Creatures of Habit

For over ten years, we hosted the Sorell, Hogg and Hartley Christmas Eve party at our house in Arkley Village. Tom organised the guest list, and I received and entertained his work colleagues and their spouses. It was a wonderful opportunity to socialise, put faces to names and impress the firm’s influential partners. 

   “Susan makes it all look so effortless, Tom.” 

   “She always insists on doing the catering.”

   “Really? Then you’re a lucky fellow.”

   “There’s nothing left to chance.”

   I could hear Tom’s bellowing voice above the hubbub in the lounge as I prepared more appetisers in the kitchen. He was a social magnet and natural performer who played to galleries of admiring women whilst entertaining their husbands with his untold shenanigans. 

  “Susan’s so steadfast.” Tom said as I wafted around the lounge like a fragrant breeze. “Lord knows what I’d do without her.”

   “Chilli crab blini?” I said, enticing Tom’s CEO. “They’re ever so moreish.”

   “I’ll bet they are, Susan,” he said, patting my behind. “You, temptress.”

   Tom had progressed up the hierarchy at Sorell, Hogg and Hartley Associates, and I’d tolerated many indignities to assist his career prospects. However, playing genial hostess to a leering, foul-breathed executive wasn’t my idea of a fun night.

   “If you’ll excuse me.” I smiled, body-swerving out of reach. “Duty calls.”

   I slipped past our guests to prepare the next batch of toothsome canapés. The party food was an exciting challenge, made arduous because of all the guests blundering around the kitchen. A group of junior secretaries from the firm’s typing pool were hogging the drinks table and giggled with delight as the gas stove enveloped me in a cloud of hot steam. They were too busy exchanging texts and comparing selfies to notice further culinary endeavours, and it wasn’t until I clunked a baking tray on the marble work surface that one of them addressed me.

   “I’m so sorry,” she said, putting down her phone. “Can I help you with that?”

   “You know what---?” I exhaled and untied my apron. “I won’t say no.”

   “You poor thing.” She bit her lip, knitting her eyebrows together. “Let me ferry those gorgeous hors d’oeuvres into the living room.”

   “You shouldn’t feel sorry for me.”

   “It’s the least I can do.”

It was while I was enjoying a moment of respite with a glass of bubbles that her phone chimed on the worktop next to me.   

   Tringa-Tringa-Tring!

   It had the comical tinkle of a child’s bicycle bell. A sound I’ll never forget, but that wasn’t why it was memorable. 

   Tringa-Tringa-Tring!

   It was the screen saver image that appeared at the same time. I’d know Tom’s firm jaw line and deep brown eyes anywhere. 

   Tringa-Tringa-Tring!

The tuxedo looked new. I didn’t recognise that. The young woman kissing his cheek looked unfamiliar, too. 

   Bzzzz-Bzzzz-Bzzzz!

   My kitchen timer rang like an over-zealous game-show contestant and drew my attention back to the stove. I rescued another batch of mini vol-au-vents from an untimely cremation and when I turned back, the offending iPhone had disappeared. 

It was as if it had never existed. 

   Maybe I could pretend I hadn’t seen it? It was only there for a few seconds. Just enough time to register the image. Time enough to imprint itself on my mind’s eye. A fleeting memory like a paper cut. A paper cut that didn’t hurt at the time and wouldn’t leave an obvious scar, but it would sting later on. Later on, it would hurt like hell.

   It was after one o’clock when we tidied up the party’s debris and I wasn’t in the mood for Tom’s lame excuses for his CEO’s wandering hands.

   “So, what’s a slap on the ass?” Tom asked, kissing my cheek.

   “Hmm.” I raised a fixed smile and topped up his glass.

   “Think of it as securing my New Year’s bonus.”  

   “I’ll bill you for my expenses, shall I?”

   “Keep your sense of humour.” 

   “I wasn’t joking, Tom.”

* * *

It’s funny, in retrospect. Pietro was never disrespectful towards me. Despite his initial gruff demeanour, he was quite the old-fashioned Italian gentleman. At a distance, wearing his filthy work attire, he looked forty plus, however up close he could’ve passed for a boxer in his prime.

   I’ll never know how Pietro regarded me, because his deep-set eyes gave nothing away and English wasn’t his strong point. Maybe he wondered what I did all day, drifting around that big old house in Arkley. I kept out of his way and he neither saw me swimming in the pool nor exercising on the tennis court. 

