Burning in the rain “So She would continue to feel like a foreigner in their home, it waS her home too, after all She waS the one who kept the home fireS burning.” burning R a i n in the a b i g a i l g e o R g e A short story Abigail George an ovi Magazine books Publication 2022 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer C Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book. B u r n i n g i n t h e r a i n Abigail George A short story Burning in the rain T his morning the kitchen cupboard smelled like spices. She was scratching for something. She had to have it. Otherwise the meal would not be perfect. It would be less-than-perfect and she would prefer to have it otherwise. What made him happy would make her happy but today of all days she could not find it. The perfect ‘it’ that would complement the dish. She would have to turn the cup- board upside down but she didn’t want him to find her like this. With her hair in her face, tied back with a rubber band, strands everywhere. God forbid he found a long dark strand of her hair in the food, her food. There would be hell to pay. (Anything could start it off and the day was so beautiful. She wanted him to see that.) She was flesh and soul, bone and buoyant spirit. She was a volcano, a woman with dreams, the caretaker of many, many things of useful wonder, a huntress and gatherer. Fist fight, seeing stars, seeing red shooting out of a banged up nose, screaming coming from the somewhere of nowhere. It would not be a good day for a fight, to play tough, for feeling sore, loved-up with wounded pride and killer noise playing and rewinding inside her head Abigail George like a mixed tape or an evil soundtrack. Dianne told herself that she was not up for playing the tough cookie today. I haven’t mastered the skill yet of letting go of the evil that he was sometimes capable of. Di- anne let the words ‘capable of ’ sink into the back of the mind. For a while it hung suspended between ‘must wash hair later today’. ‘Rinse stockings in the basin in the bathroom’, ‘reply to emails after doing the dishes left in scummy water for days now in the kitchen sink’. Swords and shields, the perpetrator of evil deeds and the pearly shine of good ones, the blue death of her depression holding onto her as if it would never let her go. ‘Mop floors cheerfully with a smile and ignore the spatter-patterns of dried blood’, ‘vacuum carpets’, ‘throw away old fashion magazines’, ‘swim as if your life depended on it and ignore the flirting teenagers at the local swimming pool’. Forget, forget, forget what he said, what he did, what you said, what you did while you were waiting for him to cry and say sorry. But when she thought that, about the latter she wanted to cry too. What a waste two lives could be Dianne thought. Ah, there it was. Bisto to make the gravy. She had to make it properly because the last time she made it there were bits floating in the brown sea of it and he had said that it tasted like sand in his mouth and had come flying after her. She, the builder and designer of empires, the interpreter of customs, wishful thinking and why couldn’t he see any of that again? She put her finger in the bowl, licked it. She put her fingers around the box and pushed her spectacles up on her nose. On that awful, awful terrifying day he had called her beauti- ful. The day had ended with him saying that she made him feel claus- trophobic, boxed in, and that she was bleeding him dry (not the other way round, lover, she thought to herself), she was draining him and he thought that he couldn’t take it anymore. But what about me, what about Dianne, she thought to herself as she lay on the floor. She felt a tingling sensation in her arms and her long legs were encased in tight Burning in the rain black leggings. ‘Help me up.’ She wanted to say. ‘Help me up and then I’ll forgive you. I’ll forget everything if I can just stand and make it to the bathroom. Hell, please help me up Hugh.’ She could summon the wind, the birdsong, and even the song in the shoots of grass, the seasons, and golden feasts. Feasts he did not eat. Feasts that crash-landed. ‘All I want to do is to check my face and shake the anxiety and pan- ic out of my limbs.’ He had just stood there a little shamefaced (until finally there had come a point when it had started to scare her just a little) with his head in his hands, murmuring or muttering or speaking to himself. It sounded like, ‘Look what you made me do.’ Thank God the flat was tiny and people had complained but living in a house was different. A house came with brick walls and a garden and neighbours that weren’t haunted by screams and things that went bang in the night or in the middle of the afternoon or even early in the morning, a bright Sunday morning as a matter of fact. She succumbed. Summer to his winter, how could she ever remain indifferent to his behaviour, to his attitude? He was always the winter guest in her house of summer. Dianne moved the cans of dolphin-friendly tuna aside with the spa- ghetti. (Fish cakes, he liked fish cakes she made a mental note to her- self). Then when she wasn’t looking there was turmeric on her hands (she hadn’t been looking at what she was doing), oh hell how to get it off without getting it on her clothes, coriander seeds set loose from a box. There was always cheese and milk in the fridge (he checked). The air smelled of the juices of the succulent roast fragrant with rosemary and lemon. She could hear his footsteps and the car keys in his hand before he appeared in the doorway. He came inside and put his arms around her waist and leaned over the stove. She relaxed. When he was happy she was safe. She was as safe as houses with glass ceilings. She laid a table for him but all he saw was the weight of water behind her eyes. He shattered glass. She swept it up, hid it away, the secret of Abigail George it all. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? It is a perfect day.’ Smile please, she said in her head. Say something. Say anything. Say, ‘Same to you lazy elephant.’ Anything to make me smile. Call me mer- maid even. Smile and then nothing would be wrong. She couldn’t see his face yet but she could feel that he wasn’t pleased about something. What was it now? What did she do wrong now? She tried to turn around and face him but he was still holding onto her. She wished he would let go now. ‘Playing the merry housekeeper today or the moody chef?’ he whis- pered into her ear, pinching her apron suavely. It gave her hands something to do. Picking up his clothes and shoes, the wet towels on the bathroom floor, dishes, newspapers, mugs filled with cold tea, a drowned teabag. He’s in a good mood so play along. Don’t let him see that you’re upset because he’ll turn the table on you just like that. ‘I’m half the merry housekeeper and the other half of me is the chef except I’m not moody or anything. I’m just distracted.’ ‘Distracted? Now that could be a good thing. My swagger distracting you.’ She laughed. He’s in the mood for love. ‘Your hands are yellow, spoilsport.’ Something in the tone of his voice warned her. He’s not in the mood for love anymore. ‘It’s just my fingertips. It will wash off. It’s the turmeric.’ Emptiness simmered. Emptiness that stubbornly refused to sink fur- Burning in the rain ther and further away. How imaginative life could be without her even trying? ‘Yes, why don’t you wash your hands. You’re going to get everything stained with that stuff and it doesn’t come out. You know that, Dianne.’ You mean it’s not attractive, Dianne thought inside her head, cring- ing at the sharpness of his words. How it seemed to sabotage the day ahead. ‘I know. I know.’ ‘So if you know then why do I even bother. Do you even listen to a word I say? And,’ he sniffed. ‘I don’t like herbs.’ Please, don’t, just not now and not today. Don’t ruin things for us. ‘You don’t like ‘mixed herbs’. You love parsley.’ Dianne’s voice was forced. I’m happy, she told herself. But she didn’t sound happy. She found herself in a forest, dwelling in the possibilities and the choices she made for herself in her life. Spot the difference, she told herself. Buck up. ‘I love parsley.’ He said stiffly, aloof. He had walked away from her, talking to her back. Why was he repeating what she was saying like that? ‘You love rosemary, lemony chicken, thyme drumsticks, fresh, leafy coriander in your curry.’ ‘Yeah, as much as I love plain yoghurt. You know I hate that stuff, Dianne. I hate marjoram. It sticks in my teeth. You know that. If you know me you would know that, lover. Are you arguing with you or with me?’ ‘No.’ Abigail George Be calm and then he’ll be calm. Just wait for it. Watch the tone of his voice. Don’t get carried away.’ ‘Boyfriend, you have perfect teeth.’ ‘I know I have the perfect smile. Why are you telling me that? Trying to get on my good side this morning for some reason?’ I can read you like a book. What’s wrong with you? Is it something I said? ‘Oh, so you know what I like and don’t like better than I do.’ ‘Don’t let’s start a fight.’ ‘Who’s starting a fight? Why are you looking at me like that?’ Out of the blue. So sudden like a jolt as the train journey came to an end. As it stopped at its destination and the people began to disembark. ‘I’m just asking a question. Something’s burning.’ ‘Nothing’s burning.’ ‘Watch your temper, temper, temper. Check your pots.’ The clip on the ear came out of nowhere and took her breath away. She looked hurt and something crumpled up inside her. ‘You promised,’ she said sucking her breath in deeply. ‘I didn’t promise anything.’ ‘You promised that today you wouldn’t. Today’s special.’ ‘Our anniversary, is it? Your birthday or mine?’ She heard his voice inside her head. You’re so good at weaving and threading stories, Dianne. Are you just as good as reading my mind? ‘You said you loved me, remember?’ ‘And how was I supposed to remember that? Love is always impor- Burning in the rain tant to the lady. I’m sorry. Everything okay now? I’m sorry.’ He smiled as he took her head in his hands. ‘Am I forgiven? Forgive me? Forget all of this and I’ll treat you.’ The sauce was as runny as honey. She could hear it, feel the sweetness in the air before his mood had turned to heat, warning her not to start trouble. ‘I’ll take you out somewhere smart.’ ‘But what about all of this. I’ve been working on it the whole morn- ing.’ ‘The kitchen’s a mess, Dianne.’ ‘But it will all be wasted.’ ‘Wasted effort all for nothing. Stay in if you please. I’ll go out. Do something with ‘our’ friends for a change. You’re a mess anyway and in a state. Why do you always have to get so emotional.’ ‘The roast is burning. The meal is burnt. Cinders. Soot. It’s all those herbs. It’s in the air, everywhere even your hair or is it just you that smell of it.’ It was a forest far away in the mists of time and there she stood be- hind castles walls a princess who had a tragic story to tell if anyone would take the time to listen. ‘The lemons are black. I don’t want a meal that tastes like ash.’ ‘You’re being mean.’ ‘And you’re asking for it, Dianne.’ ‘You want to give it to me, then?’ ‘Ready to pick a fight.’ ‘You started it.’ She cowered under his stare. He picked up, balancing Abigail George it delicately on the fingers of his right hand and it all came crashing down on the floor. ‘Me next then?’ ‘Doll, I’ve had enough for one morning.’ She had a bird’s soul. Floating in the pool earlier in the week, hair tangled with chlorine she had moved swiftly out of the way as she heard, ‘Watch out! Jump!’ ‘I’ll deal with you later when I have the energy. Clean this up, will you? Don’t cry, Dianne.’ ‘I’m not. Really, I’m not. It’s the onions. I’ve been peeling them and chopping them up and it’s the skin. Skin on skin, I guess.’ She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘And why do you always have to fry the cabbage like that? It’s disgust- ing. I’ve told you this before. When you do it like that it tastes like left- overs in my mouth. It tastes just plain awful. You’re a terrible cook, you know that Dianne. When I come home, that had better not be there.’ He said looking at the floor meaningfully. Always what he wanted. Always what he said and not the other way round. And the words felt like stone. She felt like a cave (ready to cave in at any moment now). ‘I want this place tidied up. Don’t look so mournful. I didn’t even leave a mark this time around. Don’t you go crying a river now or else I’ll give you a reason too? You know I wouldn’t have minded if you had made fish. I love fish. I even love the way you make it and you were making so much noise this morning in the kitchen. I thought I would have a lie-in. I work you know.’ ‘I know you do.’ ‘Do you Dianne. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if you really do. I work hard.’ Burning in the rain ‘I know you work hard.’ ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ ‘I know.’ One day there would be no one left to call and then what would be- come of her. Still crying her soul to sleep at night. ‘Although you seem to think it does. I get that kind of feeling some- times and I just want to tell you that I’m hurt by it sometimes. I’m the man. I’m the provider but I think Dianne that you sometimes take it for granted that there’s an instant flow of money around you.’ ‘No, no. I don’t think that.’ ‘You’re just saying what you want me to hear again. Don’t do that Di- anne because when you say things like that I can see right through you.’ ‘ I just want to say that I’m committed to this relationship.’ ‘I’m committed to this relationship as well and sometimes I have to be hard on you.’ The pain of feeling sore, a little fragile, taking out cookbooks to see what she could do, how she could remedy the situation. These were the thoughts crossing her mind early in the morning. ‘You’re not perfect.’ ‘I know.’ ‘I wish you would stop saying that. ‘Okay, I’ll stop.’ ‘Good girl. Dianne you’re a good girl sometimes but especially when you listen to me.’ ‘Obey. Isn’t that in the vows? Marriage, hey. We’ve talked about it but I don’t feel ready for it. All that kind of responsibility and compromis- Abigail George ing and you?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Laying out a map of ingredients on the kitchen counter. Finding a recipe and staring at the stunning photographs of turning imagination into reality. ‘I know you’re the one.’ ‘Ditto.’ ‘Ditto Diane?’ he laughed ruefully. ‘We’re not two teenagers. It’s not exactly like they’re standing in line for you Dianne. There’s me and there’s you. The two of us, we’re per- fection. Who else is going to put up with you and your moods and the depression? Cat got your tongue Dianne?’ ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’ ‘Wish I wouldn’t what now? What’s wrong now? What sin have I committed? Let’s talk about your sins for a change and what I have to put up with.’ She stared at the magnificent photograph of what she had never made before in her life. Poultry it is. She drummed her fingers on top of the counter, humming. ‘Burnt roast, yummy. Is that what you wanted to surprise me with today? Is that your wounded samurai face? Well, I’m going out. You’re no fun and I wonder whose fault that is. This chicken is swimming in gravy. At least now you know how to make it perfect-like.’ ‘You’ll be here when I get back. Waiting, always waiting. Frowning Dianne? Is it something I said?’ ‘Maybe not this time around,’ Dianne said under her breath. ‘What did you say? He turned around, his shoes heels squeaking on the floor. Burning in the rain ‘I didn’t say anything.’ What on earth would she need oranges for? And she’d have to use her fingers to stuff it into the cavity and tie the legs together with string. Dismembering poultry. ‘Humming under your breath, my dear’ he said sarcastically. The kiss on her cheek caught her unawares and she almost said what was that for. ‘Lovely. You taste lovely you know that. Just like rosemary and lemon chicken. You taste all lemony. Pity it’s all on the floor. It would have been the perfect day and now you’ve gone and spoilt it Dianne. But you look lovely like that anyway. Just do something about your hair like wash it. It’s all greasy-like. It’s disgusting when I put my fingers through it. I’ve been good today so put on your happy-face and when I get back maybe I’ll bring flowers to cheer this place up a bit. You’re unhappy now. Would she be up for this? It meant work, preparation, commitment and cleaning up afterwards. She envied those women who had this kind of devotion. ‘It’s kind of making me unhappy. Cheer up, my pretty one! Laugh, smile, you’re on candid camera. You used to love that and now sud- denly you don’t because the chicken is out cold on the floor. Okay, so maybe it isn’t that funny. You’re thinking that I’m the one who’s re- sponsible for it.’ The last time he hit her she blacked out and couldn’t remember a thing when she woke up. She was covered with a blanket, felt warm. He was lying next to her, and told her he was just waiting for her to open up her eyes so that he could call someone. Dianne thought he had said ‘an ambulance’. Were you scared, she wanted to say. Were you frightened? Did you think I had died, was pushing up daisies and that the end had come. Why did she have to cut the wishbone away? She thought that the word ‘wishbone’ was so pretty. Abigail George Now you know. Now you know what it feels like morning, noon and night. Escape, escape, escape and a teardrop, a waterfall, being boxed in, feeling claustrophobic, you coward are not the only one to feel that way. Scream. Go away now. I want to scream. And if I yell and shout long enough the neighbours will come running out of their houses and perhaps a good soul will call the police and today will be the end of it all. Today will be the end of everything you have done to me. My spirit smashed to smithereens and as cold as winter, just, just an uninvited guest. You’ve stalked me, haunted me, watched me, baited me, caught my spirit, me, me fool on a hook, called the life I live now heaven and paradise while you laughed in my face. ‘All in a day’s work for them, them domestic goddesses in and out of the kitchen. There we go with the oven on. Here’s hoping roast that you’ll come out beautifully.’ She whispered under her breath. While your foot was caught mid-air before it slammed into my back again and again and again. I can still feel it. Those shoes were new. They were black and pointy and you were calling me a witch and a devil. I had devil eyes, you said. I’ll make short work of you, witch, you said. You were breaking them in on me. Dianne you asked for it. And it was all because there wasn’t enough salt in your food and the dish, the fish tasted like paper. Stop your wailing Dianne. Stop it now. Dry your tears. Here, use this. You handed me your handkerchief. You took my hands in yours and you asked me very quietly, very calmly to control myself and to stop being emotional. And you said, ‘I am not having an affair with anyone. I love you Dianne.’ Lovely little word that ‘wishbone’ and a kitchen scissors came in so handy. She put the kettle on for tea and patted her apron stained with giblets, skin and flour. ‘Now, no more questions about people, about women calling and hanging up. Put that nonsense out of your head. Stop listening to your mother. I like that blue dress on you. Didn’t I buy that for you Dianne? Blue Burning in the rain is your colour. I think it goes with your eyes. Stop that sniffling. I ex- plained the situation. Maybe it’s just teenagers having their fun. The stuff of pranks or maybe,’ and this was said with a sardonic look, a glint of steel in the eye, ‘perverts.’ It was as if he was saying laugh it off Dianne. Make it easy on me, on you, on us. He wanted her to feel as if she was the one who had done something wrong, brought it on herself with this depression. When she had first brought the dress home he had said it just wasn’t her colour. Somehow they had all landed on her. ‘Missile attack and those pota- toes are not going to crisp up on their own.’ Using flour was a trick her mother had taught her. And when she had ‘modelled’ it for him he had rolled his eyes and said, ‘Babe, that just isn’t your colour. So, so depressing. Take it back. Exchange it for something else. Something bright, colourful or some- thing that matches your eyes and above your knees. Show a bit of leg. You’re not a spinster or do you want me to call you ‘old maid’?’ She had laughed gaily with him but in the privacy of the bathroom she had curled up in the corner and had a private cry with the door locked and the water gushing out of the hot water tap into the bath. Blue, not blue, and why blue? So what had changed? One of her sisters had said that love is supposed to hurt but all the time, that part didn’t make sense. ‘What a mess! Look at the state I’m in.’ she said out loud and she laughed as if she didn’t care. It was the perfect start to a wonderful day. Cooking for her man. ‘Does he hit you? If he hits you then leave. Pack your bags. Dianne, listen to me. I’m the oldest and I’m pulling rank here. Believe me. No man is worth it. If you stay stuff like that can kill your spirit. You’ll have no confidence, no self-love, no worthiness left. Have you stopped to think about that?’ Dianne had to fight back. She had to fight for him, for her man. ‘But he cries afterwards. He apologises. He makes up for it.’ Abigail George ‘Ask yourself is that normal? They all do it. They make all these prom- ises that they can’t keep. It must be in the genes or something. The things that people get up to behind closed doors. The scenes and peo- ple gossip.’ She had the awareness of another world’s earth and sky behind her eyes. If only he could see this. ‘People always gossip about scandal. Scandal is delicious. And they, the ‘victims’ in this whole scenario always say that their dad did it to their mother. So ‘I’ must continue the horror of that legacy I experi- enced as a child, that’s the way this type of man thinks like.’ ‘He’s so sorry afterwards,’ Dianne argued. ‘Mum forgave dad.’ ‘Well, when you’ve had enough of that kind of life. You know the one where a housekeeper does your laundry and you have a garden to lounge in at the weekends and a pool to sunbathe next to. The smell- ing-of-roses kind of life that is what I’m talking about.’ The mark under her eye was fading away. It had gone from black to blue to yellow and the colour of her skin was returning to normal. She had not gone out. ‘And I’m not saying it because I’m trying to be nasty or mean-spirited or jealous of you. Of you always having money for beautiful clothes and dainty expensive pretty little things. Of you having a large house that is not filled with animals or the pitter-patter of little feet, growing children, you know you can count on your real family, us, your sisters and even your mother. The same mother you are now badmouthing to me.’ Someone was gripping her arm now. Fiercely determined to get her attention. Gripping and twisting her arm now. It hurt. ‘That hurts. Let go of me.’ ‘I’m speaking to you and you’re not here. You’re somewhere else.’ She remembered all the questions from everyone. ‘Where are you’ and the ‘where have you been’ and ‘has he been behaving all this time Burning in the rain that you were off the scene?’ ‘Dianne, are you listening to me? God, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Now I’m going to have to repeat myself. Tell you what. Erase all of this. This morning, the day, but don’t be blue or heaven, get depressed and dive under the covers when I’ve gone. I won’t be gone long you know and I want you to be good. No tears, no tantrums on the phone to your sisters or mum. The only clouds I want are the clouds up in the air. Dammit! Quit looking at me like that. If you want to blame someone you only have yourself to blame. Why didn’t you tell me that today was special and don’t I tell you everyday anyway just how much I love you? I care for you. I’ve gone the distance for you. The marathon distance because that’s what couples do for one another.’ He had wanted to put a slab of meat on her face and in the middle of her holding back her tears she asked him, ‘Now what am I supposed to do with that?’ ‘You know once you used to look so enchanting in anything. You look really bad. Go put on something else. Scram! I’ll clean this up. Give me something to do while you’re making yourself look pretty and put some make up on. I hate having to see those dark circles under your eyes.’ You put them there was what Dianne wanted to say but didn’t. ‘Just go and for heaven’s sake don’t cry or else your mascara will run.’ You put them there. ‘You in a mood again? Well, you shake your head and I can read your eyes. I can see something else there, swimming in them.’ It’s to bring down the swelling he said. You’ll be as right as rain. To- morrow there won’t be a scar and she had said with fear and alarm, ‘There’s a scar?’ It’s just a tiny scratch. ‘Depressed again? Your blue death again? Make room. I also want to watch the television and why must you eat all that junk. Women say Abigail George it makes them feel better but better than what. I said move. Okay, I’m sorry. What was it I said? I take it back.’ ‘I was going to have a bath anyway.’ ‘Your show isn’t finished.’ ‘It doesn’t matter. I know how it’s going to end.’ ‘Is it about a murder? Why do you watch this rubbish? Why don’t you do what other women do and watch the soaps and read romance novels? You know there’s nothing sexy about you like this. And when you’re done make a grocery list.’ And she believed him. Ate it up like a warm pudding, a pie. Remem- ber the good days that was what her mother always told her. Baby, I always remember the good days. ‘I’m going to the shops tomorrow. Give you a change of pace domes- tic goddess. You know that I’m not impressed with what you did today. You murdering that chicken.’ And that is why her father always came back. Feet off the couch he would say as if he had never been away and as if it was his domain, his castle, his empire, his girls. ‘Blue feet? Cold?’ ‘Yes, I’m freezing.’ ‘Come here. Come closer. Here, hold onto me. I’ll warm you up. Are you depressed?’ ‘No, I’m not depressed. What gave you that idea?’ ‘You’ve been quiet today.’ ‘I’ve been tired.’ ‘Tired of murdering chickens?’ Burning in the rain ‘I’m not laughing.’ ‘You know, I’ve always found you enchanting even at your worst.’ She remembered her mother peeling an apple in a long thin green stripe. And when her father was gone they never saw a newspaper in the house or watched the news. ‘What are you reading?’ ‘The Bell Jar.’ ‘Give me that rubbish.’ He picked the book up and threw it across the room. ‘It’s a classic and I like it.’ ‘I thought you weren’t depressed. And if you say you’re not, you’re telling lies.’ ‘I’m not depressed. I already told you.’ ‘What’s the book about then? Cat got your tongue?’ ‘Reading helps me to fall asleep.’ ‘Excuses, excuses. If you want to talk to someone, why don’t you just talk to me? Psychologists cost money.’ Wind rustling in the trees, the birthday present presented to her with a gung-ho, devil-may-care attitude when all she wanted was peace. Kind of like that wind in the trees. ‘I’m a good listener.’ ‘We talked about this already. About me going to see someone.’ ‘So you are depressed.’ ‘That’s not what I said but maybe it would be good for me to talk to a professional.’ Abigail George ‘A professional good listener.’ ‘You’re angry?’ ‘So you don’t want me to be upset. There’s nothing wrong with you.’ ‘I know there’s nothing wrong with me.’ ‘Except the depression part of you.’ She told herself one day she was going to dance in the wind, write that poem, curse this mad life and ask God why was he so spiteful. ‘But you want a professional good listener to tell you that there’s nothing wrong with you. I’m going to bed. Read your book except I can’t sleep if the light’s on.’ It was then that Dianne thought of leaving him. How easy it would be just to leave a note or not to even decide to leave a note, take nothing with her, leave the suitcases, all the useless trinkets anyway and the release she would feel once she closed the front door behind her. There were things to do that had an educated degree of guesswork behind them. He was handsome, a catch and in the beginning he had been so determined for her to love him in the same way he did and for her to share ‘everything’ with him. She felt him brush against her leg, heard a muffled, ‘I love you.’ And when she fell asleep that night she dreamed that she was flying. It was a different kind of flying. Flying of the imaginative kind. ‘I’m in the mood to pick up shells. You don’t have to come with me. Go swim. The sun is really nice. It feels heavenly. It’s nice and warm. Swim with the grannies. I’ll keep the kids company with their buckets and spades.’ ‘I don’t know why you’re being like this.’ I’m behaving. You’re not, caveman. Do I have to do everything with you? Do I have to do everything you tell me to?