| DITCH THE BITCH
By Kate Walter
‘”Ditch the bitch, I told him, ditch the bitch!
But don’t turn your back on her as you leave,” I told him.
“She’ll stab you in the back whether you treat her badly or
are as generous as Santa Claus.” I told him: “ you need a
bloody good lawyer who’ll see you alright, make sure you’re
not hung out to dry. After all, she’s a woman, they’re all
the same.”’
I really should tell him he sounds like an oaf, a boorish chauvinistic
oaf and would he please put a sock in it! Granted, it’s not often
he comes home in ‘ditch the bitch’ mode, but when he does
you can wave goodbye to a quiet, tranquil evening. Even if we do settle
to watch something interesting or entertaining on the TV he’s liable
to start up again with no warning, no obvious provocation.
‘“Ditch the bitch,” I told him. “Better off without
her, even if she does get the house. There’s kids you see, even
if she gets the house and he has to get a flat, well, I told him, bachelor
pad more like, ha ha: Bachelor pad, can’t be bad! Ditch the bitch,
I told him.”’ And so it goes on.
I think back to my last appointment of the day, a high-maintenance couple;
Jackie, rediny red fingernails, cutesy little red jacket, and Mike, all
soft muted greys, expensive, immaculate, powerful. I wonder as I go out
to the kitchen to make our mid-evening cup of tea, whether Mike has decided
to ‘Ditch the Bitch’. I really admired the way he seemed to
want to get things sorted out and was prepared to explore different possibilities,
and although he was obviously exasperated by his wife’s comments
a few times, he kept his temper and was fair and reasonable. I suppose
I thought she, Jackie, was a bitch because it was clear she had made no
effort to change her habits, continuing to have fun with her girlfriends,
weekends in Paris shopping, spa days, champagne lunches, you name it!
Jackie argued that she had to have a life of her own to fill the time
Mike spent away from home on business. Looking at her side of the story,
maybe I should sympathise and not label her a bitch, just a lonely woman
trying to get through the days? Mike carefully and quietly explained,
for what I guessed was the hundredth time, that the business was struggling
and economies had to be made. ‘Ditch the Debt!’ I wanted to
shout. Ditch the debt, downsize, get back to basics and get to know each
other again, enjoy each other’s company living a simpler life. ‘Ditch
the debt’, Paddy would like that! But I couldn’t, it wouldn’t
have been professional.
‘You’ve only got his side of the story,’ I tell Paddy
as I hand him his tea and one digestive biscuit. ‘She might not
be a bitch.’
‘Spends his money like there’s no tomorrow. “Get some
of it into your own name,” I told him, “make some nifty transfers
while you can.”’ He bites his biscuit enthusiastically. ‘“And
make sure she’s not already siphoning it off for herself, you should
check that,” I told him.’
‘Does she work?’ I ask, still hoping for an insight into this
mysterious couple.
‘Yeah, she’s a nurse or something. Earns a pittance, works
all hours, you know how it is.’
‘Probably not a bitch then.’ I suggest, wincing at his blasé
description.
‘Dunno, never met her. Came close once but something came up, some
emergency or other, I don’t know. I said to him, “would you
recognise her if she happened to be in the kitchen when you got home tonight?”
That tickled him, he said probably not! Might have another biscuit, if
you’re getting up love?’ He picks up the remote and starts
flicking through the channels.
I take his empty cup and leave the room. In the kitchen I put the kettle
back on, for the hot water bottles. She can’t be a bitch, I think.
She’s a nurse, working all hours, she can’t be a bitch. It
seems I am destined never to hear her side of the story and that frustrates
and saddens me. My gut feeling is that she is a good woman married to
a mean and selfish man, but of course I would think that! Paddy says I
read too many cheap romances and have an old-fashioned and misty-eyed
view of relationships. He’s probably right.
‘Bottles are in.’ I say as I pass him another digestive biscuit.
‘Good girl,’ he says, not taking his eyes off the screen.
‘Oh, aren’t we watching that history program?’ I ask.
‘Boring. Thought we’d watch this film I recorded,’ he
mutters, absorbed in a car chase.
I look at the screen but don’t see what’s playing on it. I
am back with Jackie and Mike, wondering what they are doing tonight. Don’t
get me wrong, I don’t ‘bring my work home’ as such,
I just love people and want to help them to solve all their problems.
