Free Worst Fears by Fay Weldon

image had been besmirched by Jenny’s regard. She burned the toothbrush because it might have been in Jenny’s mouth and had become disgusting. She lay it on a firelighter, applied a match, and watched it splutter and flare. She watched Ned disappearing in green and purple and black. But he still didn’t feel gone. If she turned round he’d be smiling at her. Like the smile of the Cheshire Cat, remaining long after the body had gone.
    If Jenny had been less sludge-like, had been a prettier, younger, cleverer person, Alexandra would not feel so shop-soiled, so picked over. Jenny was like a garment in a rummage-sale: infinitely dreary. Grief should be pure and noble.
    There were noises from upstairs. This time it truly was Diamond, on the brass bed again. She went up; heaved him off. Had there been a dog curled up and mutinous in the model in Jenny’s bedroom? She had a feeling there had been, but no longer trusted either her memory or her senses. Everything was virtual. Diamond wasn’t allowed on the bed anyway. She thought perhaps she should tell the police about Jenny Linden’s obsession. Everyone knew these things could be dangerous. But now she, Alexandra, had stolen things from Jenny’s house. Not the photographs, not the toothbrush—they were hers, if anyone’s—but diary and address book. Why had she taken them anyway? She was being dragged into a situation it would be better to ignore. She was exhausted again. She lay down on the brass bed and slept. She was woken by the phone.

“M UMMY,” SAID SASCHA, IN his piercing urgent voice, “the cat’s got kittens. I have to go.” He went. Irene took the phone.
    “Darling,” she said, “I hope you’re not too upset. Men will be men; that is to say, babies.”
    “Why should I be upset?” asked Alexandra. “In particular? Apart from being widowed; all that?”
    “You have heard of the Doctrine of Parsimony?” asked Irene.
    “No,” said Alexandra. “Couldn’t we talk about the cat having kittens? How many?”
    “Eight,” said Irene. “But where did I go wrong in your education?”
    “You sent me to stage school,” said Alexandra.
    “The Doctrine of Parsimony is a version of Occam’s razor,” said Irene, who had been to Cheltenham Ladies’ College in its severe prime and then to Oxford. “Both suggest that the simplest solution is likely to be the true one; or the most useful. If, as you say, there is a mad woman roaming the edges of Ned’s life—”
    “His death—” said Alexandra.
    “—it is likely that Ned gave her some encouragement. Think of Fatal Attraction. ”
    “But she’s so fat and horrid,” said Alexandra.
    “You mean why should Ned be interested in her while he had you?”
    “Exactly,” said Alexandra. “Besides, we loved each other. He wouldn’t do anything like that. He had a great integrity. He didn’t cheapen himself, ever.”
    “That’s as may be, but you’ve been away an awful lot,” said Irene. “Men don’t like it. If the wife leaves an empty bed a husband’s first impulse is to fill it.”
    “I’ve been working,” said Alexandra. “What was I supposed to do? It’s not my fault if I’ve had to earn. Ned got me the part in the first place. Do you think I’ve liked being away from home? We couldn’t even have Sascha’s fourth birthday on the proper day because I had a matinee. And the poor little boy hated coming up to London at weekends…he missed all his friends’ parties, but what could we do? And then Ned died on the dining room floor, just fell down and died, and I wasn’t even there.” She cried.
    “Stop blubbing,” said Irene, who’d always wanted to go on the stage but had been thwarted, or so she said, by an early marriage and Alexandra’s birth. “You owe it to your public not to blubber. You’ll spoil your looks. And it upsets me. I feel so helpless. I don’t like leaving you alone. Likewise, I don’t want to bring Sascha back to The Cottage, into such an unhappy house