On the fourteenth, she received with guarded joy the
cellophane-wrapped bunch of twelve toy-sized red roses. Pretty little things, harmlessly
thornless and passionless. But they filled the crystal vase with a vision of pretended
love and everlasting happiness. The champagne fizzed and popped its way down
her gullible little throat, floating bubbles happily speeding their way to her innocent mind.
On the fifteenth, he told her she was a good wife, approved
of the way she caressed his cotton shirts as she smoothed the iron over the
creases of her love for him. She smiled.
On the sixteenth, she dusted and polished, hoovered and
abolished all ancient mags and rags of dubious status. She sighed.
On the seventeenth, she baked a cake, forsaking all other
forms of idle diversion. She iced it with care, devotion and synthetic emotion,
setting it prettily on the cut-glass stand of her make-believe life. She
considered her role as a wife.
On the eighteenth, she went to the shops, with a list in her
matrimonial fist, clutching it tightly, intent and hell-bent on achieving
domestic economy. At all costs.
On the nineteenth, she boiled the whites, made them brighter
than bright, and washed out the sinful bins in the kitchen. Her husband was late.
On the twentieth, she checked the bank balance. Wearing her
turquoise rimmed glasses, her worried blue eyes scanned the revealing account
of his false, treacherous life. She held her breath and bit her lip. A forsaken
wife.
On the twenty-first, she rang her sister, the blister on her
lip stinging and itching. And poured out her heart, weeping and cursing. She
sniffed, then scowled.
On the twenty-second, she hid all the Andrex, his ties and
his extra-marital Durex and wickedly cut them in half. She
grinned.
On the twenty-third,
she went into town, to a shop
well renowned for its delicate and
delectably naughty lingerie. She went overdrawn. And laughed.
On the twenty-fourth, she consulted a firm, and the
respectable, bespectacled partner guided her through the minefield of law and
her individual rights. Her confidence
reached new heights.
On the twenty-fifth, she threw out the roses. They were,
after all, dead.
