11th January, 1979
"Roger, pay attention to me" The young lovers' words are gentle as she averts her gaze into her beloved's eyes. He strokes her cheek lovingly in response, her voice a much sweeter symphony than the dull, melo-drone hold music. He shrugs apologetically, his head cocked to one side to cradle the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
"Soon" he whispers, finding her gentle persistence adorable. "Soon, and then you'll have my attention" he promises, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. She settles a little at his words; for once, he had confined his workload to just one day of his journey home, and for that, she was strangely grateful. She also knew his aged assistant - an eighty-year-old woman named Bet - well enough to know that she would never interrupt the family if it were not urgent.
A flurry of activity outside the study door causes the woman to start. The children rush, shrieking through the halls, with little regard for their father's phone calls. Roger rolls his eyes playfully, but makes no attempt to shut them out. She gazes up at him inquisitively.
"You know, it would be easier to concentrate if you shut the door" she reminds him. She never could understand why he insisted on keeping it open.
"I know" Roger muses, playing absently with her hair. "But when I do close the door, you don't come in" he smiles, placing a tame kiss on her burning lips. "That door will always stay open for you, honey"
I look up from the sofa, glaring darkly at the closed study door. There was once a time when I would have disturbed him. Desperate to spend time with him, I would pry open the door and crawl into his study, despite the constant flow of phone calls, settling for an ounce of attention between hurried band meetings. That girl thought she was happy, so enthralled with her lover that she would spend time with him anyway she could. It is only now I realize how sad her existence was, constantly scuttling around for crumbs like a timid little mouse. Thankfully, the woman she became has too much pride to stoop to such lows.
Then why are you so mad at him for not paying you enough attention?
I suck in my breath as I turn over the page of my magazine. It's contents, I couldn't tell you. Unbidden, my eyes trail to the decrepit grandfather clock darkening the hearth. 11:20. A whole three minutes since I last checked.
Admittedly, I was angry. I had called Orla's childminder to insist that she pick up the small child early, that's how sickingly desperate I was to spend time with this husband of mine. Half nine came and passed, Orla being carried off in the arms of her minder. Roger had gone to shower, insisting he wanted to look his best for our little date. Then, just as we were about to depart, he had rushed back upstairs for his sunglasses. He didn't re-emerge for half an hour, and when he did, it was only to tell me he had gotten caught up in band business, the door slamming behind him before I could deliver a response. I had been resigned to the sofa.
I was angry at myself. Once more, I had allowed him to get my hopes up, knowing exactly where it would lead. Once again, at the slightest sign of affection, I had transformed into a love-struck teenager, putty in her husbands manipulative hands. I had based my entire day around him, and yet here I was, sat bored as he discussed record sales and album covers.
Of course, I could call Deaky. Only I didn't want to inflict on Veronica the same pain currently being inflicted upon me; she has only just got her husband back, and I'd be damned if I was going to steal him away for an hour's long phone call.
That left Chrissie. Only, I didn't wish to speak to her either, not so soon after Brian returning home. Toxic together, Brian and Chrissie had reached new levels of dysfunctionality in their divorce. She hated him, sure, but that didn't stop him from rolling in her bed every tour gap. Hearing about their strange situation, two years on from their divorce was frustrating and - admittedly - old.
