On the other hand, he’d intersperse this grinding undermining of my ego with compliments about my body, my beauty (!) and how ‘hot’ I was ‘in the sack’.
Understand that these aspects of our relationship crept in over a long, long period of time. Anthony never actually said, ‘Have you ever suspected that your friends don’t really like you?’ – because to do so would have given the game away. Instead, if Sheena cancelled on me, he’d say, ‘Hmm, I wonder why she did that? I suppose she must have just had a better offer or something. Still, you’ve got me. At least I’d rather spend the night with you.’ So I thought I was receiving a compliment.
When I spoke about going back to work, he’d say, ‘Has anyone actually asked you to go back? Or don’t they really care that much either way?’ And when I admitted that no one had shown a great deal of interest in my return, he’d say, ‘Lucky me! Getting you all to myself!’
The process being so stealthy, it’s a tough one to explain to an outsider, but I hope you’re at least getting a glimpse of how I came to depend on Anthony, and Anthony alone, for any remaining sense of worth.
By the time our second child, Sarah, was born, my life had changed completely. I’d given up any idea of returning to work, become so uncomfortable in social situations that I avoided them like the plague, and believed myself to be at my best – or let’s say at my least worst – when mothering or trying to please my man, either domestically or sexually.
I kept a spotless house, constantly mopping and dusting and bleaching as I tried to prove the erroneous nature of the ‘lazy’ label Ant had given me.
On the sexual side of things, I’ll spare you the gruesome details; suffice to say that Anthony had quite specific tastes. And he used the births of our daughters – claiming they had made me ‘loose’ – to justify pursuing those, let’s say tighter interests, with vigour. Heaven help me, I managed to pretend, even, to enjoy that. And that really took some doing.
So did he make me do anything? Can someone make you do something? I ask the question again, and the only honest answer I can give you is yes. A determined, calculating person can override the will of a weak, insecure, eager-to-please one.
The progression was so subtle that I rarely noticed it was happening. In fact, the only moments his hostility burst into plain view were in the presence of his mother.
During Marge’s visits, I would field a barrage of snide digs and smoothly delivered insults – it was truly horrific. But I put up and shut up and turned the other cheek.
What little confidence I’d once had – and let’s face it, I’d never been exactly cocky – was long gone, so I sat and smiled placidly as they delivered their alternate blows. I mopped and dusted and looked after my gorgeous daughters, and at night I rolled over, spread my legs and cried out just loud enough that Marge – in the spare room next door – might hear, because I’d finally understood that this was what my husband required of me and that he would go at it with increasing vigour until that happened.
Marge would die soon anyway, I told myself, and any gasps or groans she’d heard would be buried along with her body. Does that make me a terrible person, do you think?
My mother once told me that the only way to deal with Ant’s difficult mother was to wait until she either ‘came around’ or died, but Marjorie refused to do either. She was younger than she looked, it transpired. And she was in far better health than I would have guessed, too.
All the same, for a few years her influence waned. Because it was clear that she didn’t like me, and because Ant and I had children who she didn’t seem that keen on either, my presence was no longer required during his now fortnightly visits to Broadstairs. Looking after Lucy and Sarah was the perfect alibi, and one I exploited to the max.
Once we’d moved Sarah to what had been the spare room, Marge’s regular visits to Sturry stopped as well.
Ant’s desire to hear me squeal ceased around the same time. I suspected that he was having affairs – he’d come home very late from work and jump straight in the shower – but I convinced myself that I didn’t care. My evenings alone with Lucy, Sarah and Walt Disney were pretty much perfect, and as far as lack of sex was concerned, my primary sensation was one of relief.
In 2014 Ant surprised me by announcing he’d bought a bigger house – a five-bedroom red-brick monster in nearby Chislet – and as soon as we had a spare bed installed, Marge’s visits resumed. She was still in perfect health – thriving, as I saw it, on negativity – and was more than able to drive out to us for visits. Her character hadn’t improved with age, either, and if anything, she’d become even more obnoxious.
My relationship with my sister had become so complicated by then that we only ever spoke on the phone. As for Sheena, even phone conversations had become challenging to the point where I’d pretend to miss her calls. The problem in both cases was the same: my own inconsistency. Due to my litany of complaints about Ant’s behaviour, they’d individually come to realise that he wasn’t the nicest person. But as they’d ceased, one after the other, telling me to stop whingeing and begun, instead, to encourage me to leave him, I’d found myself rather perversely defending him. A point had been reached
