Three Men and a Husband

By Miranda Cahn

When David Melling asks his wife what gift she wants for her 40th birthday, the answer stuns them both. Anna wants his permission to sleep with other men.

Anna is a woman of our time, juggling motherhood, marriage and a fraught job as manageress of a dress shop in the UK's largest shopping mall. She believes in her marriage vows, or at least she thinks she does.

When David, her controlling solicitor husband gives Anna what she wants, she is stunned. But after a couple of hilarious dates, shenanigans in the shopping mall and some serious meddling by Susie, Anna's best friend, life begins to get very complicated. Will Anna's crazy idea let her recapture the heady days of her youth or destroy the very things she cares about most - her children, her husband and her job?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Cahn
• Release date: Nov 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466021433

Miranda Cahn

Miranda Cahn lives on top of a hill in the UK's beautiful Peak District. She shares her home with her Dutch husband, her musician daughter, two mad dogs and a feral cat. Miranda is the author of bestseller self-help guide, How Compatible Are You? published by Bloomsbury Publishing plc and Kodansha Inc, and The Eccentric Entrepreneur, a biography published by The History Press Ltd.

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Three Men and a Husband

Miranda Cahn

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor by otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Miranda Cahn

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

It was unfortunate that my idea took hold during Sunday lunch with the in-laws.

As normal, I wasn’t listening to the conversation. My attention was focused on the children, willing them with absurd winks and grimaces to finish their food. They were forlorn gestures. The lamb was dry, silvery grey in colour, as if a slug had left a residue over each thick slice.

‘I've had enough!’ Izzy pushed the untouched lamb and the pulp of under-roasted potatoes around her plate. Her grandmother leaned back in her chair and took a deep, rasping, melodramatic intake of breath.

‘You, young lady, should finish your dinner. Your cousins eat every single morsel and then sit at the table, waiting quietly until every one else has finished.’

‘Mother, that's not helpful!’

David banged his cutlery onto his plate in an unexpectedly supportive manner. A globule of dark brown gravy flew across the table and splattered onto the pristine brick-motif linoleum floor.

Surprised by David’s interruption, and always eager to avoid confrontation with her beloved son, Marcia changed track. She turned towards me with a brittle smile.

‘Paul and I were wondering if you’ve decided what you are doing for your birthday? Just in case you want us around, dear. We’re planning a cruise and would hate to mess up your plans.’

I tried to contain my snigger. ‘Please don’t do anything on my account. I'm not planning on having a party.’

‘Are you going to be very, very old Mummy?’ Tom had an innocent, high-pitched six-year old voice.

‘Cos you've got quite crinkly skin. But not as walnut-y as Grandma's!’ he announced, innocently poking his horrified grandmother in the cheek. ‘Grandma's skin is lumpy too. It looks like the paintbrush hasn't covered up it up very neatly. I colour in much neater than that.’

‘Okay, that's quite enough!’ I was desperate to get my observant son to shut up, but secretly rather proud of his uncannily accurate description. Izzy was sulking, sucking the ends of her brown pigtails. It wasn’t pleasant to watch, and even more frustrating to listen to, but I was in no mood to intervene. I had assumed that my ever-tactful husband would steer the conversation to safer ground. But no, I was wrong.

‘It’s a bit remiss of me that we haven’t planned any major celebrations,’ David declared, no doubt recalling the dinner at the Clexford Arms that I had organised for his fortieth, seven years earlier. ‘I don’t even know what to give you as a present. What would you like for your birthday, darling?’

At that moment I genuinely didn’t know. I thought of the ostentatious gems, fancy frocks and technological gadgetry received by some of my girl friends. I glanced through the open door into Marcia and Paul’s bijou living room, packed full of reproduction antiques, mostly purchased from The Telegraph reader offers or dated mail order catalogues. What would I want with any more stuff? And then I remembered the article I read in a magazine that had been wedged under the till in the shop, left behind by one of my lazier shop assistants. Experiences. That’s what women who have it all really want. The article quoted celebrities who had booked flights to the moon. It spouted the virtues of giving vouchers for swimming with dolphins or tickets to classical concerts or paying for a last ditch attempt at IVF. Expensive chattels wrapped with fancy ribbons were so yesterday; an experience giving lasting memories was the gift of today.

It was then that the idea struck me. I wanted to sleep around.

