How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📗

winter days where the sun, low in the cloudless blue sky, slices into your eyes. David Studlands was lit as if in a stage spotlight. And as usual, he dazzled.

‘Come in,’ he said in his mellifluous voice, a warm hand on the small of my back. ‘Can I get you a drink? Jasmine’s doing the school run.’

He steered me into the sitting room. ‘No thanks. I’ll—’

But Studz was already pouring me a glass of Merlot. In the sunlight he looked suddenly younger. I had a flashback to his student days – all tousled hair, faded jeans, a half-smile playing on his lips. When had he undergone his Bastard Transplant, I wondered. When had he transmogrified into Snidely Whiplash? A surge of fury went through me, overcoming my lack of confidence.

‘I’m not going to make small talk with you, Studz – even though I know how much you like talking about your dick . . . not to mention, thinking with it. Why? Why the hell have you hurt Jazz like this?’ I flopped down angrily into the sofa.

‘Oh I see. The coven have been consulted around the cauldron.’ Jazz’s husband threw his hands up in the air. ‘Stress. Exhaustion. I’m practically running the Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of War single-handedly.’

‘Really?’ I looked at him, as unblinking as a lizard. ‘What are you doing with your other hand?’

But instead of taking umbrage, Studz just laughed. He was Teflon Man. Insults slid right off him.

‘You know that Jazz is about to ask you to go down on bended knee and say, “Will you be my ex-wife?”’ I paused and Studz looked down at me with his hooded, slightly bloodshot eyes. ‘How could you do it to her?’ I asked again. ‘You’ve broken her heart.’

He shrugged. ‘Men go with younger women for a little something extra,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘fearing humiliation and gruesome handbag injuries if we asked for those “extras” at home.’

Studlands centred me in his gaze once more. His eyes, a tart mix of orange and green, were made even more marmaladey in the afternoon sunlight. As he moved towards the couch I shifted to make room for him, but he sat too close to me. I could feel the warm length of his thigh against mine.

‘On the other hand, unlike most wives, I always thought you’d be very creative in bed, Cassandra.’

‘Oh yes, I am,’ I replied coldly. ‘I do origami, macramé and needlework.’

‘Is there life after infidelity? Of course there is,’ he continued, smoothly. ‘Monogamy as a workable concept is dead.’

‘For you blokes maybe. Men being good at fidelity is like saying that . . . I dunno – that Gandhi was good at catering.’

‘Come on, Cassandra. How long have you and Rory been married? Wouldn’t you like to feel the thrill of a strange hand on your skin? The heat of another man’s mouth?’

He was staring at me – no, into me – a certain savagery in his look and then his hand was on my thigh. ‘Aren’t you a little old to be playing doctor?’ I slapped his hand angrily. I would have said more except my best friend had just arrived at the front door.

Josh strolled in behind her. ‘Mum,’ he waved at me, dumping his bag and heading for the fridge, ‘will you help me with my art assignment?’

‘Of course, darling.’

Studz gave a snort of laughter as merciless as a nose blowing. ‘Your mother? Using her brain? She’s been a lady of leisure so long I think it’s rusted, kiddo!’ he condescended, sauntering back towards his study.

‘You’re right, I must be stupid,’ she riposted. ‘I mean, look who I married.’

Once we were alone, Jazz gnawed fretfully on the inside of her left cheek. She poured herself a drink. She was so upset she forgot to light up one of the cigarettes she didn’t really smoke.

‘I’ve been thinking, Jazz’ I said. ‘You know how you keep asking me what you should do. And you know how, next to shoving a fork into an electrical socket, my least favourite thing to do is give advice to a girlfriend about her marriage? Well, I’ve decided that yes. Yes! You should divorce the scumbag. The man is evil. It’s a wonder he’s not off somewhere tossing virgins into volcanoes.’

‘Thanks, Cass.’ She visibly relaxed. ‘The way Rory treats you, you should think about divorcing too. Just remember that, statistically, one hundred per cent of divorces begin with marriage.’

I looked at her agog. Was she serious? Did she really think I could just put Rory in the cupboard under the stairs with all the other broken domestic appliances?

‘I’m going to talk to him. Once Rory realizes how selfish he’s been. . .’

‘Talk to him? Ha!’ Jazz hooted. ‘He won’t remember what you say. Men have a carp-like attention span. It’s a kind of empathy amnesia. The only good thing is that you can make cracks in front of them about how inadequate they are, ’cause they’re not listening anyway.’

‘Once I explain my feelings, he’ll—’

‘Feelings!’ In purple Prada, Hannah was arriving. Josh had let her into the hallway where she was subduing a quarrelsome umbrella. ‘Of course men have feelings! My Pascal is very emotionally inarticulate, dah-ling.’ She expropriated the red wine bottle and air-kissed Jazz with an ‘Are you okay?’ look.

‘That’s utter tosh, Hannah. Women spend more time thinking about what men are thinking about, than men spend thinking.’

‘Well, I’m going to give Rory a chance to change,’ I decided.

‘Change? Ha!’ Jazz scoffed. ‘It won’t ever happen. It’s as likely as the washing-machine repair man turning up at the appointed time on the appointed day.’

‘Love can exist in marriage. I mean, you love Pascal – right, Hannah?’ I pleaded.

‘Dah-ling. We’re so far above Cloud Nine we have to look down to see it. He’s searing salmon for my dinner as we speak. Proof of how much he loves me!’

‘Pascal has to love you,’ Jazz said. ‘You support him. I now pronounce you Man and Mansion.’

‘I know you’re anxious about your results, Jasmine, and I