Page 13 of One Moment in Time
She deliberately avoided getting personal so that he didn’t flee the scene. Instead, he sighed and put the paper down.
‘Are you having another one of those days, Brenda?’
She didn’t understand. ‘What days?’
‘Where you’re just bored with life and having a moan? Look, I apologise. I’m sorry I’m not this exciting, crazy guy, but this is just real life. The garden needs tidying. The house needs cleaning. I don’t see what the problem is.’
She should have held her tongue, as she usually always would, but for once, now that she’d started, she couldn’t hold back. ‘The problem, Colin, is when was the last time we laughed? Really laughed. Or talked. Or did something spontaneous? Or had wild sex…’
‘Oh, come on now,’ he began, flushing.
‘Answer me,’ she demanded, fairly convinced she was having an out-of-body experience. Usually, she’d have shuffled off and dug out her Swiffer to vent her frustrations by giving the living-room blinds a good dusting. Now, all she could think about was that it was her bloody lady bits that could do with the dusting.
‘What’s got into you today?’ he asked, avoiding the question, his fingers still clutching the edges of his newspaper.
‘Colin, I can’t do this any more,’ she sighed, pulling out the seat next to him. Time and time again, she’d planned in her head how she would broach her wish to end their marriage with him, and it was always in a calm manner, after the trip with the girls. Apparently, her brain had taken that suggestion, tossed it in his bloody precious wheelie bin (he’d spent an hour applying number stickers to his bins to ensure they got their own back after they’d been emptied) and come up with a brand new strategy. One that was Operation Blast Off, right about now.
‘Listen, I was going to wait until after our anniversary to talk to you about this…’
‘About what?’ He frowned, the closest she’d seen him to being rattled in a decade.
‘About us, Colin. I’ve never for one minute regretted our lives together, but something needs to change.’ She cursed her brain for not having the balls to say it straight but that just wasn’t in her nature. And that was the problem. ‘I’m fifty-five years old, Colin. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this. I’m not ready to give up and settle for a thousand more Saturdays like this one. I want something else…’
‘You’ve met someone else?’ he blurted, and she wasn’t sure if he’d misheard her or jumped to an incorrect conclusion.
‘No! Of course not.’
He visibly sagged with relief, and weirdly, in this time of high stress and emotional turmoil, that’s when it registered that his sweater was beige. And the walls in the kitchen were beige. The doors on the kitchen cabinets were beige. Even the piece of bloody shortbread she’d pulled out to have with her tea was beige. That was it. Her whole bloody life was beige and she wanted colour. Reds. Pinks. Neon blues. Anything but bloody bland bloody beige.
‘Brenda, what exactly do you want?’ he asked wearily, as if it were all too much trouble to listen.
‘I want a life that excites me, Colin. I want to do new things. To live a little. We’ve raised the girls and it feels like this should be our time again. Only, I don’t feel like you want anything different than what we have.’
‘Is it so bad?’
‘No, it’s not bad at all, but it’s not great, is it? Do you jump out of bed every morning, thrilled to be facing another day?’
‘No, but who does?’
‘I tell you who does – my friend, Bernadette.’ It was a low blow and she knew it. She didn’t for a second think that Bernadette’s life was one that she could have for herself. After decades trapped in a hellish marriage, Bernadette deserved every second of her happiness, and Brenda was thrilled for her, but she knew how rare it was to find love a second time around at their age – especially with a good man who loved you back. No. This wasn’t about having a lust-filled affair or a wonderful new relationship. It was just about living.
‘Yes, well obviously… Hasn’t she got a new man and she’s all in the first flush of romance? That’s not realistic, Brenda. We’ve been together for three decades. Of course it’s going to get—’
‘Boring,’ she interjected.
‘I was going to say “comfortable”. Sorry, if I’m boring you.’
God, he could be so petulant. Strangely though, even this verbal jousting was making her feel more alive than she’d done in months. She smoothed out invisible creases on the beige table cover.
‘You’re not boring me,’ she countered. ‘Life is boring me. We’re boring each other.’
He didn’t bite back. Of course, he didn’t. He was far too reasoned and considered for anything that even hinted at emotional spontaneity. He was an accountant, for goodness sake. Not exactly notorious for their wild sides and volatile behaviour.
‘Brenda, is… Could this be… Is it maybe… Do you think you could be feeling this way because of…?’
The stuttering gave it away and she suddenly knew exactly what he was going to say.
‘I swear to God, Colin, if you say this is down to the menopause, I will get my jacket and walk out that door and you can live happily ever after with your bloody lawnmower.’
