Page 31 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
Before the kettle starts to make a sound, it is too quiet. I hear David swallow. And then, suddenly it is too loud and I feel like an idiot. I am wearing new underwear and my favourite jeans, the ones he says my arse looks amazing in. How have I got this wrong?
‘Shelley,’ he says, reaching for my hand. ‘I just… I thought we were having dinner.’
‘We are having dinner.’
‘But it seemed like we were about to take things into the bedroom, and…’
I wait, because what is the end of that sentence? I have never met a man who has had a problem with skipping dinner for sex.
‘That’s not the kind of girl you are, that’s all.’
I am confused. I turn my back on him, stir the rice. And then it hits me. Is it the first time I’ve been the one to initiate things? Is that what the problem is? I go back over previous times we’ve been in this flat, and yes, it’s always been him, reaching out, determining the flow of things.
‘I haven’t seen you for a few days,’ I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. ‘I thought you’d want to.’
‘And I do, but not like this. Not some sordid, groping-in-the-kitchen thing. We’ll have dinner, and then we’ll go to bed, and we’ll do things properly.’
Already, I am wishing I’d never made a move. I feel foolish, rejected. I watch the bubbles form in the water, watch the rice start to expand. I feel like asking him to go. But I won’t.
‘Let’s start again,’ he suggests. ‘Come here.’
I go to him, and he puts his arms around me and gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, and I feel like things are ending. Like he’ll walk out of here after dinner, decline my invitation to stay, and I will never see him again. I can’t bear that.
‘Has something changed?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says, cradling my head in his hands. ‘Look at you, so worried. We’re fine, Shelley. I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t expecting that and I handled it badly. But we can fix it. Let’s have this delicious dinner you’ve made.’
I have no appetite. I serve the food and David tucks in but I push mine around the bowl, taking big gulps of wine betweentiny mouthfuls. David opens a second bottle, and I pour myself a big glass. I can feel myself unwinding, becoming looser, caring less about what happened. I know that my voice is getting louder, my gestures bigger, and then I see David frown and know I’ve somehow messed things up again.
‘I think you’ve probably had enough to drink, don’t you?’ he asks when I reach for the bottle to top up my glass.
The words are like a slap. Every day, I tell people they’ve had enough, that I don’t think they should have that next shot or pint or glass. But that is when they are falling over, slurring, obviously drunk. I am just a bit pissed. Why does he care?
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t.’
We are at a stalemate and he is standing up now, crossing the room and heading for the kitchen, putting the bottle back in the fridge.
‘David, what’s going on?’
He comes back to the table, pulls out his chair.
‘Nothing’s going on,’ he says, but there’s an edge to his voice. ‘I just don’t want you to make a fool of yourself, that’s all.’
‘Why would I make a fool of myself?’
‘Because you’ve had too much to drink and not enough to eat, and you’re getting a bit… silly.’
I have no idea what is happening, but I want him to go. I wish we could go back to the moment he arrived with those beautiful flowers, but we can’t. It’s ruined, somehow. I stand and clear the plates, despite the fact that neither of us has finished eating. I open the fridge to take the strawberry mousses out, and then close it again. Return to the table.
‘I’ve got a headache,’ I say. ‘I think we should call it a night.’
He doesn’t make a move to stand up. ‘Are you sulking, because of what happened in the kitchen? Or because I said you’ve had enough to drink?’
‘David, I think you should go,’ I say.
He stands, wipes his mouth on a napkin, then pushes his chair back underneath the table, as if he’s determined to be as polite and courteous as possible.
‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ he says, his voice calm. ‘I think we just got off on the wrong foot and now…’
