Could ordering an English breakfast reasonably be considered just cause for divorce, do you think? I wonder. Or how about if that was extended to include shovelling down chips with everything? Perhaps not.
I look across the table at my husband. Thirty years in October it'll be, but we've come away on holiday early - mid-September, no reason to book in the school holidays anymore - to celebrate. To mark the occasion, the passing of time. We're sitting on a terrace in a little taverna, shaded from the heat of the sun, and flowers - past their best but still going - cover the winding vine which covers the canopy beneath which we sit. Beneath which I sit. Beneath which I watch the thinning hair on the top of my husband's pale head and listen to him, again, ask, is it too late for an English breakfast?
It is two in the afternoon.
We've been here for three days now and I have not once seen him eat something that I wouldn't cook him at home. On tables around us, couples pour over heaping platters of fish, shrimp, lobster even. Pour wine from tall carafes. Smoke at the table. Don't see that much at home now. Lean back in their chairs and look out over the sea. The sea which is - I kid you not - glistening. They always say, don't they, in books? About the sea glistening. Well, I tell you, it's doesn't glisten much in Yarmouth. Or off Southend.
It glistens here, though.
It's not our first holiday without the boys. But it is the first since they've both properly gone. They're married now, both of them. And the eldest? His wife is about seven months along. That's partly why we've not come in October - I want to be around, just in case. And to see the baby, of course. First grandchild. What a thought.
He looks up, pats the swell of his belly - I'd guess six months gone if he was a woman in his early thirties - and announces, English breakfast it is then. Am I surprised? No. Like I said, I'm not sure it's grounds for divorce but I bet you if the judge was a woman, a woman in her late fifties, early sixties, married, like me, then it might hold some sway.
I'd like to say he swept me off my feet, that we were childhood sweethearts - meant to be together - but I would be making that up. We sort of drifted together. Everyone else was pairing up, my friends were flashing their engagement rings and saving up for a nice wedding. Made sense. And then, there he was, all of a sudden. Not quite a gift from the gods - not at all - but he was all right. A nice bloke, everyone said. Still says, truth be told. You won't go wrong with that one, everyone said. And I don't suppose I have, really.
But there's a world of difference between not going wrong and getting it right.
I had the boys young. Two little ones, one after the other. Get it out of the way, he said. Meant to be, he said after we were caught out with the second so soon after the first. And then he would leave for work and I would be left in an empty house full of dirty washing and two small boys who were always in the way and a pile of cups and plates in the sink and no one but the radio for company. We walked miles in those days, me and the pushchair.
I do love my boys. Their sticky fingers and hair which would never, never lie flat. Still won't for the youngest. The weight of their warmth at bedtime, wriggling into mismatched pyjamas and squirming as I read them story after story - I still know some of those books off by heart. The struggle to get either one to even look at a vegetable. And they've done well for themselves. People say that, don't they? Hasn't he done well for himself?
Well, truth be told, a lot of it was almost certainly done for him.
Two boys in secondary school and a husband recently promoted to a desk job. Do you know how many shirts that is a week? I do. It's fifteen. Even now, Sunday smells of a hot iron and damp polycotton. Packed lunches, too. Fifteen of those. I still don't really know why the boys couldn't have school dinners, but my husband reckoned we were saving a lot by packing the lunches ourselves. Ourselves. Right. Weekends, it was grass stains on cricket whites in the summer, mud out of rugby kit in the winter. Whichever bright spark decided white was a good colour for either of those was definitely not the one doing the washing afterwards. Policing homework. Listening to endless reading books. Plasters on scraped knees and elbows. Money for the tooth fairy. Scrubbing the floor round the loo: how hard can it be to aim straight, for heaven's sake? Birthday cards. And cakes. Parents evenings. Grandparents for Sunday lunch. Wiping down the countertops. Making beds. Shopping lists. I don't suppose you realise, either, just how much sliced bread two growing boys and a grown man can get through in just a couple of days.
