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Why doesn’t that feel like it fits?
Chapter Six
“Do you want to go into Lygate on Saturday?” Petra asked later that week, not moving her eyes from the television.
“To Lygate, to do… what?” I asked, dread creeping its way into my body. It was a stupid question, really. Lygate was a shopping centre. There was only one activity you could really do in a shopping centre.
“Well, we established the other day that you need new pyjamas. I need a couple of new blouses for work for the summer. And there’s a new café that I’m hearing good things about. They serve raw cookie dough like ice cream in tubs – think of that!”
“Do we have to?” I said mournfully. “Can’t you get some new blouses from Martine’s? Her boutique’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from the school, and I’m sure she’s got some nice… stuff.”
“Yeah, she’s got some nice stuff, but at astronomical prices. Boutique prices, you know?”
“You get paid well enough. You’re the literal deputy headteacher!”
“Yes, but there are… other strains on our bank account too. There’s a cost-of-living crisis just kicking off and I don’t want to spend a hundred quid on two blouses when I could get them for fifty in Lygate.”
“That sort of thinking will make Martine’s shop go bust. Then where would that leave her?”
“You’re just pressing because you don’t want to go shopping.”
That shut me up. Busted. She knew me so well.
“You don’t have to come.” She smiled as she offered me the out. “I can go by myself, if you don’t mind not having the car for a bit.”
“No,” I stifled a groan. “I’ll come. I like the sound of cookie dough.”
“I knew that would convince you.” She winked.
So that Saturday morning saw Petra and I get into our little Citroen and drive the fifteen minutes into town. We reached the shopping centre and parked up in the multi-storey car park, before proceeding into the first department store. If you could call it that, since it had recently halved in size and moved downstairs. Petra made a beeline for the women’s clothes and I followed obediently, even though the clothes she was looking at were of little interest to me. While she ran her hand through some billowy-looking blouses, I lifted a monochrome polka dot polo shirt off the clearance rail and examined it. The collar had a little frill that looked more suited to a child than a fifty-something woman, so I put it back with a barely-stifled grimace.
“What do you think of these, Jean?”
I turned around to see Petra holding up two of those billowy blouses she’d been admiring. They looked fairly identical in shape, but one was blue and green and the other was pink and green. She held them up against herself.
“Do either of these clash with my hair?”
I narrowed my eyes and scrutinised them.
“You’re lucky. There isn’t a whole lot that does clash with your hair. They both look fine.”
“Fine?” she repeated, then looked at the blouses again. “Is that all? No more… descriptive words?”
“Um… beautiful. Which you are. You are beautiful!”
This time it was her turn to narrow her eyes.
“You sure about that? You don’t seem to be saying it with much heart.” A smile hovered around the corners of her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or just trying to gloss over her hurt.
“No, you are beautiful!” I said fervently. “And so are the blouses. No clash. All good. Get the blouses, they’re great. I’ll just…”
I dodged around her and headed for the men’s section. Over there – much less densely occupied than the women’s – I was able to hide for a moment under the pretence of looking at some shirts. My face felt like it was on fire and I cursed myself for my crappy phrasing. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to make my wife doubt herself. My discomfort in these settings wasn’t Petra’s fault, or her responsibility. I was just coming to that conclusion, gritting my teeth in the process, when I heard footsteps coming up behind me.
“You okay?” Petra said quietly. “What I said was meant to be a joke. It just didn’t land right.”
“Jokes are meant to be said with a smile, Petra,” I said with a sigh. “Or some sort of indicator. I’m not a mind-reader.”
“We’ve been married for nearly seven years, Jean. I’d have thought you knew a little about me and my sense of humour by now. But… okay. I’m sorry for… making a joke that landed wrong.”
