It was my fortieth birthday and I'd wanted something impractical, frivolous and feminine: a talisman against old age. But what I got was something quite the opposite...
*
"It's very nice." I tried not to let the disappointment show in my voice. "How thoughtfully practical of you, Don."
I know I should have been thrilled with any kind of birthday present. But this - a shiny new blender, wasn't exactly guaranteed to put the romance back into our lives. I attempted to manufacture some enthusiasm for my husband's efforts; after all, it's the thought that counts.
"I knew you'd like it!" He nodded kind of smugly, confident in the knowledge he'd spent his money wisely on something useful - as usual. It was so much like him, but where oh where was the man I married, that exciting, adventurous, sometimes foolish person of old?
He brushed a crumb off the lapel of his office suit, and stood up. "I must be off." He checked his watch. "Miss my five minute window and the traffic gets impossible. I hate being late for work."
That was a laugh. He hadn't been late for as long as I could remember and before that, no more than a couple of times in our 23 years of marriage. Still, at least he was dependable and kept a roof over our head, and it was his decent salary that enabled us to send our two children to university without too much hardship.
But, hang on... this was my fortieth birthday, one of the big 'Os'. Surely it was special enough for Don to have taken the day off as well so that we could spend it together doing something romantic? But then again, maybe he'd lost that sense of occasion, along with a load of other things he once possessed.
I shoved the blender back into its wrapping paper so it wouldn't sit there reproachfully glaring at me any longer. This year of all years I'd wanted a different kind of present, something completely impractical, romantic and frivolous. Something sweet and silly, like the fluffy white teddy with the big pink bow he bought me the first birthday after we married. Or the single red rose he gave me when Vickie was born. I wanted a talisman, I suppose, against the threat of middle age... something to hold back the tide of time.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and slumped down on a bar stool still surrounded by the breakfast dishes and the litter of cards and packages on the bar top, remembering the old days - the days when Don had still been Donald Givens, an idealistic young architect who was going to revolutionise people's lives.
I sniffed back the tears of self-pity and loaded up the dishwasher. It's a shame all the hints I'd dropped had gone unnoticed. Or perhaps he'd simply chosen to ignore them. I'd hardly been subtle in showing him illustrations from magazines with lingerie in pink satin and wicked black lace, and sentimental meadows full of poppies and buttercups advertising the latest perfumes. I'd even stopped him outside a shop window the previous Saturday afternoon to point out some lilies of the valley, with their heady scent and their frail white beauty. I had to virtually drag him away from a hardware store to look at a dainty silver necklace with my birthstone on it.
But it had all been in vain. Don just didn't see me in satin and lace anymore, or wearing sparkly jewellery. He saw me cooking in the kitchen, doing the ironing, or tidying up around the house.
I had taken the day off from work for my birthday, the first in months. I wouldn't usually be moping around at eight o'clock in the morning in my dressing gown and my precious day of freedom was not going to continue in that vein! I was going to get my hair done, and if Don insisted on being an insensitive pig, I'd treat myself to the kind of present I yearned for. Then, instead of a steak and salad followed by lemon soufflé which I'd planned for our quiet dinner at home this evening, I was going to book a candle-lit table for two at the most romantic restaurant in town I could find. I was determined that at least one of us should make an effort on my big day.
I enjoyed the hairdresser's. I don't usually, having one eye on the clock and the other on my shopping list. But today I was in the mood to indulge myself. I had a manicure and two sinful chocolate biscuits with my coffee, as well as an adventurous colour rinse, and sailed out of the salon feeling ten years younger. I treated myself to some new make-up and a long silky scarf. It was turning into a good birthday after all, I decided, as I walked by the river where Don and I used to canoodle, long ago.
I was looking for the little café near the towpath where he and I used to go when we were courting. I wasn't sure it still existed but I eventually found it, or at least the building that had now replaced it after all those years.
It was now a smart bistro. Standing outside reading the menu I realised I was famished. The prospect of a bowl of tomato and mushroom tagliatelle and a glass of rose was utterly mouth-watering.
I glanced through the window, half-covered by pretty gingham curtains and saw that it wasn't exactly crowded. After all, it was only Tuesday, hardly the busy end of the week. Then I noticed something, someone else...
I felt the colour draining from my cheeks. Don was sitting at an intimate side-table for two, complete with a posy of flowers and a bottle of wine. An attractive young woman, not much older than our daughter, Vickie, was looking attentively into his face.
