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

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.

What I’m thinking is that this dinner is delicious. ‘That my heart has grown scar tissue because of you, from hurt feelings.’

‘Mea culpa,’ he says contritely. ‘But couldn’t there be a Statute of Limitations on adulterous guilt? I can’t go on without you, Cassie.’ He crosses his eyes and pretends to strangle himself. ‘You can’t leave me. Not now I know the right temperature to wash coloureds.’

I must be smiling at him because he lights up. ‘I think she’s warming up to me,’ he says to the heavens. ‘I mean, she’s only kneed me in the groin twice during this conversation!’ And then he zaps me with that smile. It’s a smile which renders him instantly likeable. I get up quickly and pretend to put something in the bin, just to remove myself from his Charm Range, and am dumb-founded to note that the empty milk carton has been thrown away and not just put back in the fridge. When I open the freezer for the vodka, I see that the ice-cube trays have been refilled. He smiles at me again, so I remove myself to the loo – only to find it scented and soaped. Not only have the tiles been scoured with a grout brush, but the toilet roll has been replaced on the spindle. Will miracles never cease? I have the feeling that even if I were parallel parking, Rory would sit quietly and say nothing!

‘I know I’m insensitive, Cass,’ he says when I return to the table open-mouthed. ‘Christ. My best mate’s family could be wiped out by a chainsaw-wielding Triad member and I wouldn’t know because I’ll have been far too concerned with debating last night’s footie score. I’m not good at expressing my feelings, not verbally. But there are other ways.’ And then he pulls me into one of his blanketing hugs. He smells of minty teeth, like a child, and newly ironed warmth. His hand on my hip is familiar and comforting. He is like a favourite, faded pair of jeans which I can slip into without thinking.

‘I do love you, Cass. If only I were better with words. I know it sounds cheesy, but I’m sorry, so desperately sorry for hurting you. And the kids. I tired them out today with house cleaning.’

And then he leads me by the hand, up the stairs and into the children’s bedrooms, which are tidied to pristine perfection – even the doorknobs have been polished – to gaze at our loved ones tucked up in bed, dreams flitting across their faces soft as moonlight. As I move back towards the stairs, he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I lean across and kiss his mouth. It’s impossible to say which of us is more astounded by this act. And then he looks at me as though I’m crème brûlée and he’s the spoon.

‘I want you,’ Rory says, and I can feel his voice in the pit of my stomach like some Mills & Boon heroine. Feelings long blunted, erupt hot. My salivary glands shift into overdrive. And then he kisses me, with everything he feels. The tiny wedge of beard he’s grown tickles me enticingly, making the nerves in my neck jump wildly. As his hand slides up under my skirt, he nuzzles words into my ear, words like adoration, devotion. He also seems to have developed a new dedication to the C words. Commitment is mentioned. As is Compromise. Followed by Communication. Then Cleaning.

‘Cleaning?’ I marvel, but as I breathe in, I inhale the piney smell of skirting boards which no longer have topsoil, and feel heady with delight. Rory kisses me with increasing warmth, savouring my neck and throat until I’m slippery as a fish, the seaweed tendrils of my pubic hair coiling moistly around his fingers. He tugs at my panties and I have a ludicrous pang of embarrassment about him seeing me naked. He’s seen me naked so many times – hell, I’ve pooed on the man in childbirth! – but it feels awkward suddenly somehow. But then he brushes his fingertips across my clitoris and, ‘Ohmygod,’ I’m gasping ‘Yes! Yes!’ And I’m clawing at his jeans buttons, Versace, I notice and not ones I’ve bought him either – but they could be polkadotted hot pants for all I care at this particular moment. My husband then eases me open with steady, strong strokes, deeper and deeper with his fingers and, kneeling before me, his tongue. The tension twists tighter inside me as the rhythm builds along with the pleasure. My fingers are in his hair. I feel the surge in my blood and I’m flooded with heat and starting to shudder.

And I can feel an orgasm taxi-ing onto the runway, into holding position and preparing for takeoff. My ears are popping, obviously due to a change in latitude, because he’s lying me down on the oh-so-freshly vacuumed carpet, parting my knees with his body and pressing into me. I radio air-traffic control. Air-traffic control itemizes its checklist.

He’s more focused on your pleasure than his? Check.

He’s shown emotional intimacy? Check.

He’s cleaned the house? Check.

He’s made gravy? Check.

He’s made you feel cherished, loved, respected, adored? Check. Check. Check. You are now cleared for takeoff.

Booster Thrust Engines on. Hormonal Houston, we have lift-off!

It’s time to call Lost and Found. Located, one orgasm. One bonemarrow-melting, heartstopping, knock-out, knock-kneed ohmygodgasm. The Marie Celeste is salvaged. Amelia Earhart – discovered at last, alive and well. The Bermuda Triangle, mapped. The Loch-Ness Monster, netted. The Yeti, tamed. The square root of the hypotenuse . . . Oh, for God’s sake. Who cares about maths at a time like this?!

The inner quake that has so eluded me, takes hold. Until there’s nothing but obliterating sensation.

‘Luckily you’re a woman who doesn’t need a lot of foreplay,’ Rory says with cheery rascality.

I squeeze open one blurry eye, too consumed with the incandescent aftershocks to get my breath