TODAY WE FEATURE CHAPTER 9 FROM EVA BIELBY'S 'THE HURT', FIRST BOOK OF THE CAPTIVATING 'THE HURT' TRILOGY

CHAPTER 9

Other than my concerns about Anthony’s new found love of gambling, the first eight months of our marriage were almost perfect. Anthony continued to be loving and attentive and our new house had been beautifully furnished throughout that time. We had some great times and we laughed a lot. We went out two or three times a week together. I continued with my badminton and Anthony went to golf, sometimes with my Dad and other times with his friends. Cooking became a new hobby for me and I soon discovered how much I enjoyed experimenting with different flavours.

Anthony was enthusiastic about the meals I prepared so I bought more cookery books. Dad got an herb garden started for me as he knew Anthony was hopeless at anything that involved DIY or gardening. We got into the swing of holding small dinner parties every two or three months and inviting friends over. I enjoyed being hostess and considering that I had done very little cooking before getting married, (university life had been mainly takeaways or nothing more adventurous than beans on toast and pot noodles) I was proud of some of the culinary delights that I managed to serve up.

The moment I dreaded arrived soon enough. It was mid-week and we had just finished our evening meal, Anthony complimenting me on one of my Indian concoctions. He was a little too enthusiastic about something that I thought to be mediocre. I sensed I was being softened up. First came the suggestion.

“Darling, should we have another dinner party on Saturday night?” he asked.

I was surprised by this as we only had one recently. Much as I enjoyed the evenings, it usually involved me spending the whole day in the kitchen. I found them quite wearing so I didn’t relish the thought of another so soon.

“Oh! Anthony, do we have to? I’ve just recovered from the last one.” His smile faded slightly, so I caved in a little.

“Who were you thinking of inviting?”

 I knew it was coming.

“My parents!”

I felt my face drop…and he was on it in an instant.

“What’s the matter, Helen? Darling, they haven’t even seen our house yet. And you haven’t seen them since the wedding. It’s nearly eight months!”

I felt cross with him and I could feel the tension start in my neck. It was like an accusation aimed at me. I wanted to ask him what I’d done wrong to them. It wasn’t my fault they hadn’t been to visit, I had invited them. Didn’t he understand that? He was waiting for me to say something…so I told him.

“Well…it’s just that I have asked them to visit us on quite a few occasions now, when your Mum has rung you here…and you’ve not been in. I honestly don’t think they’ll come for dinner, Anthony. To be honest with you, I don’t think they care for me much.”

His eyes widened in surprise…he looked stung. I instantly regretted my words.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling, of course they like you. You’re imagining things. What on earth makes you think that? I’ll call them tomorrow and ask.”

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I gave him a nod to say ‘okay then.’

Crap! 

Not only did his parents not like me, I didn’t like them. I would be mortified if they accepted his invitation.

The following day, I had been home from work half an hour and our evening meal was well under way when I heard Anthony’s car pull into the drive. I could see him from the kitchen window as he opened the rear passenger door to get his laptop. He turned around and waved, a big wide grin on his face and I hoped the reason for that was that he had a good day at work.

“Sweetheart, you’d better get your menu sorted out, they’re coming, Mum and Dad! I told you they would.” he blurted as he came into the kitchen.

“Oh! Okay, that’s not a problem.” I managed, trying to put what I really wanted to say to the back of my mind…and wishing I was half way around the world. I finished off preparing the vegetables but my enthusiasm for that evening’s meal had deserted me. All I could think about was how much I dreaded seeing his parents again.

When we finally sat down to eat, Anthony had sensed my mood change.

“Darling, you’ve gone very quiet, what’s bothering you? Don’t you want to make an effort for my parents?”

Me! Again! 

I was fighting to stay calm and wondering why he couldn’t see what was staring him in the face and had been since he first introduced us.

“No, no, it’s not that.” I lied, “I just don’t have a clue what sort of things your parents eat. You know…their likes and dislikes?”

“Right, well then, you should have said. Let’s see…no fish, no pasta, nothing too spicy. You’ll be fine. I’ll trust your judgement on the food. I’ll buy the wine tomorrow.”

No getting out of this one then!

 My worst nightmare was about to happen. I felt as if I was backed into a corner - trapped! I searched my mind for a way out and couldn’t see one. Anthony was looking at me expectantly…for what? I didn’t know!

“You had better cast your eyes over the menu when I get it planned then. I’d hate to serve up something that they don’t like. Maybe there’s something they dislike that you have forgotten to mention?” He appeared deep in thought, eyes looking to the ceiling for an answer, finally, “No, I don’t think so.”

I picked up a handful of recipe books and took them into the lounge so I could browse as I drank my glass of wine. It wasn’t out of eagerness to plan the menu, but more an excuse to avoid speaking to Anthony, who seemed to be deliriously happy that his Mum and Dad were coming for dinner. I really didn’t trust myself to speak lest I reveal my true feelings about them. Before we went up to bed I presented my proposed menu to him for his approval; Glamorgan sausages with red onion chutney and a small side salad for starters. For the main course I selected lamb shanks, vegetables and potato gratin, dessert would be white chocolate cheesecake with fresh raspberries on the side. As an added touch, I planned to serve a blackberry and elderflower sorbet between each course to freshen the palate.

“They’ve all been tried and tested at some of our other dinner parties.” I told Anthony. “Do you think the menu’s alright then? I don’t want to try anything new in case I make a mess of things.”

 “This menu will be fine, trust me. They’ll love it.” He replied confidently.

