at home. For the purposes of keeping their mutual flame alive, this very much left every room in their cottage open for business. Items left on tables or other solid areas of about waist height were likely to end up strewn all over the floor, having being slowly edged to their doom by the momentum of her naked backside.

  Like some kind of pornographic penny falls.

  The excitement would peak just before he arrived home, at around about the time she heard his taxi pulling up outside.

  Yes.

  Things usually did seem to go downhill from there, actually.

  The period of time between that sound and her husband – almost metaphorically – putting his key in her door tended to signal the start of the decline.

  What if the house wasn’t good enough?

  What if she’d put on too much weight?

  What if he didn’t like the new curtains?

  Things would pick up again – significantly – when she saw him though. He had a fabulous way of hugging her that made her ribs crack. She liked that. It made her feel helpless and delicate. He used to spin her around in his arms a few times too, but hadn’t done that for a while now.

  Perhaps the double hernia he’d – so narrowly – avoided that last time still preyed on his mind?

  But he would always kiss her passionately, groping at her breasts as he did so.

  Then there’d be a break in the action because it was always around about now that he’d remember the taxi driver, stood beside him on the doorstep with the luggage and waiting, patiently, for his tip.

  Or maybe his turn.

  That was good for her self-esteem.

  Whatever.

  The point was, it was always the same.

  The luggage.

  That would be where things would start to go seriously wrong.

  He wasn’t planning on leaving all that rubbish there, was he?

  Couldn’t he see that the place was immaculate?

  Why were his shoes dumped in the corner like that? He wasn’t going to leave his trousers and underpants in a pile by the door now, was he?

  Why couldn’t he get undressed tidily?

  Should she put a load of washing on?

  Did he want a beer?

  Did he want a sandwich?

  Had he seen the curtains?

  Did he like her hair?

  Why was he looking at her like that?

  Ah yes.

  Right.

  Of course.

  Within an hour the house would be trashed.

  The bedroom would always cop it first. There was a certain amount of comfort to be derived from that, she supposed.

  At least he still found her attractive.

  And at least his first action, upon returning home, wasn’t to just put his feet up in front of Sky Sports News and fall asleep.

  The bathroom always looked like it had been on the receiving end of a direct hit from a doodlebug.

  Given all the countries her husband had visited, could it really be possible that not one of them had a law against leaving the toilet seat up?

  It was only ever at times like these that she’d felt at all envious of Anthea; before the divorce anyway. Humphrey may well have been under her sister’s feet most of the time but at least he’d been house-trained.

  The way he’d always looked at Anthea too, she envied that.

  His was not the gaze of a man who couldn’t wait for his wife to take her clothes off. It was more the adoring eyes of someone who was thanking his lucky stars that she still had all of them on.

  Sandra’s husband never looked at her like that.

  He couldn’t do really, working – as he was – within such severe time constraints.

  But there was no denying it, she always ended up feeling cheap.

  She wanted to make dinner for him; to bring him his newspaper; to listen as he regaled her with tales from his travels.

  She wanted him to tell her how beautiful she was.

  Not in a way that suggested he thought the words were some sort of skeleton key that would get her to open her legs. She wanted him to say it because he meant it.

  And because it was true, damn it!

  By the time she’d whizzed through a few wash cycles and got her ironing board out, he would be preparing to leave again. And Sandra would find herself counting the minutes until he did.

  Because then she could start missing him, all over again.

  She could start trying to remember all the things she loved about him while, at the same time, trying to forget about that incredibly long list of intensely irritating things she really didn’t like about him at all, but which he always seemed to be able to squeeze into every single return visit.

  She would be ready to sell her own soul, just to be able to get out of – whatever remained of – that wretched lingerie too.

  Which was why she always ironed her tracksuit first.

  He would always call her from the departure lounge, to thank her for a wonderful time and to tell her that he loved her.

  Oh, and that she was beautiful.

  Oh yeh, and that he had noticed her new hair. And the new curtains. And that he would have told her so over a nice quiet little meal at the local bistro but that he had simply not wanted to waste a single moment of their time together, engaged in pointless conversation.

  Not when she was so sexy.

  And from beyond passport control, that always sounded romantic. It always sounded sincere, its – somewhat more chauvinistic – overtones completely overlooked, in the thrill of the moment.

  Romance, that was the thing.

  That was something her sister didn’t have.