A papery cough developed from nowhere. Even the children looked concerned. I scraped the chair backwards, excused myself from the table and hurried to the bathroom. A deep flush had plummeted down my neck, producing an unattractive clash with my raspberry-hued jumper. With hindsight, it was rather a melodramatic physical reaction to what was a very private but probably commonplace thought. The problem was I really meant it. I wanted David’s permission to sleep around. And I managed to shock the hell out of myself.

Fortunately for me, the family seemed to think I had choked on the meat.

‘I don’t mean to offend you love, but the lamb was rather dry!’ Paul put his hand on his wife’s arm. Marcia ignored him for the rest of the afternoon.

The conversation never veered back to my birthday wishes, but the idea had taken root in my mind and I simply couldn’t let it go. I obsessed all afternoon. David was a kind, reasonable husband. Surely he would understand my last ditch desire to sleep with another man? Our marriage was strong, and if we were honest with each other, any damage would be mitigated. He wasn’t the jealous type. Then, predictably I suppose, the doubts started. Who would find me attractive? How could I make this happen whilst still maintaining dignity? And what about my marriage vows, the promise of monogamy that I thought I held so sacred?

David was reading when I finally made it to bed that night, a large biography of some ancient politician. He was wearing his blue and white striped pyjamas, neatly buttoned up, ironed just the way he liked them. With receding grey hair, his bald patch was illuminated by the bedside table lamp and accentuated by the dark shadow on his cheeks, the result of sixteen hours without shaving. He pushed up the reading glasses that were coursing down his long nose. This was our bedtime ritual. He used the bathroom first and got into bed with whichever current tome he was devouring - usually a biography but never fiction. I finished drying up, checked the school bags were ready for the morning and locked the back door. Nothing was required of me, other than to slither into bed without tugging at the duvet. He had removed the bedspread, neatly piled up the cushions and pulled the heavy brocade curtains so not a slither of light would interrupt his sleep.

Pulling the curtains was David’s job. I never got it quite right. In fact, I loathed those curtains. Not the colour or the pattern; the dusty blue with the golden embroidered roses was rather soothing, the most sophisticated design in the house. It was the memory they evoked that I resented. The nights when they were firmly pulled to prevent anyone seeing in, followed by the disappointment that there would have been nothing to see anyway. The fact, that, when they were closed, the bedroom was permanently dark. The realisation that I would never again be gently roused by a rising sun. And the memories of the first night in our new home that could never be undone.

It had been quite romantic really, how David had insisted on leading me outside once the removal men had gone and the babies were asleep. He had scooped me up in his arms, gallantly hiding his surprise as to how heavy I’d become. He staggered back through the front door placing a firm kiss upon my lips. After depositing me in the hall, he had surprised me again by producing a bottle of warm Dom Perignon and two plastic cups. We sat on boxes and admired our blank new home. By the time we had finished the bottle, and planned to the last detail where all the furniture was to be positioned, it was dark outside. David took me by the hand leaving me in no doubt that the new bed, and new bedroom were about to be christened.

‘Did you leave the light on?’ he asked as we approached the room. A warm orange glow embraced the bedroom.

‘Of course not!’ I had learned within a month of marriage that one of the many things that David could not abide was wasting electricity.

‘Fuck.’ He rarely swore. It was probably only the second time he had used the f word in four years of marriage.

‘There’s a street lamp right outside our bedroom window. I don’t believe it! Didn’t you notice? I can’t sleep in a room with a bloody street light outside the window.’

His fury was almost ridiculous. His body shook, as if sparks were spitting from his eyes and mouth. The rage was so all encompassing, words failed him. And being a lawyer through and through, words never failed him. If I hadn’t thought the whole thing so funny, I may have been scared. I’d never seen him so consumed with anger. For the next week, until I had purchased the dusty blue curtains with total blackout linings, David slept in the box room on the sofa bed, alone. Years later, I know he still can’t forgive himself for choosing a house that has a street light permanently lit outside it’s front door.

