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A matter of cash
Some lottery winners were babbling on ecstatically the other day about how the stress had now been completely removed from their lives. Their relationship was suddenly perfect. It’s true, I thought. I would really love my husband if we were incredibly rich. I mean, he’s funny, he’s good looking, a wonderful father. He’s got lots of things going for him.
On the other hand, he’s got a lot of things going pretty heavily against him. ‘Darling, pack your bags, we’re going to Rome for the weekend – my mum’s looking after the children,’ he doesn’t say. ‘Diamond earrings for you my angel – just for being a wonderful wife this Thursday.’ Nope. ‘Put this on – I know you like Max Mara – we’re eating out.’ Not him.
What he does do, of course, is rummage angrily around the house in the morning, trying to scrabble together the tube fare to work. No lunch for him again. ‘When are you getting paid for that piece about why large breasts are so sexy/small breasts are so in/breast size shouldn’t matter/why I’m considering a boob job/why the word ‘boob’ is a feminist issue?’ he will ask, scowling. ‘How the hell should I know?’ I spit and he storms out.
‘Have you got any money?’ he wants to know fifteen times a day. ‘Fancy taking me out to dinner tonight?’; ‘Can you buy me a suit?’ he often wonders. And out loud at that.
The trouble is, it just isn’t very sexy. I’m not asking to be supported or anything (not that it wouldn’t be nice), but taking me out for a Valentine’s dinner and then asking me to contribute a tenner because he’s ordered the lobster, just makes my stomach sink.
All very English, this equality, but give me some Russian bloke who over tips the waiter, buys the whole bunch of individually cellophane-wrapped roses so as not to look cheap (and, obviously, make all the blokes who just bought the one cringe in embarrassment) and then helps you on with your fur coat – if you haven’t got one, never mind, he’ll buy you one.
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