6

  ‘Do you think my knuckles look fat, Humphrey?’

  You what?

  What did she think he was then, mad?!

  He was not going to fall into that one.

  He wasn’t na?ve enough to think she’d ever asked him his opinion on any matter at all that she hadn’t already decided for herself. From carpets to holiday destinations to evenings engaged in horizontal entertainment, his input had been minimal.

  Extremely minimal, in the case of the latter.

  His opinion was only ever sought out as a back up, to give extra clout to whatever plan she’d already formulated.

  And, more importantly, his involvement always meant she could apportion both shares of the blame to him, if – and when – things went wrong.

  Nice try, love.

  ‘Anyway, it deters unwanted admirers. Just because you couldn’t wait to take yours off.’

  She was perfectly right.

  As usual.

  He had torn it from his finger straight after the divorce with – what must have seemed, to Anthea – somewhat undue haste.

  In fact he’d broken two nails in the process.

  That’d been rather convenient though, because Michael’s expression had been an absolute classic when Humphrey had asked him if he had an emery board he could borrow.

  He still carried the ring in his pocket but, as far as he could see – and, to a certain extent, had experienced – while a wedding band on a woman most definitely translated into a universal ‘hands off’ to any other men, the presence of such an item on a man seemed to have an effect on women that was quite, quite the reverse.

  A married man was a challenge and – as such – Humphrey couldn’t run the risk of being mistaken for one for a single second longer than was necessary.

  As for Anthea’s excuses, he’d skilfully managed to sidestep that, rather too obvious, ‘fat trap’ she’d laid for him.

  There was something else there though.

  She was hiding behind him; using him as the excuse for why she – as yet – had no other, demented, admirers. That wasn’t really on.

  On the other hand, at least she was finding him useful.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  ‘I still keep your picture at home you know, Humphrey.’

  He smiled. This was going to be good.

  In fact, it was going to be brilliant.

  ‘Yes, I’m using it for motivational purposes.’

  He didn’t doubt that for one moment. It was probably fixed to a little doll, having pins stuck up its nose. She was desperate to insult him, he could see.

  Ah well, he could at least allow her that.

  He tried to remember how he’d felt upon obtaining his first pair of Jimmy Choo high heels and dispatched his reply upon the crest of that wave of residual excitement.

  ‘Really? Wow! I don’t know what to say, Anthea!’

  There.

  He looked pathetic and gullible.

  She would appreciate that.

  ‘I’ve got it on the fridge. Whenever I go to get anything out of there – a chocolate cake or a cream bun – your face puts me off. It makes me feel sick. You make me feel sick. Do you get me, Humphrey?! It’s part of my weight loss regime.’

  He raised his hand to his face and coughed, the action sensibly concealing the much broader grin that was appearing – spontaneously – in response to her insult.

  There were two issues here.

  The question of her pretending to hate him was the one he was most interested in, of course. While she was insulting him she was, nevertheless, still thinking about him… and he could always work with an energy like that.

  She frowned at him, impatiently.

  This was so predictable. This was the bit where he was supposed to tell her that she still looked as svelte as ever. He was supposed to find a way – in very subtle terms – of saying she was talking rubbish.

  Telling her she was wrong would’ve been opening up a perilous can of worms in itself, but that would’ve been an argument for further down the line.

  He was meant to tell her that there was no need for any sort of weight loss regime. That she was perfect as she was. That she looked – to him – a more beautiful specimen of the female form than Kate Moss and Katy Perry combined. And this would have to be despite the fact that she was more inclined to interpret her own, rarely-seen, reflection as more of a morphing of Giant Haystacks with her own cross-dressing ex-husband.

  Except that, well, that dynamic duo would probably be able to carry off a dress and stiletto combo with more authenticity than she herself could.

  In other words, she would know he was lying through his teeth.

  And that would, presumably, be one of the last things he would ever use them for before she knocked them down his throat with one – metaphorical – punch.

  No, for him to lie to her would’ve been quite wrong.

  Not to mention downright dangerous.

  They maintained radio silence for a few seconds and then she spoke.

  ‘So, you’re saying I’m fat?’

  Humphrey inhaled, deeply.

  He was going to be in the wrong here, there was no doubt about that. Her nostrils were flaring, that was never a good sign.

  He’d be honest with her, that’s what he’d do.

  She’d never expect that.

  ‘Anthea, I don’t mean to be personal…’

  She let out a cry of sarcasm, not unlike an old crow that’s been taken by surprise.

  In fact, not unlike one at all.

  In fact, the likeness was rather uncanny,

  On quite a number of levels.

  It was a noise Humphrey had come to recognise and, to some extent, even anticipate. It used to make special appearances in their bedroom, for instance.

  Usually as he was removing his trousers.

  ‘… but have you ever thought that maybe you might be suffering from that thing, what’s it called? “Body dysmorphia”, yes, that’s it.’

  Her head, previously inclined by forty-five degrees, righted itself in one move.

  ‘That’s just some posh Greek way of saying I’m fat.’

  Oh, Zeus.

  ‘I imagine that’s why you divorced me. Right?’

  Yes, obviously.

  Because men really are that shallow.

  Humphrey was offended, there was no denying it.

  Apart from anything else, the divorce had been her bloody idea!

  ‘Why did you divorce me? And don’t say it was because I told you to.’

  Blimey.

  Could she read minds or something?

  ‘Why did I divorce you… do you really want the truth?