Who knows? Perhaps he thought I was busy organising charity events or raising money for worthwhile causes. Either way, Pietro accorded me a level of respect I’d forgotten existed in the opposite sex. Each day, he consulted me about the gardening tasks and worked hard to indulge my endless requests. He absorbed my every word, never rushed matters, and satisfied my demands with the painstaking detail of a fresco restorer in the Sistine Chapel. 

   I suppose they’re all like that in Puglia. I wouldn’t know, of course. It was Tom who travelled abroad on weekends while I played the happy Herfordshire housewife. I was ever faithful and consistent, overseeing the upkeep of our lovely home. None of the burly builders and saucy contractors ever caused me to stray in Tom’s absence. I had a simple mission statement, and I never swerved from my goal. I was ‘Steady Susan’ by name and ‘sure and steadfast’ by nature.

* * *

Consistency’s a wonderful and rare commodity in a person, and Tom had the habit of assuming all was fine. He never questioned my feelings or asked if I missed him while he was away. I think he assumed I’d manage and cope by myself. When he returned on a Sunday evening, he’d put his feet up and tell me how exhausted he was. I don’t remember him ever enquiring about my week or how things were going.

   By comparison, Pietro was a refreshing blast of mountain-air after a life choking on downtown exhaust fumes. He was reliable and considerate, and always willing to run errands without complaint. I never heard him mutter or question his work and indulged my slightest whim.

   “Clean the pool?” He’d scratch his chin. “Sure, no problem.”

   “Trim the hedges and mow the lawns?” Nodding, he’d say, “I’ve got that.” 

   “Fetch groceries from the store?” Pietro would grab his keys and head off.

   I had plans to update our property and enforced a strict regime of works while Tom was away. Pietro graduated from gardener to handyman and played a major part in all the renovation, sanding the window frames and doors and restoring the exterior to its original specifications. He could turn his hand to anything, and the house soon flourished like a dormant flower blooming after a drought in a rock-strewn desert. 

* * *

It was the first week of summer, when I encountered Pietro peeling off his sweaty t-shirt, having netted all the rotten leaves from the pool. I drifted towards him with a pitcher of chilled water flavoured with lemon zest and placed it on the glass-topped table with a sharp clunk. Pietro drew a short breath like a startled panther and flashed a broad grin.  

   “You’re spoiling me, madam,” he said, raising a glass in his rough paw.  

   “Not at all,” I said. “You’re worth every penny.” 

   “You are, how do you say---?” He tilted his head, frowning. “Too kind, yes?” 

   I nodded and topped up his glass. Condensation gathered on the inside of the glass as he tilted it back to quench his thirst. I studied him as he wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his wrist. He’d worked up quite a sweat.

   “Take a dip if you fancy,” I said. “We’re not overlooked.”

   After a cursory glance at the party fence and surrounding pine trees, he stepped out of his grubby trousers and held my startled gaze. Tom would never ‘go commando’ and dive into our pool. He’d worry about prying eyes and gossiping neighbours. 

   Pietro completed two lengths underwater before surfacing. His face was radiant when he beckoned me forward with an outstretched hand. 

   I shook my head. “It’s too cold,” I said, buttoning up my open blouse.

   “No way,” he said. “The water’s perfect.”

   I recall my nervous smile and muttered something about a towel, retreating behind the sliding glass doors. From inside the kitchen, I watched him swimming up and down the pool as if he were the owner, enjoying the fruits of his labours. I had things to do and no time for any nonsense. The next time I looked outside, Pietro was securing the bags of garden waste on his trailer. I approached the window to wave, and he departed without looking back. He was professional and respectful as ever.

* * *

That night, after my solitary evening meal, I wondered what Tom was doing. To be honest, I avoided thinking about him when he was away. It was less painful that way. But why wasn’t he here with me? He’d worked hard for a lovely home and garden, owned a stunning car and wanted for nothing.

   I hated to admit the truth. I’d become Tom’s habit, and reduced to ‘her indoors.’ Did he need to work all the time? We’d achieved our dream and more besides. I mean, why did we need a swimming pool? Neither of us could swim and a tennis court’s no fun for a single player.