As usual his suit was hanging up, along with a neatly pressed shirt, tie and underwear; his battered brown leather briefcase all ready for a working Monday. Next to it stood a small suitcase, permanently packed with a shirt, a pair of boxer shorts, socks and a wash bag. Two labels stuck up from the handle, a platinum British Airways Club card and his business card with its bright red logo. The suitcase prompted mixed emotions, a large proportion being envy. For David, every week was different. Exciting. For me it was always the same, a predictable juggling of childcare, the house, shopping and cleaning and my own little salvation – Frolique, the ladies wear shop, my job. Tomorrow David was in Paris, returning on Wednesday. But next week it could be Prague, Geneva, Milan or Madrid with a quick hop to Tokyo in-between. I slid into bed, David’s travels forgotten, pushed out of my mind by my own plans. I pictured myself dressed up in my favourite little Frolique black dress, high heels, carefully applied make-up and saw myself climbing into a car, the door held open by a yet faceless man. Where were we going? Where would we do it? At his house? At a hotel? The Clexford Arms was out, I was known there. No, we would have to go out of town.

David placed his book on his bedside table and double-checked to ensure his alarm clock was set for 5.30am. Leaning on his elbow, he bent towards me and ran his hand down my cheek.

‘So you can tell me what you’d like for your birthday now! I want to do something special for you. What do you reckon?’ His breath was warm and mint scented, familiar but at the same time slightly repugnant, butting into my fantasy.

I assume my silence belied the rush of thoughts in my head. The realisation that what I wanted wouldn’t cost a penny, so perhaps I could ask for a diamond ring after all. I knew we should be sensible and carry on putting money on one side, saving for the children’s education, but where was the spontaneity in that? I considered another party, inviting all of those people we hadn’t seen since David’s fortieth. And I could still ask for my present because it wouldn’t cost anything. All the same, I realised that the gift wouldn’t really be free. Nothing in life ever is. There are always, always consequences. So I sighed and wriggled down under the sheets.

I kissed him lightly on his stubbly cheek. ‘I’ll think about it and let you know when you’re back from the trip.’

Monday morning was frenetic with David’s early departure and the normal panicked rigmarole of getting the children ready for school, with packed lunches and homework and sports kits. I am ashamed to say that I felt a deep sense of relief as I drove towards The Mall, looking forward to my few hours of solitude. Frolique, which I always referred to as ‘my’ shop, although of course it wasn’t, was located on the upper level of the largest shopping centre in England. We rarely had any customers on Monday mornings, so I tended to use the time to tidy up and check the stock. Occasionally I was accompanied by either Charlie or Marlene, my full-time shop assistants, but normally I preferred to be alone, carefully filing my reports to head office, and double-checking the takings from the weekend.

I parked my little blue Fiesta in the staff car park, aware that I was being watched from the moment that I had driven through the vast pillared entrance. It had bothered me for the first couple of years, the thought that if I sat in the car for a few moments composing myself before the busy day, or if I surreptitiously pulled my skirt down to cover my scrawny knees, some faceless security guard would be watching on a television screen deep in the bowels of the building. I suppose I had become used to it. Occasionally I had the urge to stand underneath one of the seven hundred and thirty two security cameras that were wedged into every crevasse and ostentatiously pick my nose.

I ambled through the dank warren of underground tunnels, places that had never seen daylight, long corridors whose ceilings, walls and floors were a monotone grey concrete. It was always a surprise to emerge into the shopping precincts. The lights dazzled, the marble shone and the gold glistened. Despite the surprise, it was also a disappointment. I had never shared the thought with anyone for concern that I would be considered hypocritical or disloyal, but to my mind, the building was a shrine to capitalism. It was a grotesque monument combining the minarets, domes and pillars found in the world's finest mosques, cathedrals and synagogues with the plush vulgarity typical of up-market casinos and the opulent falsity found only in Las Vegas. Entombed within the extraordinary marble structure was a shopping city; a microcosm of a city centre. I had always thought that such a building should house the fantasy worlds found at the likes of Disney or rows of quirky up-market boutiques. But The Mall didn't. It contained the same shops that are found on any high street in middle England. Boots, WH Smith, Next - they were all there, one after the other, housed in a marble and gilt-edged greenhouse rather than their natural habitat of an airy high street. Hoards of people flocked to worship at this extraordinary place. The brighter the colours on their carrier bags, the happier and more up-lifted they appeared to be. Divesting themselves of money in the pursuit of chattels was their one and only goal. And how easy it was to achieve at The Mall! From time to time I wished that I didn’t play a part in this blatant consumerism, the avarice that encouraged people to spend far beyond their means.

I spent many an hour in the wistful planning of my own shop, to be located in some imaginary market town where the folk embraced originality and where there was a sense of belonging and pride and the shop assistants genuinely cared for their customers. A proportion of my profits would go towards a community project and I would be an important pillar of that small community, recognised and respected by all, profiled in the business pages of the local paper. Such wishful thinking achieved nothing. My job was at The Mall and for all its faults, it suited David and me. I could work the hours I wanted, I had responsibility but the buck didn’t stop with me and it gave me a feeling of independence, a relief not to have to request money from David for every purchase of M&S knickers.

