How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (7 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

bed and scrutinized the instruction pamphlet. Take a Phillips-head screwdriver. I slammed open the toolbox and surveyed the bewildering contents. Who the hell was Phillip? And why was he such a sadist?

‘Oh, all right then.’ Rory begrudgingly turned the music off and cancelled the rest of his imaginary rock concert. ‘If you help me, it shouldn’t take too long.’

Three hours later it began to dawn on me that Mr Ikea and his Allen key are responsible for more marriage break-ups than infidelity. They should be renamed ‘The Divorce Bookshelves’ – only they weren’t supposed to be bookshelves, they were supposed to be Jamie’s new bed, but that’s not how they turned out. Six tantrums later I finally found a good use for the Phillips-head screwdriver. It’s a very handy implement for spouses to use when stabbing each other to death.

Rory hit the whisky bottle. I was so depressed I thought I might need something stronger – a swig of paint-stripper, perhaps.

‘Look,’ I relented, ‘why don’t we book a babysitter tonight and just go out and talk.’

‘Out? Where? Going out pisses me off. Restaurants always have those menus where it takes sixty words to describe something which then arrives at your table on a lettuce leaf, looking like a diseased frog with a sprig of basil sticking out of its backside. No, thanks, Cassie. Besides, what is there to talk about?’

‘Gee, I dunno. Our impending divorce?!’

The next day, 2 March, was my birthday. A mother’s birthday takes second place to the guinea pig’s, of course – we women know that. But I would have thought a cup of tea and a bit of burned toast in bed might have been in the offing. Even from the kids.

When it’s Rory’s birthday, I buy and wrap presents from the children, plan a birthday dinner, complete with heart-shaped cake and generally make him feel like a Sultan. By Sunday lunchtime when there had still been no mention of What Special Day It Was, I spoke up.

‘Look, I wasn’t expecting a light aircraft sky-writing I Love You, Cassie in the clouds. Or a neon sign lit up with a love message at Piccadilly Circus, but, you know, a flower or two for my birthday might have been nice. Did you at least remind the kids?’

When Rory told me that he’d forgotten and hadn’t bought me any presents, I knew he was just trying to put me off the scent. Obviously he had a surprise party planned! By 9 p.m., I felt a twinge of doubt. An even bigger twinge at 10. A panic at 11. Followed by a manic declaration of ‘now or never’ at 11.45.

‘But I told you I hadn’t bought you anything,’ he replied, perplexed.

‘But I thought you were joking! How can you spend twelve months researching five hundred Internet sites and remembering every comparative price before buying an electrical appliance, but you can’t remember your own wife’s birthday?’

‘It’s not my fault I forgot. I mean, it’s not like you dropped any hints. Did you stay in bed all morning shouting, “Where’s my birthday breakfast?” at intervals? No. Did you send yourself flowers from a mystery admirer? No. Did you circle the date on the kids’ kitchen calendar? No. Besides, how could I remember it’s your birthday when you never look a day older?’ he concluded sycophantically.

Good try. But I was beginning to think that Rory and I just didn’t match any more. If life were linen, suddenly he was a king-size top sheet and I was a single fitted bottom. God! Even my analogies had deteriorated into the domestic. What the hell had happened to me?

There was only one course of action left. Sulking. I decided not to talk to him. For the next five days I served his meals in silence. I turned my back on him in bed. By the end of the week, I was a nervous wreck, as were both children. We’d been walking around on eggshells. The strain and tension in the air was palpable. The cat had taken to looking at me in a superior way as if to say, ‘You’re new at this, aren’t you?’

By Friday night I could take it no more. ‘Oh Rory. Rory darling,’ I sobbed with relief.

‘Huh?’ he replied, giving me his full peripheral attention.

‘Let’s make up, Rore. I just can’t stand it any more. I’ve been crying myself to sleep at night. I mean, the tension, the angst, the atmosphere!’

He just looked at me and said, ‘What?’

HE HADN’T NOTICED.

PART TWO

9. Don’t Get Mad, Get Bad

As I rang the bell at Jazz and Studz’s Hampstead mansion a couple of evenings later, I was still brooding about Rory’s shortcomings. Why is it that a man would rather watch a rerun of some badminton championship between two Croatians he’s never heard of than communicate with his wife? Although I wondered if Rory actually fitted the category of ‘man’ any more. He was more of a warm-blooded pot-plant – he just sat there, waiting to be fed and watered.

I stopped brooding then because as we moved into the lighted hallway, I realised that Jazz had greeted me at the door topless. That is to say, she was wearing lipstick and glitter on one pink nipple and a sequinned tassel on the other. I scanned her face. This could mean good or bad news, I wasn’t sure. Was it a celebration? Or did she want to take her little darlings out and give them one last great time before the removal of a ravaging tumour – which, by the way, we’d already nicknamed ‘Studz’. Jazz had warned us that over the coming months she might be ringing to make unreasonable requests. I now steeled myself for a night of male dancers in latex Lederhosen at short notice.

‘It’s only a cyst,’ she laughed and did a little tapdance, sparkly nipples jiggling. She seemed anointed with joy.

I hugged her hard enough to get sequins