Friday night. We’re driving to the country home of my distant cousin, Hen. She sends a text: “Can’t wait to see you. Should I stay up? I’ve got a small migraine.”
“Remind me,” says my wife. “Why are we going to see her?”
Because she was my first love. Aged eight, she’d lure me into cupboards and we’d do Chinese burns and butterfly kisses and all the things kids do before they realise they’re being horny and preparing to commit unspeakable deeds with a relative, albeit distant. “Because she’s got kids the right age,” I say. “And she’s rich, and she’s got a nice house in the country.” This is true. Hen simply adores the simple life, and employs staff to help her live it.
Saturday, 10 pm. I’ve eaten half a roast lamb. I’m drinking 1997 Sauternes. Wife’s in bed. Hen is cutting herself some onion tart, while discussing her husband, a multimillionaire, whom she wants to divorce. He’s the finance director of a petroleum company. Strangely, I’ve never met the man, but the words “finance”, “director” and “petroleum” they never promised romance. They promised wealth. And there’s nothing wrong with marrying someone for money, but you have to expect consequences.
“I love him,” she says. “No, I do love him, actually, but I don’t think he loves me.” Hen is trying to look poised and tragic, like Greta Garbo. I’m distracted by her tits. She’s fatally addicted to boob jobs. Those breasts go up and down more than property prices. “He certainly never tells me he loves me.”
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“I never tell Livy I love her,” I say. “I do feel love for her, but usually when we’re kissing, or I’m watching her through a window. In fact, I only love her when there’s no chance I’ll have to tell her.”
“But you do love her, so we’re different.”
I’m thinking: we’re different in that I believe my wife is the right person, and that helps make her right.
You believe your divorce, handled correctly, will get you a big house and £100,000 a year.
“I just don’t think he’s my dream man,” she says.
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Now I want to beat her like a gong.
“Love is a myth,” I say, “used to sell shoes, Coca-Cola and deodorant. It’s a brief state of arousal brought on by beauty, strong chemicals or money.”
And I dearly want to add: “If you spend enough time with someone, they become a mirror of you. And if you look in the mirror, you’re always going to see a walking hairstyle, with weird fake tits.”
I say nothing more. I’m feeling too bloated. I kiss her and go up to bed. My wife is sleeping sweetly, so I have no problem feeling love for her. “Love is in the air,” I whisper in her ear.
“But so is acid rain.”