Confessions of a Kinky Wife

‘I don’t like the sound of this wondering. What are you plotting?’

‘That’s for me to know,’ he said, parting my bum cheeks and dripping shower gel between them, ‘and you to find out.’

‘When will I find out?’

‘Behave yourself and perhaps you never will.’

‘You make me want to be bad, just so I can find out.’

He grinned and kissed my neck, smoochy and slow.

‘I dare you,’ he said.

28 August

I know it’s been a long time without a diary entry – three weeks – but we went away for a fortnight in the sun and all domestic discipline arrangements were deferred while I read blockbusters on sunbeds, sampled every different cocktail on the menu and tried to fend off Dan, who seemed obsessed with the idea of having sex on the beach. Not for me. The sand, ugh.

My natural tetchiness only lasted a couple of days after touchdown and for the rest of the holiday I was as relaxed as a cat stretched out on a sunny patio. Dan really had nothing to reproach me with, and besides, the Mediterranean climate didn’t seem suited to rules and routines. I expect it’s all in my head, but I think of all that as being a northern European thing.

It had been hot in town before we left, but heat at home is different. It means sweating in your work clothes, polluted air, stinking bins on collection day. It makes everything more stressful.

Lucky, then, that on the day we landed at Gatwick the British summer was well and truly over and we ran from the terminal to the car park through a gauntlet of hailstones.

And now, on Bank Holiday Monday, weather conditions were no better, which boded badly for the barbecue we’d been invited to by one of Dan’s police mates.

It’d been weird since we got back from Spain, as if one of us was waiting for the other to bring up the subject of our dodgy pre-holiday activities, but nobody wanted to be the one to break the silence. The two weeks away seemed to have re-set us back to our defaults. Me snappy. Him sighing. The odd silent stand-off, a few instances of under-the-breath muttering and passive aggression. I was creeping slowly back into my old, unwanted ways.

I didn’t want to go to the barbecue much and I did my hair and make-up grudgingly, wishing I could stay home and watch TV instead. After all, it was back to work tomorrow and I didn’t want to be drinking and staying out late. I was already in a mood of high dudgeon by the time I got into the car.

‘We aren’t staying late, are we?’ I griped as Dan turned the key in the ignition.

‘No, no, not late. I can’t drink anyway, since I’m driving … unless you want to …’

‘Drive home? Oh. OK.’

There were advantages to this course. I could leave when I wanted, as the designated driver, instead of waiting for Dan to finish an interminable round of cop anecdotes. They were good anecdotes, but I’d heard them all before.

And I wouldn’t risk a hangover. I know it’s easy to intend to stick to no more than two alcoholic drinks, alternate them with water, blah blah, but somehow two often seem to stretch to more, especially when people refill your glass without asking.

‘Really?’ Dan stared at me, delaying putting his foot on the accelerator. ‘You’re sure? Even though we have to go through Smash-Up Junction?’

‘Well, it should be OK later on at night. It won’t exactly be rush hour.’

‘Cool. Thanks, love.’

Dan was chipper as he guided us through Bank Holiday traffic to his friend’s place on the other side of town.

He lived in an apartment complex with an underground car park – the barbecue was on his roof terrace. At least, that was the idea, but the driving rain forced us all indoors and he had to make use of the oven instead.

I turned down all offers of wine and beer and stuck to Coke. These dos were even more boring without alcohol, though, and I couldn’t really join in with all the shop talk that was going on. I had to content myself with over-eating and smiling indulgently at Dan’s stories. Perhaps I should have brought a book.

After two hours of this, I suggested that perhaps we should go home.

There was a chorus of protest, in which Dan joined.

‘We’ve only just got here.’

I think he was on his third can of lager, or it might have been his fourth. He was at that stage where he wanted to hold forth to an avid audience, and delight in his eloquence and popularity. Two more cans and he’d be telling everyone how much he loved them.