Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Clodagh - Part 1
Taken from Sushi for Beginners - Marian Keyes
Clodagh woke early. Nothing new there. Clodagh always woke early. That's what having children did to you. If they weren't roaring to be fed, they were squashing into the bed between you and your husband and if they weren't doing that, they were in the kitchen at six-thirty on a Saturday morning, clattering saucepans ominuously.
This morning they were on clattering-saucepans-ominuosly duty. She would subsequently discover that Craig, the five-year-old, was showing Molly, the two-and-a-half-year-old, how to make scrambled eggs. Out of flour, water, olive oil, ketchup, brown sauce, vinegar, cocoa, birthday candles and, of course, eggs. Nine of them, including shells. Clodagh knew from the quality of the racket that terrible things were taking place in the room below her, but she was too tired, or too something, to get up and intervene.
Eyes focused on nothing, she lay listening to chairs being scraped along the new limestone-tiled floor, month-old SieMatic cupboards being opened and slammed and Le Creuset pans being battered to within an inch of their lives.
Beside her, still in deep sleep, Dylan shiften, then threw his arm over her. She snuggled into for a moment, looking for relief. The froze in familiar reluctance and wearily moved away again as she felt his arousal unfurling and straightening against her stomach.
Not sex. She couldn't bear it. She wanted affection, but whenever she moved her body against his, seeking out comfort, he got turned on. Especially in the morning. She felt guilty every time she turned away from him. But not guilty enough to oblige.
He stood a better chance in the evenings, especially when she'd had a few drinks. She never deprived him for longer than a month because she was too afraid of what it would mean. So when the deadline loomed, she always orchestrated some form of drunkenness and delivered goods, her enthusiasm and inventiveness in direct proportion to how much gin she'd consumed.
Dylan reached for her again and she slithered across the sheets out of reach, with a nimbleness borne of many months of practice.
'Little fuckers,' Dylan mumbled, sleepily. 'They'll knock the house down on us.'
'I'll go and shout at them.' It was safer to get up.
... to be continued.
