Flushed with Romance

Flushed with Romance
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 25, 2014

My husband fancies himself as a romantic. He likes to remind me that before we met, he was lauded as a ladykiller. He says this with a straight face while reclined on the sofa with his knee rug and the cat. I want to query whether he’s being facetious or ironic, but I hold my tongue, because he’s on a roll. “Empathy,” he announces. “That’s what women want. George Clooney and I know this. A man who listens to a woman is a rare and miraculous thing.”

I stifle a snort but he’s not finished.

“We’re quite alike, you know, George and I.”

“You mean apart from the tummy?”

But he’s not listening. His homily over, he’s re-engrossed in the sports pages.

I can’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. Instead, I sidle over to the sofa. “No-one ignores me the way you do,” I say, and wait for his reaction. He noisily turns the page. I sigh and retreat to the kitchen.

I remember a divorce lawyer once telling me at a party: “Men need to be admired. Women need to be appreciated.”

“It can’t be that simple,” I replied.

“Well, that’s what I’ve learnt after 20 years of dealing with other peoples’ misery.”

I felt a bit miserable myself after that exchange, but I’ve been admiring my man ever since.

On Tuesday night, my praise was appreciated with flowers. My Don Juan walked in the door with three droopy yellow tulips and a sprig of baby’s breath strangled by a tourniquet of red cellophane. ”Servo flowers are underrated,” he said, and plonked my bouquet on the kitchen bench. One tulip surrendered its petals on impact.

I gave him a squeeze of thanks, untangled the plastic and trimmed the slimy stems.

On Thursday night, when he arrived home and suggested a date night, I was delighted. And suspicious. I scrambled for the shower anyway. I shaved my legs. Put on a face and a silky dress. High-heels. I emerged in record time, excited.

There in the doorway, stood my date wearing a pair of fawn desert boots; at the other end was a lime-green beanie masking his forehead. Over his office shirt, he’d thrown a black fleecy vest and zipped it up to his chin. I was speechless. “What?” he said, goading me. “We’re walking. My head gets cold.”

I bravely said nothing and kissed the children goodnight. Teenage son smirked as I shut the front door.

We strolled through the darkening park, holding hands. I remembered how it felt to say nothing together. The lamplight pooled on the path. A soft breeze rustled the Norfolk Pines.

We should do this more often, I decided. It’s marriage that interferes with romance. There’s always another load of washing, a son to be ferried to soccer, another stirfry to create.

I caress his hand and he smiles at me. “Let’s stop off at Bunnings on the way. The dunny seat’s busted again. I want to see what they’ve got.”

“Are you kidding?”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

We cross the road and I follow him into Bunnings, my stilettos clip-clopping loudly on the concrete. He salutes the old fella at the paint counter: “Toilet seats, mate?” and we’re waved towards Aisle 4.

A dozen shiny ovals parade along the rear wall. “How d’ya like your seat, Blossom? Honey oak, deep jarrah, red cedar?” he calls.

He points to a see-through lid masquerading as an aquarium, three rubber dolphins frozen mid-frolic above a plastic coral reef. “How much would the kids love that?” I try to look uninterested.

“Righto, the Caroma Uniseat with Germguard looks like us,” he pronounces, unhooking a moulded ensemble in cling wrap.

“We’re not getting it now, surely?” I plead, tripping behind as he heads for the counter. He hands two fifties to the checkout boy and tucks our new seat under his arm.

Around the corner, the restaurant is crowded with raucous diners. I spot an empty table next to a woman with a pearl at her throat the size of a Malteser.

The maitre d’ sweeps towards us with clipboard and winning smile. “Table for two?” says my husband. “And can you find a home for this?” He proffers the toilet seat, plastic flapping from one hinge. The maitre d’ casts me a sideways glance. I roll my eyes, hoping we can be allies. “I’m so sorry,” says the waiter, appearing crestfallen. “We’re booked out tonight.” My husband shrugs and ushers me into the street.

“There’s another restaurant I’d like to take you to, but I found out they deliver so let’s go home.”

He pulls me close. “Don’t be disappointed, Blossom,” he says, seeing the look on my face. “After I’ve fixed the toilet you can treat me like a sex object.”