Where’s my husband?
“Baby, where the hell is my husband?” The bold demand in the opening bars of Raye’s irresistible, brassy big-band hit might sound at first listen like an accusation directed at an erring husband. In fact, the singer intended the song to be a statement—both playful and emphatic—of her determination to find the man of her dreams. Or, perhaps more accurately, for said man to find her.
Think of it as her way of manifesting her desire: vocalize, and it will materialize.
This man is testing me
For most women, however, a question such as “Where the hell is my husband?” often carries undercurrents of suspicion. “Is he with her?” Or, in some cases, “Is he with him?” might actually be the real question she wants to ask.
In the movie “Rental Family,” starring the excellent Brendan Fraser, an awkward hulk of a man playing a jobless American actor in Tokyo, cheating husbands are actually able to produce not only the answer to such a question, but the other woman as well. For a fee, of course.
It’s part of the apology service provided by the Rental Family agency, whose speciality is sending out actors to play certain roles, in the process providing anything from emotional support to emotional release. For apology service jobs, a woman actor assumes the part of the mistress, the shameless seductress who is then paraded by the contrite husband begging his wife’s forgiveness. The indignant wife, appeased by the confession, lashes out at the faux mistress, sometimes even slapping her (for an added fee) as she demands she stay away and not break up any more marriages.
It’s a win-win situation: the pretend slag is shamed and chastised, the wife is given her moment of triumph over the homewrecker, the husband is forgiven while his real affair goes on, and the agency makes money. Everyone is happy, even if the actor has to occasionally ice her bruised cheek.
Help me, help me, help me, Lord
Of course, the answer to the question, “Where the hell is my husband?” doesn’t always point to a cherchez la femme situation. Though I suppose in a way, it ultimately does.
Take Mrs. Patrixia Ross, the Filipina immigrant wife of the notorious trigger-happy MAGA-to-the-core Minneapolis ICE agent, Jonathan Ross. If she had thought to wonder, on Jan. 7, 2026, where the hell her husband was, well, he was out murdering an innocent woman, Renee Nicole Good, a 37-year-old activist, poet, and mother, not to mention a white American citizen at that, while she was in her car with her wife and child.
In fact, he—a veteran of the war in Iraq and a member of the specially trained ICE Enforcement and Removal Operations Special Response Team—shot Good through the window of her SUV four times, including one shot to the head, claiming it was self-defense, for she was allegedly a domestic terrorist charging at him with her car. The evidence, however, appears to contradict ICE’s version of events.
Her last words to him were, “That’s fine, dude, I’m not mad at you,” which seemed to have triggered the ICE agent. Like, how dare a woman—a progressive, DEI-supporting woman raising a family with her same-sex partner—tell him when their little contretemps were over, and she was free to drive off?
What she intended as a “Chill, we’re cool bro,” he seemed to have interpreted as condescension, or worse, a patronizing diminishing of his alpha male status in this situation. So he did what every insecure man faced with what he considers to be the undermining of his dominance does: He raised his gun and fired at her, calling her a “fucking bitch” in the process.
So where the hell is Jonathan Ross these days? Apparently, he and the missus are in hiding together with their children, his cowardly flight from accountability conveniently assisted by balaclava-clad federal agents who swooped into the empty Ross home to pack up his belongings on his behalf and carry them to safety.
Stop right now, thank you very much
Now, if Nicola Peltz were to ask herself last week, “Where the hell is my husband?” well, Brooklyn Beckham was busy severing whatever remained of the frayed bond tying him to his parents, Victoria and David Beckham, as well as his siblings Romeo, Cruz and Harper, by writing a lengthy, scathing screed attacking their insatiable desire for attention and social media mileage on—of all places—a series of Instagram stories.
The bulk of his wrath he reserved for his mother, Victoria, for all sorts of transgressions: for never accepting his wife, for upstaging the bride at their own wedding, for not making her wedding dress, for using him as a social media commodity to create the illusion of a happy family.
And boy, does the list go on.
Of course, there are ten sides to every story. Perhaps Brooklyn’s parents were too busy chasing fame when all he needed was, um, somebody with a human touch. Who knows?
But in a clear case where even bad publicity is better than no publicity at all, former Spice Girl Victoria’s career as a middling solo singer has gotten a huge boost. Her 2001 single “Not Such an Innocent Girl” just shot to the top of the charts in the UK, 25 years later.
As for Raye, she needn’t worry. As her granny says with absolute certainty, “Your husband is coming.”
