Three's a Crowd

A sofa, an armchair and three people: two women, one male. Two sit together. I’m the third.

The television is on. Bright and shiny, celebrity reality with a studio audience. It’s loud ‘n’ easy TV, offensive only in its excruciating dullness, and on to please her. I wouldn’t have it invading my living room under any other circumstance, but I want to please him.

I watch them. He is dark, well-built, with toned thighs and has crossed his muscular arms over his chest. He reclines bulkily on the sofa, an action man on dolls’ house furniture. He doesn’t look comfortable but she’s caressing his foot and he’ll put up with anything for that.

She is just the wrong side of prim to properly relax, petite, but with a big knobbly nose and chubby hands. A ring on her finger digs into the flesh where the first signs of liver spots are appearing. Her hands rhythmically squeeze and stroke. He’s ostensibly watching the television show but has a far off look in his eye. He’s miles away, lost in foot sensation paradise. I hear the pleasurable breaths he draws in through his nose. She stops for a moment and, without looking at her, he prods her with his socked foot, spurring her to start up again. Which she does.

I swallow hard. Something wells up in me. It’s a sort of jealousy, I suppose. And an icky feeling that I’m getting used to – I get it whenever she’s here. It swelled into something bigger last night, something much more full-blown as the full-length body hug at the top of the stairs, so unnecessary in itself, was made worse by him nuzzling his face into her neck at bedtime. I shuddered, went to bed and lay on my side, staring at the wall for quite some time before I finally slept.

She comes over all lovely. The happy clappy Christian bit isn’t my thing, but she’s caring and obviously adores him. Her answer to everything, every joy, every pitfall, every decision is, “What will be will be”. She’s virtually without opinion. Once I talked about something I’d read in the paper – nothing taxing, a point of interest about one or other of the wars. Afterwards he warned me to stay off politics, although Maddie would be fine. Oh yes, she’d have an opinion about that. I’ve never met anyone so bland. If it wasn’t for their ‘history’ I would wonder what he saw in her.

And she’s possessive. When she’s not there she writes cards to him almost daily, as though by doing so she's keeping tags on him. They have quaint pictures of bunny rabbits on the front, or unfunny cartoons, and always say the same thing. She never mentions me. Sometimes she signs off, “lubs ya”. My skin crawls.

Razzmatazz brassy music marks the end of the TV show. Another one is about to start, but I’m out in the cold, feeling isolated. I get up from the armchair.

“Bed time for me,” I say, falsely cheerful.

Standing, I look at him meaningfully. Slowly, he turns his head to look at me. I look at him, eyes wide and give a questioning shrug of my shoulders. He smiles back beatifically in silent conversation as she continues to stroke his foot, her eyes on the TV.

I turn and go upstairs to bed on my own, resentment and disgust bubbling up like bile. He comes in later, slides into bed and puts his arm round me. I am tempted to shrug it off but let it lie, pretending to be asleep. Then I stiffen.

“Mum asked if she could stay another few days,” he says, before dropping easily into sleep.