Why Mummy Doesn’t Give a ****

But on the other hand, it was really quite bad enough. When Simon told me a couple of months ago, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Literally winded. I still don’t know what possessed him to tell me. Guilt, he said.

I’d heard people talk about a ‘maelstrom of emotions’ before, but I didn’t honestly know what that meant until then, as I veered wildly between rage and despair and a really quite strong desire to kill him, and periods of calm during which I convinced myself we were mature adults with two children and we’d been together for twenty-five years, give or take, we loved each other and we could get through this – only to have the whole cycle start again. I felt so sick I couldn’t eat for three days, which has never ever happened to me before; periods of high emotion normally lead to relentless comfort eating for me. I did lose ten pounds, so one must look on the bright side when one can.

After a couple of weeks of Simon looking hangdog and saying he was sorry, and me finding the rage wasn’t really abating at all, and all our attempts to discuss it like mature adults generally ending in me shouting something about ripping his bollocks off if he told me one more fucking time that it didn’t mean anything, because if it didn’t mean anything, then why the fuck had he done it in the first place, and yes, yes, I realised it was ‘just sex’ but didn’t he think that was quite e-bloody-nough, it was clear we weren’t really getting anywhere and perhaps we needed some sort of professional help.

I heard Debbie in HR holding forth on the wonders of Christina (she was describing the clay-modelled knob ornament at the same time) and discreetly asked for Christina’s number – ‘for a friend’, obviously, as one does not tell Debbie anything one does not want the entire office to know. In some ways this trait of hers is useful if you want word of something circulated quickly – you can guarantee that if you tell Debbie something and stress it’s in ‘the strictest confidence’, every single person in the building will know about it by close of business.

Simon was reluctant to go at first, making British noises about ‘airing dirty laundry in public’ and ‘it all being a bit New Age wank’, but he agreed to give it a shot if it would help me stop shouting so much. So off we went.

After the initial session, Simon was surprisingly into the counselling. I think he liked the fact that the first thing Christina said was that she wasn’t there to apportion blame or opine on who was wrong or right, but only to mediate and give a safe space for us both to talk without judgement. Simon also very much enjoyed the fact that Christina would not allow raised voices in her office, and so I wasn’t allowed to shout at him, which gave him an hour’s peace a week.

I thought all that was pretty rubbish, actually. I’d 100 per cent been hoping she’d totally judge, apportion blame, tell Simon how shit he was and take my side, before pronouncing some suitable punishment upon Simon, so he could atone for his sins and thus we could all move on with our lives, once Simon had done some marital form of Community Service – like, oh, I don’t know: doing all the ironing for the entirety of the rest of our lives, and changing all the loo rolls for ever more, and being put in the stocks and flogged. Or something like that.

Instead of agreeing Simon was a total shit and must do penance before we were able to move forward, Christina said things like, ‘Mmmm. And how did that make you feel?’

Today’s session followed the same pattern as usual – Simon was surprisingly good at talking about how things made him feel, especially how his Spanish señorita had made him feel (‘Alive. Wanted. Like I mattered to someone!’). I was slightly less good at it …

‘Mmmmm. How do you feel about Simon feeling like that, Ellen?’

‘Fine! I feel fine about it! Absolutely fine!’ I hissed through gritted teeth, because Christina would not allow shouting or insults and so I couldn’t scream, ‘You mattered to me, you insensitive bastard. You wanted to feel wanted, well, how do you think I felt? But I managed not to fall into bed with anyone else, didn’t I? I stuck to my marriage vows, even though I could have had sex with plenty of other people if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t because I’m NOT A TWAT, but now you expect me to feel sorry for you? And also, for something that “didn’t mean anything”, it seemed to make you feel quite fucking special. And also – BAAAAASSSSSSTAAAAAARD!’

Then Christina said, ‘I feel like I’m getting a lot of anger from you, Ellen.’

‘Nope,’ I beamed. ‘No anger here!’

‘I think you’ve brought a lot of anger today, Ellen. Would you like to talk about it?’ Christina mused, while Simon nodded wisely, and I seethed to myself that of course I had brought a lot of sodding anger to the session. If I wasn’t angry and broken and wretched, would we even bloody well be here, and surely the whole point of all this is that Christina is supposed to make me feel less angry, not more so? £70 an hour to be told I’m angry? After our first session I briefly flirted with the idea of retraining as a counsellor, only a good one, one that instead of saying, ‘How did that make you feel?’ and claiming it wasn’t her job to apportion blame, would say, ‘Well, that’s a bit shit, isn’t it?’ and ‘Your husband is clearly an arsehole!’ I’d be excellent at that. Simon told me that that wasn’t the point of counselling, actually, and if people wanted opinions like that they could go to Mumsnet for free.

Something finally snapped inside me. Maybe it was the thought of all the shoes I could have bought if I didn’t have to pay Christina £70 to tell me I seemed a bit cross.

‘Are you surprised I’m angry?’ I snarled. ‘It’s always about Simon. What Simon wants. What Simon feels. What Simon needs. Who cares about what I want? Who cares about what I feel? Who cares about what I need? Nobody. All we do is talk about how Simon feels.’

