Have your cake and eat it (Chicklit contest finalist)

Chapter three

I wake up the next day to Steve bringing me breakfast in bed, a long-stemmed rose placed carefully between the toast rack and china teapot. Blimey, I think. If putting out once in a while gets this show of gratitude in the morning, I'll have to do it more often.

Maneuvering myself into a sitting position, I clock the massive bunch of lilies on the dressing table as realisation slowly dawns. Of course. 19 February, our ten year wedding anniversary. Out of all the things, how the bloody hell could I forget that?

"Oh Steve, they are gorgeous," I breathe, mentally kicking myself for letting such a momentous date slip my mind and wondering if there is anything in the cupboards downstairs that I could pass off as a gift. Wait a minute, what am I thinking? I chide myself. This is my husband of ten years and I want to give him a dusty old Body Shop gift set? I’ll go shopping with Tamsin as soon as leaves for work, I decide. It’ll be nice to get out of the house for a bit.

"Your present erm, hasn't quite arrived,” I tell Steve hastily. “I er, ordered it online! It should be here, I haven't the foggiest idea where it’s got to. I’ll have to ring the people,” I add vaguely, aware that I am babbling although Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

"Not to worry darling,” he says, bending to kiss me. “I’m sure it’ll turn up eventually.”

“Besides, I’d much rather have a repeat performance of last night than a present anyway,” he confides, running his hand over the cellulite on my thigh. He then appears to forget he was about to select a tie to go with his shirt and instead climbs back into bed, suddenly reminding me of the energetic 26-year-old I met in a souk in Marrakesh rather than the IT consultant he now is.

The good wife that I am, I willingly oblige. However, given that I am braced for the children to come flying into the bedroom at any moment, it does seem to lack some of the wild abandon of last night – or at least, as wild and abandon as sex can get when you’ve been married ten years and together for thirteen.

About an hour later, Steve finally leaves for work, taking the older two with him to drop them off at school. Tamsin is already dressed, looking incredibly cute in a miniature red duffel coat, white tights and furry boots. The latter are so amazing I was about to buy a similar pair myself until I stopped to consider that fact that while undoubtedly cute and adorable on a toddler, such hirsute footwear would probably lead people to wonder what a 37-year-old woman is doing walking around with two giant yeti paws for feet.

“Where is your hairbrush Tamsin?” I ask her for about the fourteenth time. I wonder why I bother. It's not like she’s going to say “I left it in the playroom, Mummy, it’s in between the box of Barbies and the Polly Pocket house,” or “It’s under my bed along with a collection of hair bobbles and that necklace you’ve been looking for since last February,” is it? Instead she just stares back at me, unblinking. With her hair all sticking up like that, she kind of reminds me of – and I mean this in a nice way – a baby monkey. A cute baby monkey, obviously.

If I spend any more time looking for her hairbrush we’ll be here all day. I try to rake my fingers loosely through her hair but she squeals in protest so I pick up the tiny little pink brush that Jessica uses to brush the tails of her My Little Pony horses and start to use that instead. It seems to do the trick, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover, and I even experimentally use it to brush a section of my own hair, which does seem to resemble a horse’s tail at times, it’s so thick and coarse.

“Right come on,” I say, grasping Tamsin with one hand and the pushchair, my bag and a selection of toddler-specific items in the other and doing a sort of half-walk, half-waddle out the front door and to the car.

After we’ve managed to find a parking space and paid £4.80 for two hours parking – four bloody eighty? I’m sure I remember it being about twenty pence a couple of years ago – we finally get into the shopping centre. I feel my heart speed up a bit as we approach Mecca, aka John Lewis. I somehow manage to refrain from racing down to the household department and instead head purposefully over to the menswear section.

“Can I help you madam?” a spotty youth of a sales assistant asks me politely, seemingly staring intently at my cleavage, which I must admit, is slightly more on display than usual despite the fact I tried to deflect attention away from it with a brightly coloured silk scarf.

“Oh, er, well yes, I suppose,” I say, a bit flustered. “I’m looking for an anniversary present. For my husband,” I add pointedly. “A ten year anniversary gift.”

Spotty Youth nods. “That’s a fabulous scarf,” he says, gesturing at my neck. “Paul Smith?”

“We do have some exquisite cashmere that’s just come in,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to my disconcerted expression. “Follow me,” he urges, mincing over to a section of shelves stacked with an assortment of jewel-coloured jumpers.

“I was thinking of this one in particular,” he says, selecting a moss coloured jumper and unfolding it with a flourish. I gingerly put my hand out touch it and it’s so soft it’s like stroking a basket of giant green hamsters. Tamsin seems to think so too, I notice, as she reaches out from her pushchair to grab a dangling sleeve and proceeds to stroke her face against it.

“This is nice,” I agree somewhat cautiously, anxious to refrain from committing myself to a purchase before I can check the price tag, mindful of how dangerously near its limit my credit card is. I seize my chance when Spotty Youth turns away to point out an array of matching scarves. £160.90 the price tag reads. I squint at the small rectangle to double check I am indeed looking at the price and not some barcode, wishing I’d brought my glasses. 

“It will last for years,” Spotty Youth says helpfully, waxing lyrical about the quality and clearly keen to hone in on a sale. It is a little pricey, I concede, but it is our 10-year wedding anniversary, after all. That’s like what, £16 per year of marriage. When you put it like that, it’s nothing is it? Plus, it’ll last for years, like he said.

Besides, imagine how embarrassed I would be if Steve got me something magnificent like that Mulberry leather tote on Net-a-Porter that I have been salivating over, and I just got him a book or something.

On the other hand, what if I splashed out on the jumper and he got me something crap, like saucepans? I'd probably just make him pay my credit card bill to be honest, which is pretty much what he’ll have to start doing anyway since my half of the joint account is drying up faster than a camel poo in the desert.

Admittedly, he did buy me a cake mixer once, but it was something that I really wanted. It’s fantastic, a true top of the range baking gadget. It’s cream and chrome and has loads of different settings. Of course, it’s a bugger to clean, but you can't have everything, can you?

“I’ll take it,” I say decisively, watching as Spotty Youth whisks away the jumper to wrap it first in turquoise tissue paper and then in sumptuous gift-wrap. Handing over my credit card with slight trepidation, I breathe a sigh of relief as the transaction goes through seamlessly.

I hang the posh bag on the handle of Tamsin’s pushchair and head to the home-ware department, making a beeline towards the baking section. I wander around aimlessly, hoping that the mere act of being around silicone heart- and star-shaped moulds and flower cutters will inspire me to whip up a stellar creation for Steve. I toy with buying a large sliver cake drum to display the cake on, but then decide I’m fairly certain I’ve already got something similar at home, tucked away in a box of baking stuff my Mum bought me that I’ve used less often than I would have liked.

Tamsin and I have definitely earned a break, I think, feeling all happy and relaxed and taking the lift up to the café on the third floor. I order myself a latte and slice of coffee and walnut cake and select a butterfly cupcake for Tamsin and a glass of milk. I look at the pink butterfly adorning her cake with interest, studying its gossamer thin wings and wondering if I could get away with putting some on Steve’s anniversary cake.