The Dairy Queen

Red Dress Ink

"Are you having an affair?" Jean-Luc asks me, just as I've speared an overly large piece of (really excellent,I have to say) Asian barbecue duck, topped it with a smidge of (blanched to perfection) bok choy and popped it into my mouth.

Quack.

Fuck.

I start, but don't choke. Instead, I fix my eyes to my plate and chew slowly. Much, much more slowly than the rate at which I'd been wolfing down my food hungrily before. I chew and chew and chew, until the duck is liquefied in my mouth, swimming (ugh, sorry duck). I'm buying time — trying to work out just how much I should tell the man sitting opposite me, who looks very much like he wants a few answers and he wants them now, at our anniversary dinner.

Finally, I place my knife and fork down and raise my eyes. "Um, yes. Yes, I am," is all I manage to come up with.

We stare at each other while the restaurant continues living and breathing around us.Orders are taken,cutlery scrapes against plates, a glass is knocked over, laughter bounces off walls. After a good few minutes of staring, something clicks and my brain begins to whir into motion, piecing the last few weeks together — the absences, the missed phone calls. My breathing quickens as I think about what I'm going to ask.

"Are you having an affair?" I throw the words back at my husband.

He pauses, but holds my gaze firmly.'Yes," is all he manages to come up with as well.

Funnily enough, we don't stick around for dessert.

Grrrrrrr...

"Get that fucking hairy thing fucking off me. Right fucking now!"

I watch as Simon struggles down the steps, his left leg inside his trousers, the other leg dragging behind, his arse jiggling — the male form in all its red-underpanted glory. His belt dangles,clinking against the metal railings as he descends. As for me, I cross my arms and eye that belt hopefully — it is just begging to be tripped on. Who knows? It's late and we're both still half drunk. I could get lucky.

Grrrrrrr... "I fucking mean it." He stumbles on the last step, but misses the belt.Damn.'If that dog so much as spits on me...'He looks up at me, one finger pointed, his face a lovely puckered pink.

If only the ladies at the Clinique Skin Supplies for Men counter could see him now.

Grrrrrrr... "Fergus — park." Within sweet biting distance of Simon, Fergus does what he's told and sits.

Simon eyes me evilly. "Anything else?" I say, my head to one side. "Oh, fuck you, Dicey. Just...fuck you." On solid ground now, he loops his belt through his trousers and with a quick mean tug does the lot up. Then he grabs his briefcase from beside the dining table and makes for the door. It isn't until he has one hand on the doorknob that he remembers his pride.'Stupid bitch," he mutters.'Loser."

It's the third word that pierces my toughened skin. I pause for a moment before readjusting my facial muscles.'Fergus," I say, raising one eyebrow.'Sic."

With this, there's a very loud grrrrrrr, a grey lunge, and a swift opening and closing of the front door.

I stand quite still and wait.

Silence.

He's gone.

One hand still on the railing, I sink down shakily to sit on the steps. I'd been acting far, far braver than I'd actually felt back there. To tell the truth, Simon's yelling and screaming had surprised me. I'd never had a guy do that to me before, and it had made me grateful to have Fergus around.

Now, Fergus trots up the stairs to me with the spoils of war — a large piece of shirt material. He just manages to clutch it in his mouth, between his slobbery smile. I take it from him and reach over for a pat. He wants more, however, and moves in close to lean up against me, forcing me into the metal railing. I breathe as deep a breath in as I can with a seventy-five kilo Irish Wolfhound pressing against my lungs.

Grrrrrrr. Fergus sits up suddenly.

I shake my head.'It's OK, Fergs, he's gone."

He glances over at me.How would you know? His eyebrows say, before he turns his attention back downstairs.

That dog is far too rude to me for his own good.'Look," I tell Fergus.'He's stupid, but he's not that stupid."

Fergus doesn't look back this time,but pads down the stairs and across the living room floor.

Grrrrrrr.

Bang, bang, bang.

The noise at the window makes me jump at least halfway to the ceiling.

"I'm sending you a bill for this," Simon yells in the darkness, holding his torn shirt up against the living room window.

Grrrrrrr.

Bang, bang, bang. 'Well?"

I realise Simon expects me to say something. I get up, run down the stairs and make my way over to the window.

"Well?" he tries again, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Brave with the glass between us,aren't you?'I snort.'Fine. I'll buy you a new shirt. Just go home, Simon. Piss off."

Raff-raff-raff-raff-raff.

With this, Simon stops. He looks down at Fergus for a moment, a strange expression on his face, then backs away into the darkness.

I hear his car start up and speed off down the street. Then I stare out the window into the blackness for quite some time.

Stupid bitch.

Loser. "Loser." I say the word out loud. Fergus thumps down on the floor at my feet.'Loser." I say it again for good measure.

He's right, I realise. I am a loser.

In the past few months, I have lost everything. My company, my husband and, now my...ugh, whatever Simon was. Bit on the side?

I guess there's nowhere else to go from here — this is rock bottom.

I turn around and take the few steps over to the couch. I sit down, slide my open fingers through my hair and finally rest my elbows on my knees, holding my head up. The tears start to slide out.

It's November,and pretty much the whole of this year has been a complete disaster. You know when life feels like a pit that you're scraping your nails down the side of, trying to stop from falling further? Well, I've hit the bottom of that pit. Like I said before, rock bottom. And something tells me Lassie isn't coming to save me. She's gone myopic in her old age and just can't see this far down the well.

The funny thing is how fast it's all happened. I can't remember the point where things turned,where things started to go bad. It was like everything was perfect, and then suddenly I was left with nothing. Only six months ago I had a snowdome of a life. A life that was shaken constantly by some divine hand, glittering and sparkly. I had my own multi-million dollar pyjama empire that I'd built from scratch. I had journalists queuing up to interview me. I had a husband who loved me and I loved him back. I had a dog that behaved himself. Well, OK, most of the time. I was happy. And then some clumsy oaf dropped the snowdome.

The stupid thing is that clumsy oaf was me, Dicey Dye. (No, Dicey's not my real name. I don't reveal my real name to anyone.)

Behind me, I hear Fergus haul himself up off the floor.

He comes over and leans up against the couch, sniffing my now wet knees.

He barks.

Raff-raff-raff-raff-raff.

And, with this, I can't help but smile a tiny smile, because it reminds me of Simon's expression at the window when Fergus barked at him. I glance up to see Fergus looking at me indignantly, aware that it's not usual for ladies to laugh at their...