‘Well, I do keep asking you how you feel, and you always say “Fine”,’ Christina pointed out mildly.

‘Well, of course I’m not fine!’ I wailed. ‘My husband has had it off with someone else and my marriage is in tatters. Why would you think I was fine?’

‘But I don’t,’ said Christina. ‘That’s why I keep asking you how you feel. You’re the one who tells me you’re “fine” and denies any anger or grief. Go on.’

‘Simon says he felt unwanted and neglected. Well, does he not think maybe I felt the same? That I still feel the same, only a million times more now? He got someone to make him feel “wanted”, he got a bit of excitement, he got the thrills and the validation and some Spanish sex, and what did I get? Nothing. He’s had all his fun and I’m supposed to just get over it and move on like nothing has happened. And I’m still stuck with a man who doesn’t even notice me, let alone make me feel wanted.’

‘I do notice you,’ said Simon indignantly.

‘No, you don’t,’ I said in despair. ‘You don’t even see me anymore. I’m just there, like a piece of old furniture. You don’t notice how I look, you don’t notice what I do, you certainly don’t notice how I feel.’

‘I do notice how you look,’ insisted Simon.

‘You don’t. No matter how dressed up I am, you never notice, you never say anything, you never compliment me. When I ask you how I look, you don’t even look up from your iPad, you just grunt, “You look fine” – and that’s it.’

‘Well, you do. You always look fine. What do you want me to say?’

‘Simon, “You look fine” means “Yes, you’re respectable, your skirt isn’t tucked into your knickers, you haven’t got spinach in your teeth and you’re fit to leave the house.” You don’t notice if I have my hair done or I’m wearing a new dress or I’ve gone to a bit of extra effort. You make me beg even for that grudging “You look fine!”’

‘I didn’t realise it was a big deal. I’m sorry. I’ll not say you look fine again.’

‘Pay me a compliment now. Go on. Say one nice thing about me.’

‘This is very good,’ breathed Christina.

‘Ummm.’ Simon thought hard. ‘I know. You make the best lasagne I’ve ever tasted.’

I stared at him in disbelief.

‘Lasagne? Really? LASAGNE? That’s the most noticeable, memorable, NICEST thing about me you could think of? Fucking LASAGNE?’

‘Well, you put me on the spot, and the other things I could think of I couldn’t say here.’

‘So lasagne. That’s what I’m reduced to. Twenty-five years together, and you’re only here for my lasagne?’ I howled.

‘Ellen, I’m going to have to ask you not to raise your voice,’ said Christina in her irritatingly calm way.

‘Oh sorry. Sorry. I wouldn’t want to make a scene or anything. But seriously, Christina, you tell me I’m angry, and are you surprised I’m angry when that is the sort of thing he says?’

‘Ellen, you know I’m not here to take sides. This isn’t about me – it’s about you and Simon. Simon, how do you feel about Ellen saying you don’t notice her anymore?’

‘I think that’s pretty hypocritical because she doesn’t notice me either,’ said Simon crossly. ‘She doesn’t know who I am, she doesn’t know what I want in life, she doesn’t know what interests or excites me –’

‘Tapas, apparently, rather than lasagne,’ I muttered.

‘Ellen, I’m going to have to ask you not to interrupt Simon again. Just let him speak,’ said Christina. Christina’s sessions are rather like being counselled by the bloody Supernanny. I really wouldn’t be at all surprised if she put me on the naughty step one day.

Simon carried on: ‘You want to keep the family together. You don’t want the children shuttled back and forth between different homes at the weekend, introduced to step-parents, used as pawns in their parents’ games, like you were. And I think most of the reason you’re still here is because of the kids, in an attempt to spare them that, rather than an active desire to be with me. You say I don’t see you. Well, you don’t see me either. I could be anyone. An anonymous father and husband figure in your life who you need to keep things together.’

‘That’s better than the housekeeper, cook and nanny you see me as,’ I objected.

‘Ellen, this is the last time I’m going to ask you to stop interrupting,’ said Christina. ‘If you do it again, I’ll be forced to give you a yellow card.’

I glared at her. She glared back. It was blatantly obvious the ‘yellow card’ was no more than an adult version of the naughty step. She never threatened Simon with yellow cards. She clearly liked him better than me, and it wasn’t fair. I half expected her to get down on my level, look me sternly in the eye and tell me I had to the count of three to start behaving myself.

‘I don’t even know if you love me anymore, Ellen,’ announced Simon with a dramatic sigh. ‘And that makes me question whether I still love you. I just don’t know.’

I opened my mouth to respond to this – fuck your yellow card, Christina – but she suddenly announced, ‘Oh dear, this has been very useful, but I’m afraid our time is up!’

So it’s OK for you to interrupt then, Christina!

I put my coat on in a daze, and we left Christina’s office. In the street, the cold air hit me in the face like a slap from a wet kipper and brought me back to my senses.

‘You don’t love me anymore?’ I snarled. ‘What has all this been for, if you don’t love me anymore? Why have you put me through this?’

‘Don’t make a scene, Ellen, not in the street!’ said Simon briskly. ‘Come on,’ he added, steering me into the bar next to Christina’s office, ‘let’s go for a drink.’