 I’m not so bloody sure about that!

The dreaded evening arrived. Anthony went out to welcome them as their car pulled into the drive. I peered out of the kitchen window hoping I wouldn’t be seen by them. Always brought up to believe that it is good manners when you get invited out to dinner to take a gift along; a bottle of wine, flowers or even some chocolates, I wasn’t sure what to expect from them. I noticed they were both empty-handed. I walked over to the door to greet them as they entered the kitchen and held out my hand,

“Eileen! John! How lovely to see you again.”

“Hello.” She grunted, poker-faced as usual as she glanced at my proffered hand and pushed straight past. John put his hand out, fleetingly shook mine and swiftly pulled it back out of my grasp. Hell fire, did he think he was going to bloody catch something from me if he held on too long? I looked over at Anthony to see if he noticed their reactions towards me…he had. He shrugged his shoulders at me and asked them both if they wanted a glass of wine. Eileen said she’d have a glass but quickly followed with,

“Your father won’t want one, he’s driving.”

 Like he had a choice in the matter!

“Would you like a tour of the house, Eileen?” I offered politely.

“I’ll show myself around, or Anthony can give me a tour. You get back to heating the ready meal.” She walked off leaving me totally flabbergasted. I heard her footsteps on the stairs seconds later. Again I looked at Anthony for support and mouthed the words at him ‘get back to heating the ready meal up?’ He mouthed back,

‘Shhh!’ and shook his head.

I gave him one of my looks and stomped back to the kitchen. So he was going to let his mother get away with everything. Maybe he would, but I was definitely not going to!

They took their seats in the dining room half an hour later and I served up the starter before sitting down myself. Eileen stared at her plate a few seconds too long, looked over at Anthony and asked,

“What on earth is this?” I just couldn’t resist,

“Why don’t you ask me, Eileen? Anthony doesn’t really remember, and it was me who did the cooking.” She didn’t even acknowledge me or cast a look in my direction.

“They are called Glamorgan sausages (pointing at them), and that is red onion chutney” I said (pointing again), and indicating next the few lettuce leaves and cherry tomatoes, “and that’s a bit of salad on the side.”

I could feel Anthony’s eyes burning into the side of my face and I didn’t give a damn!

“Is it cheese?” She asked.

“Yes. Caerphilly.”

She pushed the plate away from her, remarking, “Cheese gives me a headache.”

“Forgive me, Eileen.” I said in my sickliest of voices, “I never realised.” I caught a disapproving look in her direction from her husband. The main course also met with disapproval,

“I do think lamb is so terribly fatty. We hardly ever eat it.”

I chose to ignore the comment, carried on eating, and listened to her continued, scathing remarks to Anthony about the décor in our bedroom, our choice of leather suite in the lounge and how we rushed in to marriage far too soon. She pushed her food around the plate as she talked and I noticed the determination on her face. The bloody woman had no desire to eat anything that I cooked and furthermore, she was hell bent on insulting me at every given opportunity.

I could see that John was starting to feel very uncomfortable with her behaviour and perhaps feeling a little sorry for me. He ate everything on his plate and complimented me on the menu, despite the glower he got from his wife. He was interested in, and asked me intelligent questions about my work and badminton, which he apparently had been pretty good at in his younger days. The guy was actually good company and pleasant to talk to. I was pretty adept at being able to hold a conversation with one person and pick up on things being discussed in a second conversation and sure enough, Eileen carried on spewing out her cynicism.

As I served up dessert and placed Eileen’s in front of her I couldn’t stop my sarcasm surfacing,

“Eileen, if the dessert is not to your liking I can get you some ice-cream from the freezer - something that I’ve not prepared.”

It was a waste of time, the woman was so thick-skinned. I was by now, avoiding all eye contact with Anthony and John couldn’t fail to see the warning looks from Eileen while I had been in the kitchen as he became very quiet again. I ate my cheesecake and decided I had enough tension for one night. Pushing my chair back and standing up, I announced,

“Do excuse me folks, I have a headache and I’m going to bed. It has been nice to see you again, John.”

“Too much wine darling?” Anthony asked me sarcastically.

“No! It must be the cheese in the Glamorgan sausages. Good night!” and feigning calmness and serenity I walked out and left them.

I heard their car pull out of the drive fifteen minutes later, which was rapidly followed by Anthony’s footsteps thundering up the stairs. He shoved the bedroom door wide open, hitting the chest of drawers behind it and pointed at me accusingly,

“YOU” he shouted loudly “have embarrassed me tonight, Helen. How dare you treat my mother in that manner?” I’d already calmed down and was ready for the onslaught I knew was coming.

“So it’s just fine then…the way she has been trying to belittle me all evening? You did not find anything wrong with the things that she said to insult your wife, Anthony? That is acceptable is it…for her to speak to me the way that she did? Does my father talk down to you? Does he insult you at every given opportunity? He never would do that though, he has better manners, and at least he likes you. But if he didn’t, I would still defend you, Anthony. That is what a husband and wife should do after all, support each other. She hates me! I think your dad likes me but he has to do her bidding. I feel sorry for him.”

I struck a chord. The truth hurt! He was beyond furious. Unable to defend his mother further he screamed,

“FUCK YOU, HELEN!”

and with that, he slammed the bedroom door and was gone. For the first time since we married, I woke up alone the next morning. Anthony slept in one of the guest bedrooms for the night.

https://mybook.to/FWTWf  THE HURT

COMING SOON: On Monday 28th April, our team member and fabulous author, Lorraine Carey meets the Flash Fiction challenge.