Free The Queen's Margarine by Wendy Perriam Page A

suddenly intruded into her mind. Jack had been put to sleep by the vet at the age of only four, with inoperable cancer of the pancreas. Four, for dogs, was equivalent to twenty-eight for humans – her own age, in point of fact. She still remembered every detail: the injection into his flank, the dreadful silence while they waited for the drug to take effect, Jack’s final piteous shudder, followed by the vet’s soft, solemn voice, ‘He’s gone now.’
    â€˜Please,’ she begged, switching from insistence to entreaty. ‘Do come. I’ll pay anything you like. And I don’t mind what time it is. Make it as late as you like. Just suit yourself, but come .’
    He said nothing whatsoever, just reached out for another biscuit, as if to play for time. The crunching noise sounded louder than the tick-tick of the clock. Her life seemed poised on a knife-edge . Depending on his answer, she might tip over into panic – demeaning, frightening breakdown – or limp and hobble forward in some damaged but not hopeless shape.
    â€˜Please,’ she repeated, her voice shaky from the force of her desire. ‘It means so much, means everything .’
    In the ensuing hush, she fixed her whole attention on his tools: a set of seven screwdrivers, lined up according to size; red-handled,battered pliers; shiny silver spanners; rolls of electrical tape, and a few spiky, sharp-toothed implements, with vicious, snapping jaws.
    When he finally spoke, his voice was quite emotionless. ‘Excuse me a minute, will you, ma’am?’
    Pushing past her, he strode into the hall. She gripped the worktop for support. Was he walking out? And without a single word? He’d left his tools behind, but that didn’t mean a thing. Perhaps he was scribbling her a note, an insulting, cowardly note. She strained her ears for the scratching of a pen; heard nothing but the slam of the front door.
    He’d gone. Like that. Cruelly. Unforgivably. Hadn’t told her why. Hadn’t asked her what she felt. Or discussed the situation. Hadn’t even thought to ask if she could pay the rent without him. Who cared about the rent? It was him she craved – as an addict craved a drug – his mind, his soul, his skills, his wit, his cock.
    Shutting her eyes, she took a sip of coffee; tried desperately to change the date – turn this barren Wednesday into the Sunday before last: blissed-out with him in bed; hands cupped round her coffee-mug; piles of Sunday papers jumbled on the duvet. She could feel his open, sensuous lips nuzzling along her neck; the shockwaves lower down, as his fingers traced—
    Useless. She was bundled up in sweaters and standing in the kitchen, not lolling naked in a dishevelled double bed. Even the coffee was insipid; nothing like their usual brew. Despite the sludge of bitter grounds muddying the cup, she hadn’t made it strong enough – a tepid sort of dishwater, with no kick to it, no flavour. No wonder he was shagging someone else. His new lover would be brimming over with caffeine and adrenaline; a full-bodied double espresso, potent, scorching-hot.
    She sank down on to the floor; knelt where he had knelt, hiding her face in her hands. A long time seemed to pass – hours, perhaps, or days; maybe a full week. They must have reached the solstice now: the shortest, saddest, darkest, longest day.
    She started as the doorbell rang; struggled to her feet. The postman bringing Christmas cards. Friends wishing them a happy Christmas, unaware that Simon’s name could no longer be conjoined with hers on any card or envelope. Those friends wouldprobably disappear, as well. People found it hard to cope if a couple went their separate ways, and often avoided both partners, to save themselves embarrassment.
    She limped to the front door, rubbed her eyes in shock. Could it be an illusion – this change of mind, reprieve? Slowly, she registered each detail, to ensure