My husband orders himself a beer and a sparkling water for me. I don't really like sparkling water, to be honest. Don't see the point. But he thinks it's what ladies like and who am I to contradict him? I am a stout, middle-aged woman of practically no consequence in an ill-judged sundress from a shop my mother used to say was a safe bet.
I watch my husband order his English breakfast - and be told, sir, it is after lunch. I watch him, flustered, revisit the menu, and settle - surprise, surprise - on a ham and cheese omelette instead. Oh, and chips. I'm not really hungry anymore, so I order a salad. A salad glistening with chunks of tomato and cucumber, golden olive oil, feta which is both creamy and crumbling, and dense black olives.
He raises an eyebrow when the waiter leaves.
What would I do instead? I don't want you to think I'm imagining some kind of Shirley Valentine style escapade. I never liked that film. Her smug smile as - who was it? Tom Conti? - reminds her that she really loves her husband, despite the bloody egg and chips? If I am going to embark on an escapade, explore what else the Fates might have in store for me, I'd quite like not to end up back where I bloody started. Excuse my language.
I watch the waiter as he swerves between the tightly-packed tables. He is probably about the same age as my husband, perhaps even a little older. It's not fair to compare them, I know, but then neither is it fair to leave someone alone all day to wrestle two small boys to adulthood and then tell that someone that their boys have done well for themselves.
I look at the solid muscle in the waiter's shoulder, the swell of his arms as he carries a tray laden with plates. His hair is dark and thick, cut short against his neck. The shirt he wears, with the name of the taverna across his shoulder blades, fits closely against the body beneath. Which I find myself imagining. I look at the smile as he presents a plate of - what is that? oh, who cares - to a woman wearing little more than a bikini. I look at the gleam of his eye, the care with which he places the food in front of her, clears away her empty wine glass.
I look. And I look. And I look.
You all right, love? He is looking at me. So I smile and nod and talk about what a lovely spot this is - bet it's windy, though - and wonder what the boys must be up to and how nice it is to be away. Say again how nice our hotel room is, without mentioning that it's smaller than our room at home and the bed creaks like a squashed mouse every time he rolls over. And he checks the scores on his phone, poking away at the screen as if he's never used it before, even though our eldest bought him a phone years ago and got him all set up.
So I look again at the woman who is wearing little more than a bikini. I look at her hair, pulled back from her face. I look at her fingers, placing each piece of food in her mouth. I look at her laughing as the sauce slides down her chin. I look at the thin strap across her thin back. And at the swell of her breasts. Which I also find myself imagining. I look at the man who is sitting across from her. At the wine glass, golden against his dark fingers. At the way he reaches across to offer her a taste of whatever it is on his fork. Dear heavens, they're beautiful.
What star burned at my birth and said, this one? This one will live a life of quiet desperation. Of making do. And motherhood. Of English breakfasts at two in the afternoon. And weekends in Southend.
Our food arrives. Predictably, his omelette is fine. I don't know that I've ever heard him say more about a meal, expect perhaps a roast dinner - Christmas dinner? - when he'll say it's smashing. My salad is oily and salty. The tomatoes are firm and fresh. The cucumber is sweet. I hold the feta on my tongue, relishing the bite and the creaminess of it all. How's yours, love? All right?
I think I'll have a glass of wine. I'll order it - smile at the waiter to get him to come over. And I will order it for myself. And it will be cold and will glisten, golden, in my glass. I will sip my wine and smile. And then I will have another. I will pick the olives from my salad with my fingers, not my fork, relishing their flesh on my fingers, rolling my tongue around their stones. My lips made slippery with olive oil will shine and my tongue will be slick in my sated mouth. I will make love with passion, hot and salty love, then sleep naked all afternoon, the sheet twined around me, and eat dinner, drink more wine, only as the sun sinks down towards the horizon and the glistening sea.
Not at six because that's when we always have dinner.