   All right. I get it. I’m not ungrateful. I appreciate, habits can save time. Tedious daily routines that require determined effort become automatic processes. However, life can veer off course when that behaviour goes unchecked and one maintains important relationships on autopilot. Loved ones wither if one doesn’t nurture them. The corrosion is incremental until they become lifeless props on a film set and they vanish from view. It’s as if the scene shifters have cleared the studio for a new production.

* * *

It was Mrs Parkinson from next door who spoke to Tom when he returned after the Easter weekend. She’d noticed his car parked in the driveway and approached the house under the guise of being ‘neighbourly.’ I was in the kitchen, having just collected groceries, when Tom opened the front door.

   “I couldn’t help but admire your gardener the other day,” she said. “Is he available for my garden too?”

   “Susan employs him full time at the moment.” 

   “Oh,” she said, blinking in all innocence. “I assumed he was rather underemployed because he was swimming all afternoon and…”

   “Swimming, I didn’t know---”

   “Oh,” she said, covering her mouth. “I hope no one’s in trouble.”

   “Trouble? No, I don’t think there’s any---”

   “I mean, I know it was hot and everything but…”

   “Hot and everything, but what?”

   “But he should wear trunks...”

   “Wear trunks?”

   “Oh dear….”

   “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,” he said, sighing. “Please excuse me.”

Tom sighed and closed the door, humming as he sauntered down the corridor and headed past the kitchen and flopped down in front of the T.V. 

* * *

   Maybe if Tom hadn’t been so dismissive about the incident, my feelings of guilt would have abated, but he showed no sign of either anger or jealousy. Maybe he’s up to something? It only makes sense if he’s been up to no good. You know what men are like? They’re always scheming and plotting. 

You can’t trust any of them, can you? 

   I tip-toed upstairs as Tom snoozed on the sofa and entered our bedroom. His gentle snoring rumbled like distant thunder as I teased open his sock drawer. I’d no idea what I was searching for and rifled through it like a mole burrowing underground. Maybe I’d find signs of inconsistency, a secret phone, a gift-wrapped ring-box and indications of an affair, signs of iniquity and some shred of evidence pointing to betrayal, perhaps prophylactics or anything that could justify my action. 

I scoured the bedroom and his suitcase.

Not a single item out of place. 

There was nothing. 

Just a feeling.

* * *

   “So…” Tom said, chewing his lamb cutlet. “Pietro enjoys a swim?”

   I almost choked on a new potato. “I don’t know what you’re---”

   “According to Nosey Parker, he was having a whale of a time---”

   “She said what---?”

   “Splashing about and diving up and down---”

   “It wasn’t like that, he---”

   “She’s relieved he didn’t indulge in the back stroke…”

   “I can explain,” I said, swallowing. “It was hot and---”

   “I’m pleased someone’s used the damn pool.”

   “I’m sure he won’t do it again and anyway---”

   “Keep your knickers on Susan---”

   “I don’t know what you’re implying---”

   “Don’t lose your sense of humour.” 

   “But I wasn’t joking, Tom.”

   What hurt me most was when he shook his head and chuckled.

   “She’s right, you know?” I said, staring at him. “One kiss leads to another.”

   “Don’t take it to heart, Susan. She’s just an old gossip and---”

   “I haven’t felt lips like his for a long time.”

   “You don’t know what you’re saying and---”

   “Soft and moist,” I said, unblinking as I confessed. “Muscular tongues entwining in a game of hide and seek and exploring the unknown and—-”       

   “You don’t have to tell me about this.”

   “We couldn’t help ourselves, Tom.” 

   “I can’t believe it, Susan.” Tom closed his eyes.

    I turned away. “We just couldn’t stop…”

   Tom laughed out loud and said, “You don’t think I’d employ a man like Pietro if he was straight, do you?”

   I blinked and felt my cheeks burn red hot

   “Anyway,” he said, frowning. “Why would you ruin our marriage?”

   “Sorry, but I thought you—-”

   “No, don’t apologise,” he said. “I’m sure you’re far too busy looking after the place to chase workmen around.”

   “Of course, but—-”

   “But, Susan…” He stroked my hand. “You’re just not that type of woman.”

   I bit my lip and narrowed my eyes as he leaned forward to kiss me. However, when he yawned and announced he was off to bed, I could’ve throttled him. 

Maybe, one day soon I’ll have the pleasure.

THE END