I have all the answers you see. It’s all so very simple really.
This dreadful global economic meltdown, the ‘credit crunch’,
it was bound to happen, we couldn’t go on making and spending money
the way we have been doing. Something had to give. Live now, pay later.
Yes, well, ‘later’ has arrived and we need to deal with that.
Jackie is adamant that they need five bedrooms, study, kitchen and utility
room, two en-suites, family bathroom, downstairs cloakroom (think of the
cost of the loo cleaner alone!).
The screeching of tyres and gunshots has become a frenzied assault I can’t
ignore. I twist around on the sofa and lean against Paddy, snuggling into
his warm shoulder. He’s a good man Paddy, a bit predictable, but
that’s one of the things I find charming and lovable about him.
Every night he says he’s cutting down and will only have one biscuit
with his tea, and every night he sends me out for a second biscuit without
batting an eyelid! Sometimes I pull his leg about it and he laughs at
himself but mostly I just smile and retrieve the biscuit I have left out
on the kitchen top ready for him! We’re all right, Paddy and me.
We’ve got it all sorted; our roles, how the house is run, the finances.
I smile as I realise that anyone looking in at our marriage would think
that Paddy is mean and selfish and that I spend half my life running in
and out of the kitchen for him and the other half watching his choice
of rubbish on the box! But they’d be wrong. I run around after him
for two reasons; one is that I love him and actually WANT to do things
for him; the other is that I am very proud of the way I run our home and
don’t want him messing anything up! How’s that for an old-fashioned
relationship? But it works for us.
The adverts start and he presses mute. He kisses the top of my head and
cuddles me close to him.
‘I love you, Sophie,’ he says quietly, sincerely.
‘I love you too,’ I say.
‘How was your day?’ he asks.
‘Not bad, more of the same really, people waking up to the economic
crisis. “Ditch the debt”, I said to one couple this afternoon.
“Ditch the debt”, I told them. “Sell the house, move
somewhere smaller. Your daughters can share a bedroom,” I told them.
I did until I was fifteen and my sister left home, didn’t do me
any harm, taught me about sharing, respecting other people’s space
and privacy. We didn’t have a utility either, had to have our dinner
with the washer spinning fit to take off!’
‘“Only one loo but we was ‘appy!”’ Paddy
mocks me gently and we laugh, secure in our knowledge of each other and
our shared ethics, goals, dreams.
We sit in silence, no need to talk, warm and safe.
‘Did you really say “Ditch the Debt?”’ he asks
after a while.
I smile and leave a little pause before replying. I think we are both
wondering whether I would’ve got away with it.
‘Nah.’ I tell him. ‘I wanted to, but it wouldn’t
have been professional. I stuck to the rules and talked about ways of
reducing their debt burden, consolidating their finances, spreading their
risks, ISAs, bonds, blah blah. Strictly impartial, unemotional Financial
Advice!’
‘My right and proper little FSA!’ He laughs and kisses the
top of my head again. I love it when he does that.
We lapse into silence again as the TV continues to flicker silently. Still
only adverts.
‘Did you really say “Ditch the Bitch”?’ I ask
him.
He laughs.
‘Did you?’ I repeat.
‘Nah.’ He says. ‘I was winding you up! I wanted to,
just to see how he’d react but it wouldn’t have been professional.
He’s convinced he is the injured party, certain that there is nothing
wrong with him, so it was tempting to try shocking him into perhaps leaping
to her defence and maybe reminding himself that he does love her because
deep down I think he still does. That’s what I love about my job;
however hard I try I will never really know what goes on inside a marriage.
I can only guide and counsel, hoping that something I say will help them
to unpick the past and build a new future. I’m saying “them”
- I just hope she will come to next week’s session otherwise I really
will be struggling to help.’
I turn to look at him and see deep, genuine concern on his face. The oafish
way he talks sometimes is just his way of dealing with difficult cases,
a kind of black humour to release the tension I suppose. Not for the first
time I wonder how he does his job and I know I couldn’t do it.
‘My darling, caring, sensitive, lovely Marriage Counsellor,’
I sigh contentedly and settle back into his shoulder.
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