"Listen Jack," she said with a touch of hesitancy in her voice, "I think we should talk."
"Oh not now, babe — I'm busy," came the disgruntled response, eyes unaverted from the television even to face her. "Maybe later eh!"
She didn't pursue the matter; she knew better. In the ten years she had been Mrs. Jill Robinson, she had learnt one thing — when Jack wasn't interested, there was no point. At best she would receive a nod; at worst he would storm off to the pub for some peace and quiet.
She turned away from the living room door and proceeded back into the kitchen. Closing the door behind her, she poured herself a black coffee and seated herself at the breakfast bar by the kitchen window. She stared through the glass, composing her muddled thoughts.
She often sat by the window. It gave direct access to the shops opposite and the people, who, like ants, bustled their way through the day. It had been the inspiration for many of her poems. She likened herself to Pam Ayres, a poet of human behavior, scribbling her daily observations on post-it notes and turning out the finished renditions on the occasions when Jack wasn't interested. She had finished more than enough the last couple of years to publish her own collection.
Once again she found herself in that same old situation; stuck in the same old routine with nothing more than conflicting thoughts for company. There had to be more to married life than this. There had to be more than just waiting for Jack to find the odd attentive moment — a moment that seemed all too rare nowadays.
She didn't expect marriage to be a lifelong party. Like most women, her expectations were nowhere near as high as her dreams. She was a realist and no more demanding than most. Sure, she had anticipated that the endless groping sessions would die down; nothing could be that frantic forever. After all, they were in their mid-thirties, not the same old teenagers they had been.
And even though sex had gone from three times a day to once a year, she hadn't panicked. All relationships evolve. Togetherness, companionship — these were meant to form from the steamy, intertwined beginnings, not this mutual drowning. She couldn't help but feel that she had reached the end. What had started with a bang had faded to a grunt.
The phone rang seven times before the other end answered.
"Tracey — it's me, Jill."
"Oh hello, Jill — sorry I took so long, Steve wouldn't tell me where he had hid my present. I was upstairs beating him with my whip. I'm glad you called, it means he's left to sort the mess out. That'll teach him… spending all that money on one bottle of perfume. I wouldn't mind but it's not even my birthday."
"Young love," Jill responded — thinking back to when Jack had been like that.
"I don't know about young! — but love I know all about. So I guess you're half-right. What can I do you for — did you ring for anything in particular?"
"No not really — just bored, fancied a chat. I am not disturbing you am I? I can call again tomorrow at our usual time."
"Oh no, no worries, love, Steve can wait. Or at least we'll soon find out if he can't. Why, where's Jack? Don't tell me he's out again."
"No — he's in the other room."
"Oh!"
"He's up to the usual, catching up on the real world — Eastenders, Corrie, you know. Except now it's worse."
"Worse? What do you mean worse?"
"Yeah! Not only do I have to compete with his soap operas, not forgetting the amount of times Man Utd are playing, but now he's entered the game show phase. If he's not spending all our spare money on bloody lottery tickets and scratch cards, he's watching somebody else doing it."
"I couldn't believe him last week. I made him a lovely roast dinner, you know — before all the cows have been slaughtered because of this foot and mouth business and we end up living off lentil soup — which reminds me, you haven't read my new poem called 'Mad cows with dodgy feet.' Well, as I was saying, he never even bothers to say thank you afterwards. Yet when he's sitting there watching 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire,' he starts cheering for some estranged woman who's just one question away from winning a million. You would think he was going to share it with her. I just don't understand him anymore. He seems to have no time for me, yet anyone he hasn't met he has all the time in the world for. I could have sworn that when she said she'd like to phone a friend, he reached for his cell phone."
Jill swigged her coffee hurriedly, aware that soon even this pleasure would turn cold.
"Oh it's not as bad as that, love, is it? You sure you're not just hormonal at the moment and maybe over-reacting?"
"Well it’s not my time of the month, and even if it was, that doesn't explain why, when he's not down the pub with his mates, he's glued to the television. Every night it seems there's something coming between us."
"Sounds like it’s really getting to you. I thought we all had teething problems in our marriages. Take me and Steve, we argue; have done ever since we married five years ago. We have always argued."
"But that's my point Trace, we never do."
"And that's bad?" Tracey giggled.
"It's not funny Trace!"
"I'm sorry Jill, I wasn't laughing at you. Steve just started dragging me across the carpet by my leg. Steve, leave me a second darling, Jill's on the phone and she's upset. Sorry Jill, carry on love."
"No — Steve's right, I shouldn't disturb you, I'll ring tomorrow. Don't worry."
"Listen, Steve has just said to come over. You and me could down a bottle of wine, cheer you up. He even said he would drop you off home after. We could be there in a minute."
"That's very sweet of him, but you don't need to. You have a good evening together. You don't need an old misery guts for company."
"No, I insist, love. Steve's right — you're my best friend and I should do all I can to cheer you up. I'll beep the horn when we pull up."
"But what about Jack?"
"By the sounds of it he wouldn't even notice you gone. Stop looking for excuses and get your shoes on. See ya."
The phone went dead before she could object further. She smiled, a faint half-hearted smile, and placed the cup in the dishwasher. Even the clanging as she dropped it in didn't muffle the noise from the living room.
"No you mug, St. Vincent is an island in the Caribbean, not a patron Saint," shouted Jack.
"Caribbean — what would he know about the Caribbean? He's only seen it on the travel show. He's never taken me there. Not much chance he ever will neither."
She had just retrieved her shoes from the bedroom when the car sounded its horn. Placing them on her feet, she ran down the stairs for her jacket.
