I’m not normally given to complaining but when it appeared that my wife was leading a secret life, I couldn’t help wondering what was up. In the morning, barely done with her yoga, she’d rush to shower and be out, declaring only that she was “meeting a friend”, or catching a movie on a “morning show”. Fortunately, morning shows no longer show sleazy movies that once characterised cinema halls, but Friends with Benefits didn’t augur too well for a family reconciled to friends without those benefits.
Or she’d be meeting “someone” for lunch. “Anyone I know?” usually merited a “no”. “Just somebody I met in London,” she might say, or, vaguely, “nah, nobody interesting.” Even the children noticed their mother being a little more kooky than usual. “Where do you go Mom?” elicited an indignant “I have a life too” — not meant to encourage further probing.
She’d remember trysts, or sometimes forget them, urgently summoning the chauffeur to rush to her rendezvous. The bedroom was a mess of clothes and shoes and bags that either didn’t match, or matched too perfectly, and therefore needed to be discarded — only, she hardly got around to sorting it out. Things were looking a fine mess when she told the cook that she was having friends home for lunch, and he should rustle up something special. The mystery guests, however, weren’t revealed.
In the event, I – and the kids – needn’t have worried: the lunching group turned out to be no more than a mixed medley of women buddies who made the time to get away from work on a weekday to put their feet up with shandies and wine, stories and risqué jokes, networked among themselves and had themselves a riotous time. “It is strange,” I said to my wife, “that women should leave their offices to come and have lunch with you.” “It’s all right when you go off to your fancy office lunches but odd that I should have a working meeting,” she was upset.
“We don’t socialise,” I said, “which is what you appear to be doing.” “Just because I meet my professional friends at home,” she said, “does not mean we aren’t working. Padma will now cook at Indira’s restaurant, Chanda will stock my merchandise in her store, and Anandi and Champa are talking about setting up a company together.” I did not tell her that such enterprises hardly made it to even the next discussion, leave alone the light of day, but as though reading my mind, she said, “Men plan companies in the air that disappear the next day with their hangovers,” but women, she said, stayed truer to their course.
“That is why,” she added, “I have been networking only with women.” “But we can meet in the evenings,” I said, “or over weekends. What’s the fun of meeting only other women?” “Oh, we let our hair down — and work,” she said. “But you can do it with men present too,” I griped. “With your big egos,” said my wife, “we have to spend all our time listening admiringly to you, and play hostess, which is why I do not intend any more to let your friends into our house.”
Nor was my wife alone in banning friends from getting together — it is apparently a new trend among women who think as “singles”. “Just go watch TV, or read a book,” said my wife, when I whined about wanting to be a “couple” — so, I guess I’ll have to be a “single” too: all (any?) offers and invitations will receive my serious consideration.
