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

‘Can’t you just be gracious and wish Perdita the best?’ insisted Scroope.

‘What I wish is that she were in a plane which was about to make unexpected contact with the Atlantic Ocean.’

Mr Scroope’s nose twitched. His face contorted into a gargoyle scowl. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Pendal, for generating and then implementing such breakthrough ideas. And thank you to our Inspectors for their favourable report,’ he said oleaginously, bringing the meeting to a close. ‘Mrs Pendal, would you like to escort our esteemed friends to the school gates?’

When the staffroom had cleared, Scroope turned to me and hissed his usual phrase. ‘My office. Now.’ I could only imagine that he was going to make me write out 100 times, I must stop my compulsive, obsessive behaviour towards Perdita. I must stop my compulsive, obsessive behaviour towards Perdita. I had completely underestimated her indomitable resolution to win. At my own cost.

‘But they’re my notes! She stole them,’ I pleaded once more, as he closed the door behind us.

My boss’s furry red brows collided on his forehead threateningly – the man really needed eyebrow mousse – but instead of yelling, he smirked. ‘Falsely accusing a fellow staff member of plagiarism, humiliating the school in front of the Inspectors – I think we can safely say that this can be called your third strike. I am writing to the Board of Governors immediately.’

I wandered in a daze back to the staffroom and stood staring at the noticeboard with its Union flyers, yellowed with age, and collection of mildly humorous faux pas from children e.g. Philistines are the inhabitants of the Philippines. Three strikes and I was out. My reality cheque had just bounced. What would I do without teaching? I couldn’t expect a reference. Roadsweeper and toilet cleaner were two of those excellent options that my careers adviser never mentioned. Teaching was my vocation. I reread a card given to me by a pupil that day – You’re a cool teacher. You learned me real good – and gave in to my tears.

After school, I sought solace with Jazz, but she was also going through a Life in the Toilet stage.

‘My husband is emotionally blackmailing me.’ She spoke in a weary singsong as we struggled through the supermarket aisles, pushing trollies with club-wheels to do the weekly food shop. ‘My son has gone all secretive and withdrawn, and I’m so broke I may have to break into my face-lift fund. I mean, look at this.’ She held up her pale blue handbag. ‘Things have got so bad I had to buy imitation Prada. And . . . I’ve broken up with Billy Boston.’ She maintained their romantic demise was because he refused to have the tattoo Sharyn removed from his arm. ‘He wanted me to change my name to Sharyn by deed poll, as it would hurt less than laser removal of the tattoo. Can you believe that?’ She laughed with lunatic fervour.

Studz had vandalized whatever hope was left in the woman. Beaten and defeated, she sniffled into a tissue for a moment, then made a physical effort to shake off her maudlin anxieties. ‘What we need is some fun,’ she declared by the frozen food. ‘I mean, at least one of us has found some happiness. And if she won’t share it with us, we’re just going to have to live vicariously.’

The person Jazz had in mind to spy on was Hannah. She had been so secretive about her lover that our curiosity was piqued. As ice-cream melted in the boot of my car, we sat outside Hannah’s house, swigging from a bottle of cooking wine as we giggled like deranged schoolgirls.

‘There! I see them!’ Jazz squealed with excitement, when the lights in Hannah’s bedroom came on. ‘I’m so pleased she finally took my advice.’

We were laughing so much it took me a moment to realize that Jazz had started squeaking like a lost kitten.

‘Jazz?’

I glanced over at her, bewildered. Her smile had become unhinged. The sort of smile that goes with braiding your hair and sitting in a corner humming.

‘What is it?’ I persisted.

She tried to answer but her mouth just fell open.

I looked in the direction of Hannah’s bedroom but all I could see was the moon, pocked like a giant golf ball, looming over the house. Jazz flumped back into the passenger’s seat in a fugue of shock, her eyes bare and round as light bulbs. She made a noise like a tyre going flat, but through the hiss I thought I heard the word ‘Josh’.

‘What?’ My face burned in confusion.

‘It’s my son!’

I felt as if I’d wandered into a Greek Tragedy during the second act. ‘Josh?’

And then I heard no more because the air was cleaved by my best friend’s wailing.

22. ToyBoysRUs

Jazz was out of the car and pounding on Hannah’s door before I could catch her. ‘Open this door!’ Her throat was on fire with misery.

The window wheezed open above us. There was a general banging of doors, a scraping back of locks, and a few minutes later Hannah appeared, dishevelled and half-dressed. She stared at Jazz.

‘Where is my son?’ Jazz barged past Hannah.

‘Why? Is it past his bedtime?’ There was nothing weak or apologetic in Hannah’s voice. ‘He’s run along home, actually. But thank you for suggesting I help Josh with his art assignment. He is a truly remarkable young man.’

‘Yes. Yes, he is.’ Jazz’s voice was like acid and her look – well, it was a look which could have parted the Dead Sea.

Following Jazz into Hannah’s state-of-the-art kitchen, I braced myself for the whole story. How could she possibly justify her actions? The person you go out with says a lot about you. Sleeping with your best friend’s son says that you are a two-faced psychopath.

Hannah sashayed into the kitchen after us. ‘Talking about art, we became so connected intellectually and emotionally, it was only natural that we share a