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

risk of choking to death on a grape in the museum cafeteria, risk of falling into a canal, risk of a terrorist attack; and whether or not the perceived risks were high, medium or low, I sneaked a glance at Perdita, hunched over her herbal tea. She was giving me a splenetic stare. Saying that Perdita was competitive and jealous is like saying that Al Qaeda are only a little fanatical. Risk assessment for Perdita back-stabbing me was very, very high. I feared for my promotion more than ever.

I was ambushed by my next surprise whilst ambling down Marylebone High Street the following Saturday morning on my way to collect Jenny from her drama class. A sleek black Merc purred past me before coming to a tyre screeching halt halfway over the zebra crossing. As pedestrians scattered, the driver’s window whooshed down and Jasmine’s highlighted head popped out.

‘I’m fucking a murderer!’ she called gleefully at me across the road from her new car (the Volvo estate didn’t suit her new, vampish image), much to the bewilderment of passers-by. ‘I’ll pop by later.’

The ‘murderer’ turned out to be prison playwright Billy Boston, newly celebrated for his début drama, written whilst incarcerated, which was being staged at the avant-garde Tricycle Theatre. ‘Not only is he BIB, sweetie,’ (her shorthand for Brilliant in Bed) ‘but I’ll also finally be able to get rid of my husband! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a lover with advanced weapons’ training?’ she’d laughed.

Billy Boston had tattoos, a pierced penis, nipple rings, a youth spent in boys’ homes and orphanages, two convictions for GBH and theft, one for manslaughter, a court case pending and a drug habit. In other words, a difficult man to seat at a dinner party.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said at my place later that day. ‘So, he used to be a drug-taking, violent thug – but then it all went wrong?’

I was halfway through a basket of ironing when Jazz had arrived, high on her own scandal.

‘The manslaughter conviction was really self-defence against a drug dealer. But he doesn’t do drugs now. He just does me!’

‘Come off it, Jazz. A man like that could find a heroin needle in a haystack,’ I retorted, pressing the iron over one of Rory’s recalcitrant cuffs.

‘Do you know the average number of times a person has sex in their lifetime? Two thousand, five hundred and eighty. Well, we’ve had more sex than that in a week! I’ve given up all other men.’

‘What?!’ This was so surprising that I burned my finger. ‘Christ!’ I licked the sizzled flesh. ‘Bit prim for you, isn’t it, Jazz – only having one lover and one husband at a time?’

I immediately phoned Hannah. It was time for reinforcements. She was briefed and at my house in all of ten minutes. ‘You’re just spunk-drunk, that’s all,’ she said to Jasmine.

‘No, it’s more than that. I’m so in love with Billy it renders me incapable even of shopping.’

‘Christ,’ I conceded. ‘That is serious.’

‘You’re just having some D.H. Lawrence fantasy, already. You’re slumming it, Jasmine Jardine. To cure your broken heart,’ Hannah commiserated.

‘Well, it’s better than broken legs – which is what Studz is going to have by the time my murderer boyfriend has finished with him. The man has stolen my heart,’ Jazz sighed.

‘Well, of course. He is a thief after all,’ Hannah warned.

The doorbell rang and I looked at my watch. My husband’s heart, not to mention other parts of his anatomy, were being unlawfully acquired at the home of Bianca in exactly half an hour. ‘It’s my babysitter.’

‘Perfect timing. Come out with me tonight, Cass. I’m meeting Billy in the Boom Boom bar, in Shoreditch. Full of low-lifes and Ladies of the Night. Very rough trade,’ Jazz thrilled. ‘Billy’s got a very sexy friend. Prison poet. Ex-cons are so intense. He’ll worship you. The prison vernacular, I believe is “cunt-struct”. It’s just what you need, sweetie.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘You’re double-dating criminals?’ She looked up to heaven. ‘Heal them, Oh God, for they are injured in their taste buds.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got an orgy to get to.’ I feigned joviality, but was wretched with dread. ‘Oh well, at least I don’t have to worry about what to wear.’

‘Well, if you change your mind and feel like a Slow Comfortable Screw in the Boom Boom bar . . .’ Jazz interrupted.

‘I’m sure it’s not a group-grope, Cass,’ Hannah comforted. ‘It’s probably just a sales spiel for a more Advanced Counselling Course.’

‘A slow, comfortable screw?’

‘It’s the name of a cocktail, silly.’

I was surprised to find I was disappointed. But in actual fact, it was so long since I’d had sex, I’d probably get motion sickness. I’d have to tell the guy to pull the bed over to the kerb.

The one accurate bit of information I did learn from therapy is that if you arrive late at a whipped-cream orgy, chances are it will have curdled.

Having vacillated for so long about venturing to Bianca’s basement flat in Camden, by the time I got there things were pretty much in full swing. Literally. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could see that couples were locked together, legs around each other’s waists, like sexual Siamese twins. The rather large librarian was flailing around like a sperm whale in flummery while the accountant nibbled at her nipples. The toupeed man with the hairy ankles and the grey socks was making out with the inflatable date. An orgy, one you’re not taking part in, looks about as much fun as an anal probe by aliens. And then my heart stopped with a jerk. I peered into the candle-lit gloom. Was that Rory? Was that Bianca? And were they kissing? My stomach roiled. My toes curled up as though I was wearing a pair of Turkish slippers. The image bored like titanium augers into my brain. It must have been a good kiss because Bianca was thrashing around so much, I