Part 2

The Marriage Diaries: A Novel
By Rebecca Campbell

(Page 2 of 3)

Diabetes. About as cool as colon cancer. I mean, there's not even a ribbon for it.

"What should we do?"

"You mean dump her or keep her?"

"We couldn't dump her just for being diabetic. We'd look terrible. And the campaign's ready to roll. And the money. Oh God."

"Okay, here's what I'd do." Milo was suddenly all silky professionalism. "Let's keep a lid on the diabetes. Just put out a press release saying that Erica knows she's got a problem, and she's receiving treatment for it. Which, you know, is true enough. And so you're sticking by her till she gets well. You'll come across as caring and edgy at the same time. It's a win-win."

"Milo, you're a genius."

I managed to sell the concept internally, but we wouldn't know if the fashion world would buy it until tomorrow.

But I couldn't tell all that to Sean. It would reinforce everything he thinks about fashion. He'd sneer. Or scoff. Probably some combination of both. And I didn't want sneers or scoffs, I wanted some love.

"That doesn't sound too good," he said, Sean, I mean, his eyes still drifting past me to the gnashing teeth and roiling water on the TV.

"I'm having a bath," I said. "Need to relax. Any wine?"

That was a sort of hint. A glass of wine in the evening usually meant that I had something more in mind. And it had been a while. A month. Perhaps a little longer.

"Yeah, there's a bottle open."

"Bring me a glass in the bath, will you?"

Pause. More shark action. Or the hint that maybe he's thinking something.

"Sure thing, babe."

And he did, after I'd shouted a reminder from the bubbles.

"I'm off to do a bit of work," he said, as he put the glass down carefully on the side of the bath.

"Okay."

So then I decided to go all out, preparing myself like a courtesan. I drizzled some scented oil in the bath, and when I emerged, I plucked my eyebrows into a design of wry insolence and even dusted my lashes, which is pretty impressive for postbath, late-night intimacy. I slipped into my most alluring night attire - nothing tacky - think 1890s decadence, not Texas whorehouse desperation. Okay, then, if you must know, it was a creamy silk chiffon slip from La Perla that cost almost exactly one week's salary, but worth it, as you'd never guess that a child-ravaged figure was concealed beneath its subtle folds.

When I was ready, I lit some candles. Not that Sean cares about candles. He'll look at a room glimmering with little flames and say "So who died?" or, shaking his head slowly, "Thomas Edison, you labored in vain."

I found him in his study (Sean I mean, not Edison), tapping away at the keyboard. He was wearing the deep green velvet dressing gown I'd bought him for Christmas back in the distant pre-Harry past, when we'd spent hours lying in bed with our fingers touching, watching the light come into the morning. He wears it now whenever he thinks he's going to be creative. The ivory silk lining is stained with coffee, and the velvet's worn and flattened, but it still has a certain faded panache.

"I'm going to bed," I said unambiguously.

"Okay."

"Coming?"

I mean, just how obvious was I supposed to be?

"Be through here in a minute," he said, without looking around at me.

I sighed. I tutted. I may even have groaned. He didn't notice, so I went to wait for him in bed. I arranged myself artfully and then changed my pose three or four times, revealing now more shoulder, now more leg. Then I got up and reapplied my lipstick, shifting hues from cassis to plum. After yet more carefully posed languorous lounging, I began to flick through Vogue, but I soon came across Erica Svebo looking beautifully debauched in a Calvin Klein ad, and I really didn't want to see any more of her, so I threw the magazine down and thought about Harry and how much I loved him - and Sean as well, of course - and how happy we all were, and how lucky.

I know that some people think I'm cold, and perhaps I can be. But that's because someone has to be in this relationship. We couldn't both carry on like college kids, dreaming and loafing our way through life. Someone had to earn the money. Someone had to put in the hours.

Copyright © 2006 by Rebecca Campbell.

About the Author

Rebecca Campbell was educated at the London School of Economics and the London College of Fashion. She and her mother, Paddy Campbell, run a clothing design firm that sells throughout Ireland and the United Kingdom. She lives in North London with her husband, a writer, and their son, Gabriel.