Their behaviour was angelic, but still Marge managed to find fault, telling Lucy off for not holding the huge knife properly and mocking little Sarah for asking if someone could remove the ‘slimy bit’ from the inside of the onion ring.
‘It’s an onion ring,’ Marge told her. ‘And if you take out the onion, it won’t be a bloody onion ring, will it? So stop being daft and just eat, will you?’
‘She’s fine,’ I told her, as I proceeded to extract the onion from the batter.
‘You need to get these kids eating properly,’ Marge said. ‘Stop catering to all their silly whims and wants, because they’ll drive you insane if—’
‘She’s fine!’ I said again, shooting Ant a glare.
I think he must have sensed just how close to the edge I was, because, unusually, he backed me up. ‘She’s only six, Mum,’ he said. ‘Give her a break, OK?’
Marge snorted. ‘Because what could I possibly know about child rearing?’ she muttered.
It was still drizzling when we stepped back outside, and though I was starting to enjoy a certain sense of satisfaction that the weather was ruining Marge’s holiday, I wasn’t so caught up in it that I didn’t notice it was spoiling ours as well. So it was with relief (plus a smidgin of perverse disappointment) that I received news that tomorrow would be sunny.
That evening we watched a couple of films, which everyone except Marge enjoyed.
Having declared them ‘pointless spearmint for the mind’, she dozed off in her armchair, so by shifting sideways in my seat, I was able to pretend she wasn’t there.
About three in the morning, Ant woke me up, purportedly to ask how I was feeling.
Such concern was rare enough, but actually waking me up to ask me seemed plain weird.
‘I’m fine,’ I told him, frowning, yawning and glancing at the alarm clock simultaneously. ‘Why? Is something wrong with one of the girls?’
‘I just wanted to check you’re OK,’ he said.
‘I’m fine,’ I told him again, feeling annoyed that he’d woken me for nothing. ‘I just need to sl—’
‘I know exactly what you need,’ he said, pulling at my shoulder in an attempt to get me to roll on to my stomach.
‘No, Ant,’ I said, pushing back. ‘I’m sleepy. In fact, I am asleep.’
‘I think I might know how to wake you up,’ he said, in what I guessed was supposed to be his sexy voice.
‘Ant, no,’ I said again, but he was pulling so hard that I had no choice but to give way.
‘I’m horny,’ he said, lowering his weight on to my back. I could tell from the hard sensation against my buttocks that what he was saying was the truth.
‘That’s as maybe, but I’m not, Ant,’ I whined. ‘I’m sleepy.’
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Just let me—’
‘No!’ I said, squeezing my legs together.
‘It’s been ages,’ he said, starting to sound angry. ‘It’s been fucking for ever.’
I thought about pointing out that it was he who had ceased asking for sex, but as that absence of sex had suited me, it felt like it would be a strategic error to do so.
‘All right then,’ I finally sighed, thinking that the choice here was between an argument or sex, and that the sex option almost certainly took less effort. ‘Just not . . . you know.’
‘Not here?’ he asked, running a finger down between my butt cheeks.
‘No, not there,’ I said, in the most definitive tone of voice I could manage. ‘I’m sore.’
‘Not from me, you’re not,’ Ant said. ‘Who’s been making you sore, then?’
‘No, not from you, Ant,’ I told him. ‘From pooing.’ And that seemed to do the trick. I’d managed to make his preferred option seem suddenly far less sexy. I only wished I’d thought of it before.
‘Oh, OK then,’ he said, rolling me over on to my back and lowering himself on top of me instead. ‘Let’s play missionaries.’
Would I have chosen to have sex with him at that precise moment? No, of course not. In fact, had it been up to me, I’m not sure we would ever have had sex again.
But my body responded and about five minutes in I forgot to be annoyed with him about it and started to enjoy the sensations of him over me, within me – that long-forgotten feeling of being consumed.
As ever, Ant seemed to be going for gold, and I was pretty sure that his aim was to force me to get noisy. He had always seemed to need witnesses for everything, as if, without someone watching, he couldn’t know what was real. I suspect his ego was so fragile that he needed external proof that he was good, that he was successful, that he existed, perhaps. But with the girls in the room to the left, and Marge in the room to the right, I simply couldn’t allow myself to fulfil that need tonight.
‘Ant,’ I said, through my breath. ‘Quiet. The girls.’
It was then that I noticed a thin strip of light across the ceiling and, as Ant ignored my request for calm and went at it with ever more vigour, I twisted sideways in an attempt at looking across the room. But I couldn’t see. The room was too dark and Ant’s big body was obscuring the view.
‘A— A— Ant . . .’ I panted, managing to point to the wall behind him. ‘The door.’
‘What?’ he asked, straining to look over his shoulder.
Only when he froze did I finally get to see why the door was half open. I thought for a moment I was going to throw up.
‘Mum . . .’ Ant said. ‘Close the door.’
But Marge didn’t move. She looked, once again, as if she’d been switched off.
‘Mum!’ Ant repeated, more loudly. ‘Close the fucking door!’
He started to roll off me then, but aware that if he did so, it was me who Marge would see naked rather than her son, I pulled him close. ‘No,’ I said, gesturing. ‘Grab that sheet.’
By the time Ant had reeled in the covers and
