They’d gone to shop to look for a new washing machine; something that fitted their eco-requirements and their budget. They were trekking through the IT and entertainment section on the way to the less sexy whitegoods.
‘Remember,’ Mary said, ‘that it has to do an effective wash at thirty degrees or less, so that when it’s your turn to wash the football team’s kit it doesn’t put our electricity consumption into overdrive getting out the grass stains.’ She turned to smile at Phil as she finished speaking, only to find she was on her own. Mad woman talking to herself in the shop syndrome. Great.
She looked around. Honestly, it felt like a scene from a bad drama. Row upon row of, fortunately silent, television screens, all showing the same programme; some Saturday morning stuff aimed at the under fives where all the characters were various shades of E-number.
Phil was easy enough to spot. Mouth open, he was apparently transfixed by a shiny yellow blob somewhere between a beachball and a whale playing out on a screen just slightly smaller than the one at the Empire Cinema Leicester Square. He was almost drooling.
She walked back. ‘I’d always had you down as a Match of the Day man you know, with reruns of Morse as an optional extra. Don’t tell me; it’s the subtlety of the dialogue that’s got you hooked.’
He turned slowly to look at her, ‘Our telly’s too small,’he said. ‘We need a bigger one.’
It was her turn to stare. ‘Too small? Since when?’
‘Since next month. The World Cup. You can’t appreciate a good game on a telly that’s only fourteen inches wide. You miss the drama; the excitement; the atmosphere.’
‘So you want one like this? You must be joking; it wouldn’t even fit in our front room. And how about the price? Or have you just come into some money I don’t know about?’
She could hear the shrill note that had crept into her voice. She took a deep breath, tried to smile.
“Anyway, we’ve come here for a washing machine, remember? Let’s talk about the telly later, when we get home.’
He wasn’t listening. He was looking over her shoulder, standing like a hunter waiting to get a fix on his prey. ‘That one’d do,’ he said striding purposefully across the store.
Later, she couldn’t remember quite what had happened next. She had a picture in her head of herself hanging onto Phil’s arm, squeaking at him like an ineffectual mouse. For once her easygoing husband was intractable. Kindly, once the deal was done, he offered to make lunch while she had a large and unaccustomed gin and tonic. He pointed out how the Sky package included all sorts of channels featuring the costume dramas she liked so much.
All she could think of, was something had shifted in their relationship. She had a nasty feeling that Phil had rather more in common with Mr Rochester than she’d bargained for.
And she’d never wanted to be Jane Eyre.
