late, working on a different set of priorities to most people, but she never forgot anything really important. And she was hopeless with money. Not extravagant, but just completely unaware of how much things cost and how much she’d spent. Mickey was grateful for this particular failing. Whilst he was only too aware of the state of their bank balance, he could be sure Lucy would be in blissful ignorance. And just to make sure, their statements always went to the brewery. Shit – he’d better make sure they were well hidden. Patrick was definitely suspicious. What of, he couldn’t be sure, but he’d better not leave any evidence lying around.
Mickey sighed. He was guilty of too much. And he was tired: tired of trying to hide all the time and tired of trying to justify his actions to himself.
His favourite platitude – used by men to excuse themselves and by women to console themselves – was that what he was doing with his dick had nothing to do with what he felt in his heart or in his head. He loved Lucy, undividedly and unashamedly. And he certainly didn’t love Kay – sometimes he thought he didn’t even like her. But when she lay there, the insides of her thighs milky white, parted like her crimson lips, desperate in her need for him –
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was why he felt driven to behave this way: he needed to be needed. For Lucy, adored, respected and protected by everyone around her, didn’t really need him…
At once, Mickey felt cheered that he might have found himself an excuse. He cemented it by remembering the two previous times he’d been unfaithful to Lucy. When she’d fallen pregnant with Sophie, she’d been so dreadfully ill, not just for the first three months but all the way through, violently retching if she’d taken so much as a sip of water or eaten so much as a crumb. Eventually she’d been hospitalized and put on a drip. Mickey had been frantic, had hardly left her side, convinced that this skeletal figure with its obscenely swollen belly could not survive. The doctor, misjudging his concern, constantly reassured him that the baby was not suffering, that it was living off Lucy’s reserves, but Mickey didn’t care about the baby. He spent hours at her bedside, holding her hand: her bones showed through as white and brittle as spillikins. Horrified by what he had done to her, and charged by her need for his constant reassurance, all thoughts of sexual activity had left him.
When Sophie had finally been born he had been amazed that such a bonny creature could emerge from Lucy’s etiolated remains. He’d been staggered, too, that Lucy could take so lovingly and warmly to the parasite that had caused her such suffering. She’d even insisted on feeding the baby herself. Mickey had tried to put his foot down, but as Lucy pointed out, now she was no longer pregnant she could keep food down, was putting on weight already, and she wanted to give her baby the best start in life. So intense was the bond between mother and baby that Mickey had suddenly felt an outsider. They didn’t need him; he’d done his bit.
A few weeks later, he’d bumped into a nurse from the hospital – he remembered her bringing him cups of coffee and packets of biscuits throughout his bedside vigil. Now he was no longer preoccupied, he realized how pretty she was. The consequences were sadly predictable.
When Lucy fell pregnant with Georgina less than a year later, they’d had one of their very few rows. Mickey had been aghast at the thought of Lucy being pregnant again – there was no real need; they had Patrick and Sophie. But Lucy had insisted that no two pregnancies were the same, it wouldn’t be like before and anyway it was too late – and she certainly wasn’t having an abortion.
It was the same; possibly even worse. Mickey had been all things to all people throughout the nine months: mother, father, husband, cook, nursemaid, nanny and housekeeper. Never before had so many been so
Mickey sighed. He was guilty of too much. And he was tired: tired of trying to hide all the time and tired of trying to justify his actions to himself.
His favourite platitude – used by men to excuse themselves and by women to console themselves – was that what he was doing with his dick had nothing to do with what he felt in his heart or in his head. He loved Lucy, undividedly and unashamedly. And he certainly didn’t love Kay – sometimes he thought he didn’t even like her. But when she lay there, the insides of her thighs milky white, parted like her crimson lips, desperate in her need for him –
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was why he felt driven to behave this way: he needed to be needed. For Lucy, adored, respected and protected by everyone around her, didn’t really need him…
At once, Mickey felt cheered that he might have found himself an excuse. He cemented it by remembering the two previous times he’d been unfaithful to Lucy. When she’d fallen pregnant with Sophie, she’d been so dreadfully ill, not just for the first three months but all the way through, violently retching if she’d taken so much as a sip of water or eaten so much as a crumb. Eventually she’d been hospitalized and put on a drip. Mickey had been frantic, had hardly left her side, convinced that this skeletal figure with its obscenely swollen belly could not survive. The doctor, misjudging his concern, constantly reassured him that the baby was not suffering, that it was living off Lucy’s reserves, but Mickey didn’t care about the baby. He spent hours at her bedside, holding her hand: her bones showed through as white and brittle as spillikins. Horrified by what he had done to her, and charged by her need for his constant reassurance, all thoughts of sexual activity had left him.
When Sophie had finally been born he had been amazed that such a bonny creature could emerge from Lucy’s etiolated remains. He’d been staggered, too, that Lucy could take so lovingly and warmly to the parasite that had caused her such suffering. She’d even insisted on feeding the baby herself. Mickey had tried to put his foot down, but as Lucy pointed out, now she was no longer pregnant she could keep food down, was putting on weight already, and she wanted to give her baby the best start in life. So intense was the bond between mother and baby that Mickey had suddenly felt an outsider. They didn’t need him; he’d done his bit.
A few weeks later, he’d bumped into a nurse from the hospital – he remembered her bringing him cups of coffee and packets of biscuits throughout his bedside vigil. Now he was no longer preoccupied, he realized how pretty she was. The consequences were sadly predictable.
When Lucy fell pregnant with Georgina less than a year later, they’d had one of their very few rows. Mickey had been aghast at the thought of Lucy being pregnant again – there was no real need; they had Patrick and Sophie. But Lucy had insisted that no two pregnancies were the same, it wouldn’t be like before and anyway it was too late – and she certainly wasn’t having an abortion.
It was the same; possibly even worse. Mickey had been all things to all people throughout the nine months: mother, father, husband, cook, nursemaid, nanny and housekeeper. Never before had so many been so
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