I'd been married to Katie for four years. It had been a whirlwind romance which, on reflection, had been a bit rushed for both of us. She was fifteen years my junior, being twenty-two to my thirty-seven when we met. Physically, she was incredible and, on reflection, I asked her to marry me almost solely on the basis of that - anything else can be worked on, right?
Well no, as it turned out. Having made it to thirty-seven unmarried, I considered myself pretty experienced in the ways of women. But Katie was very different to anyone I'd been with before. In particular, physically she was very passive, some might even say cold. Although I'd noticed this pre-marriage, I had foolishly assumed that she'd 'warm up' over time. As she ticked every other box, this had seemed trivial.
Over the coming years though, it became more and more frustrating, and began to affect my behaviour towards her. She never approached me with affection, never held my hand, never even put her arm around me in bed.
Sexually, she was a puzzle. Although she'd never make herself obviously available, she never refused my advances. And during the act, whilst she wasn't particularly responsive, equally she never made any attempt to halt the process. My impression was that she was well versed in the art of 'lying back and thinking of England'. This passiveness played on my mind enormously, and a craving for feeling wanted began to grow in me.
I was generally able to suppress the inevitable resentment that built over time, but, with the benefit of hindsight, this was no doubt a contributing factor in the little sniping comments that I found myself letting slip, before instantly regretting. Katie was a beautiful, innocent soul and we shared some amazing times. I just couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't able to open herself up to me totally, that there was a part of her that I didn't get to see.
It might sound like a bleak situation, but there were so many things I loved about her, almost too many to list. The way her eyes squinted when she laughed, the way she knew who played that obscure track from the 80's before I did, even though she wasn't even born then. The way she could finish a pint quicker than I could, and the way the long burp that followed was somehow excruciatingly cute.
Physically, you could not have painted a more beautiful picture than Katie's face. Big, brown, curious eyes smiled out from a face which was simply flawless. Perfect skin and cheekbones which meant she didn't need an ounce of makeup to look good. But she did wear makeup, just enough to enhance the perfection, and draw attention to it. Lips were always ruby red, and there was always just enough going on around her eyes to really draw you in.
Her hair was mousy brown, and just over shoulder length. It was long enough that she could do all sorts of interesting things with it, but not so long that you worried when she went on a rollercoaster. Usually she just brushed it behind her ears, from which usually hung large, hooped ear-rings.
And I loved the way she dressed. She was uncompromisingly ladylike. She wore high heels all of the time, other than when driving (she kept a pair of driving shoes for that). She always wore skirts, and always looked supremely elegant in a blouse or sweater that complimented her amazing figure. Even after four years, sometimes, particularly when she emerged after spending far too long getting ready for a night out, I still had to catch my breath when I saw her.
For these reasons I suppressed any negative feelings about our relationship. My friends were constantly telling me how I was fighting above my weight. I'll confess to some feelings of smugness when I saw them ferrying kids around with a wife for whom spending time on their looks was the last of their priorities. But I also experienced intense jealousy when I inevitably clocked every eye in the room fixated on my girl's perfect rear view as she teetered over to the bar on those high heels during one of our regular visits to the local pubs.
Katie never showed any inclination to encourage such attention, but it played on my mind. She must like it, otherwise why would she dress this way? After a few drinks this led to some rows, all sparked by my own insecurity.
This was the backdrop to our big summer holiday this year. It was unspoken, but I sensed a feeling of 'last chance saloon' for our marriage. Katie had made it very clear that my insecurities were my problem, and she wasn't going to change. And in return I'd come up with some pretty spiteful comments about her apparent lack of interest in the bedroom. We'd moved past this the best we could, but it was all ready to come back to the surface at the next roadblock we hit.
We'd arranged two weeks in a private villa in a fairly exclusive resort village in southern Italy. Neither of us had visited before and we were both really excited for the visit.
It was as beautiful as advertised. We'd saved up all year to make sure money would be no object, and we were making the most of it. On day one and two, boat trips and water skiing were followed by endless lunches and plenty of local wine, against incredible backgrounds of little homes perched on the hills overlooking us, effortlessly clinging on to the cliffs.
It was on one such day that we sat, watching the sun go down in Franco's restaurant, the closest and nicest establishment we'd found. Franco was in his sixties, bald and moustachioed, and, despite always seeming to be doing nothing, kept a beautiful little place which served the most amazing pizza and pasta. His wife worked the floor, Franco worked the bar.
Emilia, Franco's wife, approached as we finished another bottle of wine. She looked perhaps slightly younger than Franco, and had clearly been a beautiful woman in her heyday. She still sported raven, curly hair and an impressive chest, which was displayed proudly with a cleavage which looked all the more imposing given how thin her waist still was. I wondered how it was even possible for her width to vary so wildly, as below the waist she reached the same proportions as her top half. Katie, giggling, had suggested she was wearing a corset, and I curiously eyed her up and down as she bent over the table.
"The wine flows, yes?" she smiled as she took the empty bottle.
"It certainly does, it's superb!" Katie enthused. I could see she was approaching drunkenness, as was I. Another bottle and we'd both be starting to slur our words, but right now we were just in that perfect zone where time stood still and nothing was a problem. I was still fixated on working out what Emilia was wearing under her dress, but turned my head sharply back to Katie when I realised Franco was observing me observing his wife so blatantly. When I turned back, Franco was laughing and he gave me a big wink and a thumbs up.
Katie had seen all of this, and took it as an opportunity to make her point again.
"Two things. Number one, you were eying up old Emilia something rotten there. Do you see me getting all jealous? No. You know why? Because I'm comfortable enough to know that your eyes being on another woman isn't the same as your hands being on her. And Number two, Franco there clearly loved that fact that you were eying his wife up. You know why? Because it's a fucking compliment."
There was an element of bite in her words, but it was fully deserved. She'd painted a picture of other men not resenting their other half's' attractiveness on many occasions, but this was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate that it was true. And, despite me arguing against this many times in the past, I couldn't argue now. Franco had given his wife's full bottom a playful smack as she'd passed him with the empty bottle, and shouted something over in Italian, accompanied by another thumbs-up gesture. We couldn't help laughing, despite having no idea what he said, and returned the thumbs-up gesture in kind.
Having received the order for another bottle from his wife, Franco sauntered over and filled our glasses.
"So," he smiled at me knowingly. "I see your eyes on my wife, no?"
"Oh, no, sorry. I mean..."
Franco roared with laughter.
"My friend, Emilia is a beautiful woman. I know you appreciate a beautiful woman, eh?" He smiled at Katie, who grinned back, fluttering her eyelashes slightly. I fought back a rush of jealousy, reasoning that this man had absolutely no issues with me admiring his wife (although I hadn't actually been lusting after her, just trying to work out what undergarments she wore!).
