they’re solid objects, but you don’t really see them, do you? Or notice them or whatever. But now it dawned on me that the one time you do notice the hoover or the dishwasher or the kettle is when they go wrong. My husband was looking right at me. I knew he could see me, could feel his eyes on my face. He wasn’t gazing at me with love, obviously; he was looking at me because it was nearly seven and there was no dinner. I had malfunctioned. I was a hoover that had stopped picking up, a dishwasher that didn’t get the plates clean, a kettle with a dodgy element.
And actually, I started to feel exactly like a kettle in that moment. I was full of water, the liquid insides of me heating around a red-hot element at the core of my being, tiny bubbles rising.
‘I’m just…’ I muttered.
I left Mark in the lounge and went to sit in the kitchen with my head in my hands. Sweat ran down my back, prickled on my forehead. I felt like I was going to be sick, had the impression I was going to slide off my chair. My head throbbed and I closed my eyes to try and calm everything down. Another second and I was wrestling myself out of my cardie. I pulled my work T-shirt over my head. I was down to my bra with a vest on top, knew I should get out of my wet trousers, but I couldn’t move. I was panting, trying to suck in air in small swallowed breaths, trying to get oxygen into my lungs. My eyelids were sweating, for crying out loud; my armpits sent more perspiration trickling down my sides, into my waistband. I kept my eyes closed, focused on bringing my temperature down, and all the while I was thinking, I’m a kettle, I’m a kettle, I’m a kettle. I’m a kettle with a dodgy element. I’m going to explode. And when I do, I will rain boiling water down on everyone.
The kitchen door squeaked. I opened one eye a crack and saw the tip of Mark’s slippers.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Just hot, that’s all.’
A heavy sigh. ‘I suppose we’d better go and get the bloody car then.’
We drove there in Mark’s Astra. It only took ten minutes or so, but from the vice-like set of his jaw, you’d think I’d asked him to drive me to France. At least he let me have his cagoule, which was dry and, being menswear, actually covered my bottom, and it’s got the big hood and the big pockets – which was where I put the jump leads.
I close my eyes and I’m there. It’s cold despite it being early July. The rain has started again and it’s heavy: glass javelins spearing the canal. Mark is grunting like an old fella, propping open both bonnets while I hold his golfing umbrella over his head. I know how to attach jump leads to batteries and it was my car, but he’s done it, mood filthy as the night, before I have a chance to open my mouth. He gets into my car to start it, which I also know how to do, obviously. But I let him get on with it; I’m grateful for the help.
The heat inside me has died down. I’m clammy and washed out, but nothing more.
The Twingo starts more or less straight off.
‘May as well drive this one now I’ve got it going,’ he shouts through the window. ‘No sense both of us getting wet. You take mine.’
‘OK.’
I still have my hood up. The rain is going off but there’s mizzle in the air. I shove the jump leads back into Mark’s cagoule pocket. By the time I’ve got into the driving seat and readjusted it to my short legs, he’s gone. I turn on the ignition, almost die of a heart attack at the deafening blast of Radio 5. I turn it off. I get enough of ill-informed men pontificating on things they know nothing about at work.
It’s quarter to eight when I finally get home. But at least I don’t feel like I’m going to erupt anymore, start spouting boiling water all over the kitchen floor. I should get changed. Only I’m halfway up the stairs when Mark says: ‘Where are you going?’
What he means is: Where’s my tea?
‘I was just going to get some dry clothes on. I might even change into my PJs.’