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

considering I was in the midst of an anxiety attack. I felt an ache of disgust grip my intestines. How could she do this to me? To us? A murderous fury took hold of me. Die! Die! But all I had in the car was Jamie’s giant water-pistol. I had a sudden vision of all the brunch-crumb-coated Camden arty types, sipping their champagne and shaking their heads condescendingly as they caught sight of me chasing my husband and his mistress down the street pumping watery rounds into them from an aqua-gun.

‘Rory, what about the kids?’ I implored. ‘If you can’t think about me, at least think about them.’

‘Oh, but we are. I’ve already had a text from Jamie saying he can’t wait to meet me. Look.’ Bianca displayed Rory’s phone with a message illuminated. She sounds cool, Dad it read. ‘Aw,’ Bianca gushed, ‘thassadorable.’

I had to wait for the crashing in my ears to fade away before I could talk again.

‘Rory, don’t be fooled,’ I said desperately. ‘Bianca hates children. She makes her own kid play with gender-non-specific toys from economically disadvantaged Third World craft fairs. I mean, it’s child abuse. And before you move into Tofu Towers,’ I gestured to her flat, ‘just think about this. Bianca may pretend to be all organic, hell she’s no doubt given you your first organic orgasm, but the woman’s full of Botox. Don’t you find that a little hypocritical?’

‘And he’s taking me to meet Jenny today,’ Bianca miaowed.

I tried to answer, but what erupted instead was a cry of anguish. ‘Where?’ My life was suddenly a cracked mirror.

‘Sports Day. Our daughters are at the same school.’ Rory spoke at last. I reached for him, but he brushed me away as if I were a gnat. A gnat he wanted to swat. ‘Serendipity is a year younger, but I’m sure the girls will get on.’

‘But, Rory you never go to Sports Day! I’ve always gone. This is the first year I’ve not run in the Mothers’ Race, but the dates conflicted with my school excursion to the Science Museum.’

‘It’s okay. Bianca’s going to run.’

‘Yes,’ she gloated. ‘Some of us like to keep in shape.’

Warning! Warning! Danger! Klaxons of terror trumpeted in my head. My face was pinchy with indignation. How could he do this to me? Rory might be the vet, but I seemed to be the one with a degree in Animal Husbandry. ‘So, you really do want my husband, do you? Well, just let me go and get his water bowl and chew toys. And hey, that might be a good way to get rid of you too, Bianca. If I throw a stick, no doubt you’ll run after it.’

Bianca abruptly pulled Rory back into her garden flat and slammed the door. I felt desolate at the loss of him. What really upset me was that I was the one who’d battled with and then retrained him; who’d finally got through to him the importance of birthdays and anniversaries and that there is only one answer to the question, ‘Does this make me look fat?’ Only for another woman to waltz off with the New and Improved Version. It was like renovating a house, making it perfect – only to be evicted. That was it. I’d been sexually gazumped by a new owner. A younger, thinner, firmer new owner, with better underwear.

And it was all my own wretched fault. Jesus Christ. By dragging him to couples counselling, I might as well have lit up a cigarette next to a petrol tanker. And soon Bianca would be meeting my daughter, and running with all the other Yummy Mummies in the Mothers’ Race.

Driving to school, I fantasized about killing her off and making it look like a lawnmower-related accident. I could see myself now on a maximum-security prison wing crocheting doilies and pleading that I suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder. Multiple? Who was I kidding? Hell, I didn’t even have one! Well, all that was about to change.

I steeled myself. The chequered flag had been dropped. The race was on. And I would win back my hubby fair and square. Even if I had to cheat to do so.

18. Survival of the Prettiest

When a woman finds out that her husband is having an affair, most of the immediate options seem puerile.

Writing on his driver’s licence under any distinguishing features – NO PENIS.

Dating the bloke he hero-worships on their Saturday footie team who never passes him the ball.

Spreading a rumour that you ended it because he’s incontinent.

Signing him up to some embarrassing websites; websites under surveillance by Scotland Yard.

Giving up chocolate. You’ll miss it so much, you won’t have time to miss your husband.

Getting hold of his chequebook and on all the cheque stubs writing for sexual favours.

Beating the bitch in the Mothers’ Race.

Sports Day is an exercise in ritual humiliation. Most mums like to spend the Mothers’ Race hiding in the toilets. Needless to say, I was looking forward to it only slightly more than I would have my own execution by lethal injection, but my hatred of Bianca overrode all other feelings. The only problem was how to get out of my school excursion to the Science Museum?

There was no point calling in sick. Mr Scroope doesn’t even accept a certificate of death as an excuse. But it would be my own funeral if I didn’t beat Bianca in the Mothers’ Race.

As a teacher you become au fait with every excuse imaginable. The absentee notes from parents provide much mirth in the staffroom.

Please excuse Kylie for being absent on the 29th, 30th, 31st and 32nd of February.

Please excuse Jackson for being. It was his dad’s fault.

Please excuse Chardonnay for being absent yesterday. Me and her Dad had her shot coz she was real sick.

Even adulterers like Rory had excuses. Please excuse me from my marriage but I have fidelity fatigue. He was the one having the affair, yet I was the one made to feel