I Must Be A Dutiful Wife
We’d had another row this morning. Rob wasn’t a bad guy; he just put his mates above everyone and everything. As usual, he was going to be out all day, playing football followed by an afternoon in the pub, and tomorrow he was going fishing. It looked like I was going to spend another weekend by myself.
Recently, after drinking more than was good for me, I finally found the courage to talk about my problems to my sister. I couldn’t believe it when she told me I should be more understanding, she loaned me a book!
‘Read it,’ she ordered. ‘It will do wonders for your relationship, it worked for me.’ Well it would. Dave, her husband was a fantastic guy and a wonderful father. He adored her, and he didn’t go out with his mates. Rob thought he was a total wimp.
I took it home and settled down to read. ‘How to be a Dutiful Wife.’ I didn’t like the title for starters. I skipped the boring bits, completely ignored the stuff I didn’t agree with and read some very dubious claptrap on about how to keep my man happy. It was full of situation defusing techniques, such as smiling sweetly when annoyed, using humour and general grovelling and sucking up practices, the most repeated piece of advice was this: ‘When you feel your blood pressure beginning to rise mutter quietly to yourself, (several times if necessary), I must be a dutiful wife.’
What had I got to lose? I resolved to put into practice my new-found knowledge and spent the rest of the day practicing, constantly repeating ‘I must be a dutiful wife. I must be a dutiful wife.’
Rob returned home late afternoon, swaying and smelling of beer.
‘Hi love, any chance of a cuppa?’
Biting back my standard response ‘What did your last servant die of?’ I quietly made some tea and presented his cup with a smile.
‘You ok love?’ he looked puzzled.
‘I’m fine Rob. How do you feel about going out for a meal tonight?’ The book advised introducing some romance back into our lives.
‘Yeah. Great idea! Why don’t you wear that shocking pink dress, the one that shows off your legs right up to your ….’ his eyes rolled suggestively.
I giggled, and assuming my new role as a dutiful wife I did as he asked. Sixty minutes later, showered, shampooed, spruced up and shockingly pink clad, I came back downstairs to find Rob out cold in the armchair. Curbing my impulse to hit him with the frying pan and feeling very irritable, I made myself beans on toast, splashing a copious amount of tomato sauce on my dress. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
To my surprise, Rob began to react to my changed behaviour. He did long neglected jobs around the house, putting up a shelf, a little painting, tiling the pantry, re- hanging a door, hammering a nail into the loose floorboard in our bedroom; there he made a mistake. I went downstairs not long afterwards to find water cascading down the wall and the paper peeling off in lengths.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, scratching his head in bewilderment.’
‘You’ve probably punctured a central heating pipe.’ I turned off the stopcock. Honestly! I understood plumbing better than he did. £80 call out charge, plus parts and labour, not to mention redecorating costs. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
Rob was certainly responding to my efforts, the temperature was warming up in our house and I don’t mean the central heating. It rose to boiling point one afternoon, when Rob arrived home from work early and entered the bathroom while I was taking a bath.
‘Hey, my gorgeous blonde! Mind if I join you?’ he asked, shrugging off his clothes. His intention, already obvious from his facial expression, was clearly confirmed at eye level as he climbed into the bath.
There’s little room for foreplay in a bath, so he got straight down to business. It was on the third thrust that the tidal wave engulfed me. Gasping and wheezing I tried to sit up, not easy when there is a 75 kilo male on top of you intent on achieving his satisfaction. I noisily coughed up about half of the tidal wave, figuring the other fifty per cent had gone up my nose. Groping desperately for the towel I dried my face. A very large wet stain on my new bathroom carpet let me to realise I had got my maths wrong. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
‘Don’t bother getting dried love,’ he grinned lustfully, practically dragging me out of the bath and into the bedroom.
Having discovered only minutes ago that drowning and lovemaking are not compatible, I applied delaying tactics. ‘Let’s wait until tonight,’ I purred throatily (my conveniently husky voice due to the experience in the bath, not connected with any deep sexual feelings on my part). ‘We’ll have a nice meal, some wine and I’ll wear my new see through negligee.’ From experience I knew that a bottle of red wine would curb his desire. ‘I must be a dutiful wife!’
Things were good for a while. Then he blew it. I finished work on the Friday lunch time, that afternoon we were going to Scotland to my best friend’s wedding. I had been organising the trip for weeks, I had bought an outfit, a suit for Rob, a wedding gift. I had even cleaned and polished the car and bought some ribbon to decorate it with. Rob wasn’t at home when I arrived. After waiting nearly an hour I left with my suitcase.
The pub was busy when I arrived. Rob was playing darts with his mates.
His eyes widened with shock when he saw me.
‘Wedding!’ I reminded him
‘Ah, I forgot.’
‘You don’t say.’
I needed to make him understand. This was the end. I was finished with him.
I took the book out of my bag and read the title again. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’ My arm swung from behind my body and over my head in a perfect overarm bowl.
