Gerald sat at the kitchen table, watching his wife, Agnes, busily selecting items from cupboards and drawers and packing them into a hamper. Picnic ware, a thermos, a tablecloth were whisked into position, then the fridge door swung open, and the delicacies stowed within were carefully extracted and added to the neatly-packed receptacle.
Gerald had always been fond of a good old-fashioned picnic hamper. Agnes was an organised woman. He liked that. he couldn't stand the way some women (his previous wife Sophy being one such) sort of wafted around in a fit of the vapours while everyone else chafed to be on the road.
Sophy used to take so long to get her act together that by the time she was finally ready, everyone else had lost interest. The morning would evaporate, they'd set out late with tempers frayed (the children, since grown up, included), and the whole thing would go downhill from there.
He used to dread the moments when Sophy would come out of her semi-permanent reverie for long enough to say: "What a glorious morning! Isn't it, Gerald? Why don't we go for a picnic today?"
He shuddered at the recollection of chaotic preparations, late starts, fractious children, ruined moods, reproaches on the way home: in short, an utterly wasted Sunday.
On such occasions he would invariably have to abandon a paper he was working on just when it looked as if he were on the brink of some thrillingly original discovery, or his preparation for Monday's lectures would go by the board, or it would mean postponing the interminable marking yet again, and having to serve up a lame excuse to his disgruntled students.
All in all, he was well pleased with Agnes. She knew how to get things done with a minimum of fuss, and she knew better than to bother a man when a man didn't want to be bothered. She was the kind of woman who would fetch your pipe and slippers for you at almost the precise moment that your thoughts were turning to pipe and slippers. In short, she was well trained, and not just as a secretary. She was a first-rate factotum who never allowed her presence to become intrusive. Of course, you couldn't discuss theoretical issues pertaining to Proto Indo-European and Nostratic with her, but when the need arose to toss ideas around, one's male friends and colleagues could always be relied upon to step into the breach.
The hamper was ready in no time, and Gerald carried it to the car, while Agnes, although she was no spring lamb, practically gambolled beside him. They helped Charlie the Bassett hound into the back seat of the four-wheel drive, and then, with a minimum of fuss, set off before the morning began to wilt.
He couldn't resist making a few more comparisons as he drove. That is, after all, what a comparative linguist does! Privately, he had to concede that Sophy had been more exciting than Agnes. And more excitable, too, let it be said. It used to unnerve him a bit, how unpredictable Sophy could be. The way her finger-tips would flutter over his thigh on the way home, while she suppressed sly little giggles, so as not to wake the children, who had fallen asleep in the back. The way she'd sidle into his study at bed-time, hoping to catch his eye and lure him away from his Ruthenian grammar. That never worked. He had always been of the firm opinion that she should jolly well show some respect. Anyway, playing hard to get often heightened the appetite. Poor little fun-loving Sophy had been only too willing. He remembered that slightly foolish expression she'd get on her face in the evening - half-dreamy, half-greedy, all anticipation…
At first, anyway. Before her reverie phase. Before she started scribbling interminably in her diary, then staying out late at a girlfriend's place. Before she had embarked on a scandalous affair with the girlfriend that had proved thoroughly disruptive in the domestic sphere, not to mention becoming the most salacious bit of gossip on campus for the entire semester. Before she had moved out, taking the children with her, and proceeded on her feckless way.
Well, he wouldn't wish those days back for anything.
He stole a proprietary glance at Agnes's profile. Admittedly, she didn't have Sophy's looks, but looks most certainly weren't everything. Pug-faced as she may have appeared to the uncharitable, Gerald found her endearingly so. Agnes was a sensible woman, she didn't get carried away. They were well matched, he thought. Agnes realised how lucky she was, too.
She turned her head to catch his eye, with that "how can I please you?" expression in hers. He patted her hand affectionately, mentally brushing the image of Sophy away like a persistent fly.
It wasn't so much guilt he felt as relief. Agnes didn't have those terribly inconvenient expectations. She was content to speak when spoken to.
Agnes was looking straight ahead again, her face inscrutable.
"Gerald?" she said at last.
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever think about Sophy?"
"No, dear, why would I?"
"Oh, I just wondered. You had that look on your face again, like a small boy eyeing a sticky date pudding. You know, half-dreamy, half-greedy. The joys of anticipation…"
This was quite a mouthful for Agnes.
"Did I?" Gerald sputtered in genuine astonishment. "And what if I did? What does that have to do with Sophy?"
But inwardly, he groaned. Surely Agnes wasn't about to go all clingy and possessive on him!
"It's just that I recognise the signs," she said, then segued in adroitly, pre-empting any reply:
"I've brought a new kind of mustard to go with the ham. Can't wait for you to try it!"
"Hmm," said Gerald, clearing his throat. "Hmm, that's what I like about you, Agnes. You're always plotting the most ingenious gastronomic surprises."
Agnes smirked to herself at Gerald's discomfiture. Men were so transparent. He didn't fool her for a moment. But she didn't mind. She rather thought she was cut out to become the perfect faculty wife. She didn't envy Sophy for a single second. Not one bit!