The Mall was quiet. The tannoy systems hadn’t been switched on. I relished the silence as I turned the key in the roller shutter and waited for it to rise up and disappear into the ceiling. Susie hadn’t arrived yet. The lights were off in the next door shop and the shutter was down. It wasn’t surprising as she was normally late, but I felt a tinge of annoyance. Ever since I had woken up, I had been looking forward to sharing the idea. If anyone would understand, it was Susie. She was an unlikely friend, but a friend she was, and if time spent together was a thermometer as to how good a friend she had become, then she was the very best. It helped that she ran the shop next door, so we saw each other most days, and while we rarely discussed our marriages, most worries and joys were gratefully, mutually shared. I switched on the lights, turned off the alarm and walked, as always, to the counter where the weekend staff was instructed to write down notes for me in the diary. Sure enough, there was a page full. It had been a busy weekend, plenty of money taken but too many problems as well. One of the Saturday morning girls hadn’t turned up for the third weekend in a row and there had been two customer complaints. I hoped that they hadn’t copied their complaints in to The Mall’s head office. I wasn’t feeling up to a visit from Pete, The Mall’s operations manager and enforcer of all rules.

Susie and I met for lunch.

‘Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.’ She took a large bite out of her vegetarian wrap, the mayonnaise dribbled down her chin, a white streak in bright contrast to her glossy red lips.

‘Actually there’s something I want to run by you. But you’re sworn to secrecy. Total secrecy.’

‘Oh please, Anna. When have I ever broken your confidence?’ Susie pretended to look offended and then she smiled. She wiped her chin, put her food down and leaned in closer. ‘What is it then?’

‘You know it’s my birthday soon, my fortieth?’ Susie nodded. ‘Well I’ve had an idea as to what I’d like from David. It’s an outrageous idea and I don’t want you to judge me by it and…’ My words petered out.

‘Spit it out Anna!’

‘Ok.’ But still I paused. I took a deep, audible breath, and whispered, careful to ensure no one else was listening.

‘I want David’s permission to sleep with other men. I’ve thought about it. A handful of different men over the next year.’

Susie was silent and then a large grin spread across her face. The imitation diamonds in the clasp that held back her long, wispy blonde hair twinkled under the artificial lights. She looked at me quizzically as if expecting me to say it was all a joke.

‘Oh my God! You’re serious aren’t you?’ I nodded.

‘I think it’s a bloody marvellous idea!’

‘You do?’ I sank gratefully into my chair. Susie’s approval gave me a tremendous feeling of relief, endorsement that the crazy dream perhaps wasn’t so crazy and may indeed come true.

‘You don’t think I’m a total slut?’

Susie roared with laughter. ‘Pot kettle and all that! No Anna, you’re not a slut. You’re just a close-to middle-aged woman who wants to recapture a bit of excitement from her youth.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ I whispered, looking at the beige couple on the adjacent table that sat slack-jawed staring at us. This was a conversation to be having over a large bottle of wine, not in a coffee shop.

‘Why do you say pot kettle? You don’t sleep with other men do you? You haven’t even been married that long!’

Susie gave an enigmatic smile. She appeared very grown-up and quite exotic. The floor length skirt and purple hued peasant blouse no longer looked ridiculously summery and vaguely unprofessional, but quite bohemian and stylishly inspired. Susie’s preoccupation with angels and all things cute and fragranced, which I had previously considered faintly ridiculous, assumed a certain charm, the outward symbolism of a passion missing in everyone else. It was as if layers were peeling off Susie and any original perceptions of her were fundamentally flawed. I wondered how well I really knew her.

‘Pete and I have an unusual marriage. No lies, no secrets but it’s not your conventional union. I would have told you before but I really didn’t think you’d approve.’

‘You’re implying I’m a prude!’ I was indignant.

‘Don’t take it the wrong way!’ Susie spread her hands on the table, her bitten nails always a surprise. ‘It’s just you do have fairly conventional views and a regular life. There’s nothing wrong with that of course. If there was, I wouldn’t be your friend! You know - your two kids, good school, hard-working solicitor husband, church going at Christmas and Easter, regular dinner parties where