"I'm just popping out, Jack. I won't be long," she called through to the living room.
"Anywhere nice?" he responded, pretending to be interested.
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Richard Gere's just pulled up on a white stallion and asked me to elope with him."
"Okay, have fun."
He hadn't even listened to her.
"Don't use a lifeline on that question — it was Richard Burton. I've seen the film a dozen times; I should know. That's not worth a 50-50."
Fifty, she thought, slamming the door; and where will I be at fifty?
The rest of the evening went much better. She and Tracey laughed, as they always seemed to, remembering their schooldays together. Three bottles of Lambrusco later and her cares vanished.
"How long have we known each other, Trace?" She had always called her Trace and not Tracey.
"Ever since that nurse smacked us all those years ago — I think. Well, at least since the fourth year of seniors."
"Over 20 years. How come marriages don't last the same? Or at least how come mine hasn't? I'm no different towards him than I am you. All right, him and me don't have girlie chats and go shoe shopping, but you know what I mean?"
"I'm sorry Jill, love, I haven't an answer for that. Some men change and some don't, I guess. Looks like we both chose one of each. Still, it could be worse."
"Worse — how?" she said, swaying on one elbow, trying to focus on Tracey's face.
"Well I could have married Jack and you could have married Steve!"
"Oi you, I thought you were my friend."
"Only kidding. Seriously… what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I've tried suggesting things, so as not to approach it directly. You know, add the missing spice. That didn't work. I've tried talking to him — god knows how many times I have tried talking, but he's like a zombie. It's either the wrong time, or he's tired. Always later — that's his excuse. I am not sure what to do. One thing I do know is that I am not carrying on like this anymore. And you know me Trace, I'm the most easy-going person there is, but once my mind is made up… no turning back."
"So…" continued Tracey.
"So… what?"
"So what is your plan? What are you going to do about it?"
"Dunno really. I haven't made my mind up."
They looked at each other and burst into a fit of hysterics, realizing that Jill's speech about firm action went absolutely nowhere. Rolling across the carpet, they grabbed each other as friends do. Tracey hugged Jill and smiled.
"Well love — I am always here for you and all the while I am, there's a spare room; in case you need space or whatever. Steve won't mind, he thinks the world of you too."
"He hasn't got a brother…?"
"No, and don't go getting any ideas about husband swapping. I'm still an old fashioned girl, best friend or not. Seriously love, we are here for you if you need us."
Jill gave her friend a kiss on the cheek. With that they both rose, grabbing each other's arm for support, before negotiating their way to the front door and the awaiting car taking Jill home.
Jill struggled with her door key; the lock proving uncooperative. That was until the front door was wrenched open and she came face to face with the two stern figures of Jack.
"Where the hell have you been?" he shouted.
"And what do you care?" she responded, struggling to mouth the words correctly as he faded into one person before fading out again.
"I've been sitting here all bloody night waiting for you to come home. Look at the state of you."
"Oh, like you care! Well Jack, I have been having fun; sorry if that upsets your tedious schedule."
She tried placing her coat on the peg, then decided to leave it where it fell. He turned away, slamming the door in disgust.
"Well — where have you been?" His voice raised a level, his hands squeezing his hips in anger.
"Not now, Jack, my head hurts."
"I asked you a question and the decent thing to do after leaving me here worried all night would be to give me an answer."
She glared at him, his hypocrisy pushing her temper to the fore. She wasn't going to let him dictate decency to her, not after the way he had let things go these past years. She resisted, despite the temptation of being drunk. He wasn't worth the effort.
"WELL — I'm waiting!"
She ignored him and made her way up the stairs to the bedroom. Grasping tightly on the rail, she voiced her reply. She didn't look him in the face; she chose his method and just spoke indirectly.
"I've got just two words to say to you, Jack. Later, we'll talk later."
He turned, deciding the last word would be his. "That's four words, stupid."
The last thing she heard before falling asleep was the sound of the television being turned back on.
They didn't speak at all the following day, or the next. Jack spent the first night in the pub and the second totally ignoring her. Jill didn't care too much; it gave her the opportunity to think things over. She had to find a solution. If she carried on like this it would probably kill her — or her him.
By the end of the third day, she had decided. Her mind was made up. She reached for the phone…
"Trace — it's me. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I have decided what to do about Jack and will be over later to explain. Speak to you then."
She replaced the receiver, feeling good about herself. She was in charge now and that gave her a boost. No longer would she be the good little housewife waiting for some attention. Now it would be played by her rules.
At seven o'clock Jack entered the quiet house. Placing his tools by the door, he made his way to the kitchen. He made no attempt to communicate with his wife, just tossed his empty McDonald's bag in the wastebin, grabbed a cold six-pack from the fridge then began rooting down the side of the armchair for the TV remote.
The can spat as he pulled the ring back and the television hissed as the picture came into focus. Flipping his shoes to the side he rubbed the soles of his feet, swigged at the can's contents, then placed both on the coffee table.
"Oh, very funny!" he suddenly voiced; his manner demeaning and sarcastic. "If you're going to be childish enough to cover the television screen, you'll need more than one post-it note, you stupid cow!"
It was as he went to remove it that he noticed Jill's handwriting. The can suddenly fell from his hand as if all control had been taken from him, leaving the contents to soak into the carpet where it landed. No attempt was made to retrieve it. He was too busy trying to control the nauseous feeling that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.
His wife hadn't written much, but he knew exactly what she meant. Her words, it seemed, had produced the desired effect.
"Dear Jack, you’re the 'Weakest Link' — Goodbye!"