I threw the book at him.
Copyright Lesley Truchet 2012
If you enjoyed this story, why not share on Twitter
Recently, after drinking more than was good for me, I finally found the courage to talk about my problems to my sister. I couldn’t believe it when she told me I should be more understanding, she loaned me a book!
‘Read it,’ she ordered. ‘It will do wonders for your relationship, it worked for me.’ Well it would. Dave, her husband was a fantastic guy and a wonderful father. He adored her, and he didn’t go out with his mates. Rob thought he was a total wimp.
I took it home and settled down to read. ‘How to be a Dutiful Wife.’ I didn’t like the title for starters. I skipped the boring bits, completely ignored the stuff I didn’t agree with and read some very dubious claptrap on about how to keep my man happy. It was full of situation defusing techniques, such as smiling sweetly when annoyed, using humour and general grovelling and sucking up practices, the most repeated piece of advice was this: ‘When you feel your blood pressure beginning to rise mutter quietly to yourself, (several times if necessary), I must be a dutiful wife.’
What had I got to lose? I resolved to put into practice my new-found knowledge and spent the rest of the day practicing, constantly repeating ‘I must be a dutiful wife. I must be a dutiful wife.’
Rob returned home late afternoon, swaying and smelling of beer.
‘Hi love, any chance of a cuppa?’
Biting back my standard response ‘What did your last servant die of?’ I quietly made some tea and presented his cup with a smile.
‘You ok love?’ he looked puzzled.
‘I’m fine Rob. How do you feel about going out for a meal tonight?’ The book advised introducing some romance back into our lives.
‘Yeah. Great idea! Why don’t you wear that shocking pink dress, the one that shows off your legs right up to your ….’ his eyes rolled suggestively.
I giggled, and assuming my new role as a dutiful wife I did as he asked. Sixty minutes later, showered, shampooed, spruced up and shockingly pink clad, I came back downstairs to find Rob out cold in the armchair. Curbing my impulse to hit him with the frying pan and feeling very irritable, I made myself beans on toast, splashing a copious amount of tomato sauce on my dress. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
To my surprise, Rob began to react to my changed behaviour. He did long neglected jobs around the house, putting up a shelf, a little painting, tiling the pantry, re- hanging a door, hammering a nail into the loose floorboard in our bedroom; there he made a mistake. I went downstairs not long afterwards to find water cascading down the wall and the paper peeling off in lengths.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, scratching his head in bewilderment.’
‘You’ve probably punctured a central heating pipe.’ I turned off the stopcock. Honestly! I understood plumbing better than he did. £80 call out charge, plus parts and labour, not to mention redecorating costs. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
Rob was certainly responding to my efforts, the temperature was warming up in our house and I don’t mean the central heating. It rose to boiling point one afternoon, when Rob arrived home from work early and entered the bathroom while I was taking a bath.
‘Hey, my gorgeous blonde! Mind if I join you?’ he asked, shrugging off his clothes. His intention, already obvious from his facial expression, was clearly confirmed at eye level as he climbed into the bath.
There’s little room for foreplay in a bath, so he got straight down to business. It was on the third thrust that the tidal wave engulfed me. Gasping and wheezing I tried to sit up, not easy when there is a 75 kilo male on top of you intent on achieving his satisfaction. I noisily coughed up about half of the tidal wave, figuring the other fifty per cent had gone up my nose. Groping desperately for the towel I dried my face. A very large wet stain on my new bathroom carpet let me to realise I had got my maths wrong. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’
‘Don’t bother getting dried love,’ he grinned lustfully, practically dragging me out of the bath and into the bedroom.
Having discovered only minutes ago that drowning and lovemaking are not compatible, I applied delaying tactics. ‘Let’s wait until tonight,’ I purred throatily (my conveniently husky voice due to the experience in the bath, not connected with any deep sexual feelings on my part). ‘We’ll have a nice meal, some wine and I’ll wear my new see through negligee.’ From experience I knew that a bottle of red wine would curb his desire. ‘I must be a dutiful wife!’
Things were good for a while. Then he blew it. I finished work on the Friday lunch time, that afternoon we were going to Scotland to my best friend’s wedding. I had been organising the trip for weeks, I had bought an outfit, a suit for Rob, a wedding gift. I had even cleaned and polished the car and bought some ribbon to decorate it with. Rob wasn’t at home when I arrived. After waiting nearly an hour I left with my suitcase.
The pub was busy when I arrived. Rob was playing darts with his mates.
His eyes widened with shock when he saw me.
‘Wedding!’ I reminded him
‘Ah, I forgot.’
‘You don’t say.’
I needed to make him understand. This was the end. I was finished with him.
I took the book out of my bag and read the title again. ‘I must be a dutiful wife.’ My arm swung from behind my body and over my head in a perfect overarm bowl.
I threw the book at him.
Copyright Lesley Truchet 2012
If you enjoyed this story, why not share on Twitter