Free Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond

Georgia’s nan had said in the end, in a too-loud whisper. ‘Why does she keep talking to us?’
    Katie sighed, and put the phone back on its base. She felt disconcerted by the call. Of all people, she’d have thought Georgia would be the one who’d understand best. ‘Good for you!’ she’d imagined Georgia hooting, with perhaps a punched fist in the air. ‘Well said. Marriage, my arse!’
    That was why Katie had phoned her in the first place, to get some support, some acknowledgement that yes, of course she’d done the right thing in turning Steve down. Accusations of insanity had not been what she’d expected.
    She stared miserably out of the kitchen window at the back garden. The lawn looked parched and brown. Plants were wilting and drooping where they hadn’t been watered during last week’s shock heatwave.
    Steve’s face when she’d told him no . . . something in him had seemed to collapse and wilt, too. She’d tried to say it kindly, tried to explain how she felt, but he’d taken it so personally he hadn’t seemed able to listen past that initial ‘no’. A rejection of him, that was how he’d seen it. It wasn’t, though! It wasn’t at all.
    ‘Being married to Neil . . . it was a mistake,’ she’d told him, sitting on the bed, reaching for his hand. ‘There was nothing good about it, nothing. As soon as we’d made our vows, it was over, practically. It was as if he enjoyed the chase, but once we were man and wife, the thrill evaporated for him. And for me too, if I’m honest. I felt trapped. And I don’t ever want to get in a situation like that again. End of story.’ She’d stared at his fingers, unresponsive and stiff in hers. ‘Sorry,’ she added quietly.
    His eyes were baffled; he looked like a child who’d had a toy snatched away from him. ‘But it wouldn’t be like that with us,’ he’d said. ‘Us being married would be different to when you married your ex. Completely different.’
    Would it? She hadn’t replied. Steve was in another league to Neil, sure. Steve wouldn’t expect her to drop everything in order to produce his heir(s), cook his tea and go on pant-washing patrol. Steve had done his fair share of hoovering, toilet-cleaning and supermarket-shopping in the six months since he’d moved in, admittedly. He put his dirty clothes (and hers) in the washing machine. He straightened the duvet if he was the last one up. He cooked, too, if he was the first one home. Spag bol à la student was a particular speciality, with grated Cheddar on top, or sometimes a cheat takeaway from the Indian. Not that she was complaining. At all. But . . .
    ‘Is that it, then?’ he’d asked. ‘All over?’ A bitterness had crept into his voice .
    She sat there feeling worse than ever as she saw the bag of her things that he’d packed and brought to the hotel – her make-up, her perfume, nice knickers, toothbrush . . . He was so kind. So thoughtful. Other women would be clambering over her to get that ring off him, wouldn’t they? Other women would drag him up the aisle in an iron grip. So what was her problem?
    ‘Oh, Steve,’ she’d said. A lump was in her throat. ‘No! Of course it doesn’t have to be all over. I mean, I still—’
    ‘You still what? Like me?’ He looked at her, his eyes hard. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’
    She put her head in her hands. ‘I really like you,’ she said into her fingers. ‘I love you.’ Christ, how had they reached crisis point so quickly? Two minutes ago, they’d been cruising along Romance Boulevard; now, they seemed to have taken a wrong turn and had ended up hurtling towards Dumpsville. ‘I don’t want us to split up over this. Can’t we just carry on like we were before? I mean, what was so wrong with that?’
    She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. His shoulders were slumped; he looked defeated. ‘Nothing was wrong with it,’ he replied. ‘I’d just like things to move on, that’s all. Show the world that we