Free My Husband's Wives by Faith Hogan

floundering. Funny, but even though he was still willing to rescue her, she had come to the point where being rescued wasn’t as important as feeling capable and in control of things. ‘I can’t get it off his head.’ The saucepan had fastened tight; Annalise bent down and kissed him on his adorable nose; how could you get cross with such a cutie?
    â€˜Have you tried butter, dear?’ Always practical, cool as a breeze, Madeline Connolly had an endless reservoir of patience with her daughter.
    â€˜I’ve tried everything but putting his face in cold water.’ Dylan, for his part, seemed unaware of her distress and his head was lodged securely in one of – thank God – her cheaper saucepans. ‘But his ears are turning a dark blue,’ Annalise wailed and she wiped a sodden cornflake from his forehead and wondered what else was lodged inside.
    *
    Friday in the emergency department was not as busy as Annalise had expected or rather dreaded. Her mum dropped her off at the front entrance.
    The waiting was the pits, of course. There were people there much worse off than Annalise, Dylan and the saucepan which had taken on a personality of its own. The saucepan-helmet now had special powers that Dylan expanded on much to the entertainment of all around them. Annalise tried to keep their distance from anyone who looked downright contagious. It took three hours before they were called. It seemed that everyone else in the waiting room was either old enough to be dead already or young enough to belong in the maternity suite. There were two small babies; their pitiful cries had stirred something in her. She’d have loved a girl – she adored her boys of course, wouldn’t change them for the world, couldn’t imagine life without them – if only she could order exactly what she wanted; one, small pink cherub. She had enjoyed her pregnancies, the scans, the yummy-mummy massages in the local beauty parlour and the way everyone spoiled her. Even the birth – she’d had gas, air, and the offer of an epidural, but two pushes and it was all over. She’d never tell anyone that of course; it was something of a badge of honour if you suffered a little. Paul’s first wife, Grace, had had a terrible time of it; not that he talked about it much. Same as her own mother; one child and that was it. ‘Funny how these things are easier for some people than others,’ she’d said once to Madeline. If the barb hurt, Annalise hadn’t noticed or meant it. No, she’d ridden on the excitable wave of each pregnancy. She’d even bagged a deal with one of the TV stations to front a healthy-eating campaign. The Duchess of Cambridge inspired it; Annalise loved every minute of it and people had loved her. ‘Maybe it’s because they’re getting to see what I see – the real you,’ Paul had murmured in her hair as he’d picked her up from the studio one afternoon.
    â€˜Amazing how the doctors know exactly what they’re doing,’ she said to one of the nurses. Two junior doctors applied a light lotion about Dylan’s skull and then pulled sharply so the cornflakes Dylan had mysteriously put in the saucepan before putting it on his head splattered in a distasteful spray that could as easily have been vomit from the stench.
    â€˜Was the milk sour?’ An old battleaxe glowered at Annalise as though she might have stuck the pan on the child’s head on purpose.
    â€˜Of course not,’ Annalise said defensively, but the wailing started again, so she bundled up Dylan and began to make her way out of the cubicle.
    â€˜Don’t forget your saucepan.’ A younger nurse handed her the offending kitchenware.
    â€˜At least it wasn’t a good one,’ Annalise said, popping it into her Coach bag. The nurse looked horrified and Annalise moved closer to her. ‘No, it’s all right, really; this is an old bag. I’d