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

‘Oh, well, I booked up a year ago.’ And with a perky flutter of my fingers, I was gone. As to the work climate? Let’s just say I felt a distinct frost in the air.

But half an hour later, things got very hot indeed. Mainly under my collar.

‘I’m afraid I’m declining your request for the Science Museum excursion,’ the Headmaster told me, his large lips slapping together in a wet percussion of rebukes. I’d been summoned yet again to his office.

‘It’s been brought to my attention that during the last school trip you organized to London Zoo, as the children were leaving for the bus, you suggested they sprint towards the parking lot yelling, “Run for your lives! They’re loose!” It has been reported to me that this so startled the tourists that it started a small stampede. Is this an accurate description of said incident, Ms O’Carroll?’

My Headmaster’s manner is so severe that he causes the people around him to squirm and blurt things nervously.

‘Um, well, um . . .’ Come on, I told myself. Even a turtle has to stick its neck out to get anywhere. ‘The kids were really tired and I was just trying to wake them up.’ I tried to keep calm by listing all the jobs that would be worse. A judge in Baghdad, say. An official car-starter for a Mafia boss. Animal faecal identification expert. Defroster of Walt Disney’s head. Food taster for Kim Jong-un. ‘It was funny at the time,’ I concluded, timidly.

‘And do you find it funny, how badly this reflects on my school?’

All it reflected on was the sneaky nature of my fellow teacher. Perdita had been the only other staff member on the zoo excursion that day.

‘Oh, hello. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ came her lilting voice from the doorway. She placed a cup of strong tea on the boss’s desk. ‘Thought you might need a little pick-me-up.’ Honestly, this woman could network at a funeral. ‘Can I get you anything, Cassie?’ All this was said through the most courteous of smiles.

Yeah, you could take this knife out of my back. ‘No, thanks.’

I was beginning to think that if Perdita were a dog, I was her tree. I told myself not to sink to her level, as it was, after all, such a long bloody way down. Little did I know that I was about to fall flat on my face anyway . . .

‘Well, it gives new meaning to “personal training”,’ was my only comment when Jazz, our resident sausage jockey, pointed out her newest ride after school later that day. Hannah, Jazz and I were at the Regents Park Tennis School, taking turns to half-heartedly knock a few balls at each other, while Jamie and Jenny had their lessons on nearby courts.

‘Oy veh, Jasmine,’ snapped Hannah, having examined the coach in question through her opera glasses. ‘In general I think it’s best not to shag someone you could have given birth to.’

‘As I see it, any male of legal age on the planet the same time as me, is up for grabs, girls.’

Hannah fiddled with the lenses then fixed the opera glass to my eye. A muscled Adonis jumped into the frame. ‘Yowzah! He’s gorgeous, Jazz. I think I’ll shop you to Social Services so that I can have him! So, where do you do it?’ I probed, looking around voyeuristically. ‘In the clubhouse?’

‘Of course not. We do it at his house.’ Jazz dropped onto the lawn to re-lace her tennis shoes. ‘He’s um . . . sharing a place with some old friends of his.’

‘You mean his parents? You shtup him at his parents’ house?’ Hannah remonstrated. ‘That’s pathetic, dah-ling. And does the tennis coach know about all your other men?’

‘No. And don’t tell him! He’s a little naïve. He only slept with me because I told him it was my first time, you know, with someone else besides my husband. Well, it was my first time that day!’

My laugh died in my throat as I glanced across the courts.

‘Fuck a duck.’

‘It’s about the only thing she hasn’t.’ Hannah’s sarcasm was cut short by my frantic finger-pointing and arm-waving, because there, crossing the courts, was Bianca, in an immaculate white tennis skirt, her hair swept up into a coronet of slightly burned profiteroles.

‘Who is it?’ Jazz asked languidly, looking up from her shoes.

‘Bianca – our Couples’ Counsellor. I’ve missed her class for weeks. Said I had terminal flu. Left another message today saying I was at death’s door.’

Jazz followed my gaze. ‘Oh my God! I know her.’

‘Really? You and Studz had therapy?’ I marvelled.

‘No. Her daughter does swimming training – you know, squads, at the Y, where Josh trains. Serendipity’s her name, can you believe it – she goes to your daughter’s school. Didn’t you know that, sweetie?’

‘No. I didn’t even know she had a daughter. Poor kid.’

‘You better believe it. Bianca only dresses her in unbleached cotton from Fair Trade. Sends her to swimming practice with lentil sandwiches on home-made rye. The woman has been irrigated in every orifice. She once told me she knew the other mums must always say about her “How does she do it! What an inspiration!” Well, let me tell you, what the other mums really say is “Quick! Hide! Here she comes!”’

‘Quick! Hide!’ I found myself saying. ‘Here she comes.’ I ducked down behind an ornamental shrub.

‘How can you take advice from her?’ Jazz scoffed. ‘The woman’s insane! Has she sat on your husband yet? She’s a real husband-sitter from way back. The female version of a marauding Viking. She’s had affairs with the swimming coach and two of the fathers. Yep. A total truffler of other women’s hubbies.’

‘Really?’ I experienced a colonic flutter as my sphincter battened down its hatches.

‘She’s also a marital bulimic,’ Jazz insisted. ‘Marry, divorce, marry, divorce . . . You’ve got to be suspicious of the “till death us do part” bit when the bride makes a habit of catching