The Uninvited Guest

A story by Eve

My name is Alexander.  I am a magnificent black, silky black cat with emerald eyes.   I live in a Maison de Maître in Burgundy with a charming garden.   I own a rather pretty lady called Isabelle, she hates when I kill birds.   Nonsense!   I do kill them but never bring them to her anymore.    The screams and being called a “bad cat” is not very nice.   But I really don’t care.   To do my evil deeds I go to the neighbours, the Macrons, a very nice couple who dote on me.  I get tidbits of salmon, turkey etc.   They would love to have me but I can’t do that to Isabelle,  she adores me.

I am always welcome at the Macrons except when they have guest for a meal.   Because I do beg for a morsel, climb on laps, I can be quite a pest in their eyes not in mine.   I just do what I like when I like, that’s it.  So I am banished outside when people come.   The other day, I heard Isabelle mention the Macrons were having a garden party, garden means outside, there is no way they’ll keep me out and it sounds like fun.   I just can’t wait. 

Today is garden party day and I am ready, hiding in the lovely hydrangeas, looking at the guests, I spot a lovely little girl.  I will zero in on her when they are all seated and eating.   Everybody sits, chatting happily, no one looking around except the Macron’s who are looking for me but I bide my time and start to slink toward the girl who has seen me and tries to get my attention.  She is holding a piece of salmon in her chubby hand.   Everybody was too busy eating, talking to notice me so I took the salmon, ate it very daintily and here comes another one, great.   But, all of a sudden I heard Isabelle’s voice ;  I didn’t know she was here, asking the little girl what she was doing.   The stupid child told her in a loud voice that she was giving salmon to a black cat.   Bedlam … Isabelle and the Macrons got up looking for me, but I was quicker and went under the tables.  It was tally Ho for me, I had so much fun, running around, some tried to grab me but I was too fast.  I could hear “Alexander, Alexander come to Mama, come here.   Like I ever come when called!  Finally I got tired of the game, ran through the hydrangeas very proud of myself. 

I had the best garden party ever even if I wasn’t invited.

Paula's story:

Bobby was wracking his brain. His wife’s birthday was coming up, and he wanted to make it special. But how was he going to top last year, his wife’s 50^th, when he sent her and her sister to her beloved Paris for a week? Bobby prided himself on being the master of the grand gesture, but he was stumped. Then, an idea began to take shape. A great idea, a sly idea. He picked up his phone and dialed a number in North Carolina, and set his plan in motion.

                                                            *****

Julia murmured, “OK, bye for now,” into her phone, set it on her desk and stared at her calendar. She just might be able to make this work, she thought. She would have to move a few meetings, cancel a few plans, but it would be so worth it. It was a wonderful idea, and so like Bobby: generous, and sweet. And oh, so sly.

                                                            *****

Ingrid was snuggled into a corner of the sofa, one cat on her lap and one nestled beside her. It was her birthday, she had taken the day off work, and it had been a great day so far. It started with a long walk in the park, then she had met her sister for a lazy, champagne-fueled lunch at their favorite French bistro, followed by an afternoon of shopping. And now, she was watching an old movie, waiting for her husband to get home with her favorite Chinese takeout. He had an afternoon meeting, he had told her, but he should be able to get home, dinner in hand, by 7.

                                                            *****

She heard his key turn in the lock, and she paused the movie. “I’m watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’!” she called, as she heard his footsteps in the hallway. “Come on, it’s getting to the good part!” Bobby walked into the living room, laughing. “You would say every part of that movie is the good part,” he told her, as he set a shallow box filled with the familiar red and white takeout boxes on the cocktail table in front of her. “Bobby!” she cried. “That’s enough food for an army! What’s gotten into you?” At that, he turned toward the hall, and she followed his gaze. There, standing in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically shy, was her best friend, Julia. Ingrid screamed, jumped off the sofa, and rushed to hug her friend, laughing, and crying, asking Bobby what the hell, how did he manage this without her knowing, what a great birthday surprise. Then, everyone was talking at once: Bobby, telling Ingrid how he had tried to figure out how to make her birthday really special; Julia, saying how she was amazed that Bobby was so determined to fly her down to New Orleans to surprise Ingrid; Ingrid, trying to work out how she had been so clueless, and already on the phone to her boss, asking for another day or two off work so she could spend as much time as possible with Julia.

*****

The next few days were a blur of lunches, shopping, talking, walking, dinners, playing their favorite board games, drinking champagne, watching their favorite movies, Bobby on the fringes in the evenings, filling their glasses, doing the washing up, tucking them into bed when they drank a bit too much. Ingrid and Julia called Julia’s house, to talk to Ingrid's dear goddaughter and her sister, and Julia’s husband: yes, they had all known about it, yes, what a fantastic surprise, yes, they wish they could all be there. At night, alone in their bed, Ingrid would wrap her arms around Bobby, nestle into his shoulder, and murmur, “You always give me the best gifts.”

Three days later, Ingrid had to get back to work, even though Julia would be there for two more days. Because Ingrid worked at night, she and Julia had most of the day together, and at 3 o’clock, as Ingrid headed off to the office, she said plaintively, “What will you and Bobby do while I’m gone?” Julia smiled and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something. But mainly, we will wait for you to get home.” “Well, you better stay up,” Ingrid told her. “I know you, Julia. You’re a lightweight. I get off work at 11, so pace yourself.” Julia grinned, and said, “Text or call when you’re about to leave work. I’ll be up and ready.”

Ingrid called home a few times during the evening, aching to be there with her husband and her best friend, and every time, Bobby would remind her, “Text or call when you’re leaving. Julia wants to make sure she’s awake for you.”

*****

It was 9 p.m. and Julia was wide awake, stretched out naked on top of Bobby, their sweat mingling on the sheets of Bobby and Ingrid’s bed. “What a brilliant idea,” Julia whispered, still out of breath. They were feeling pretty proud of themselves, pulling this off. Living in different states, it had been a challenge, over the last decade, to find time to be together. This “birthday surprise” was perhaps Bobby’s finest idea, because not only was Ingrid happy; she thought it was all for her.

*****

Ingrid wanted to surprise her best friend. She got off work early, and softly mounted the steps to the apartment. She slipped her key into the door. The living room and bedroom were across the hall from each other, at the back. When she stepped silently inside, she heard muffled voices, but something wasn’t right. The living room was on the right. These sounds were coming from the left, the master bedroom. She walked down the hall and reached for the bedroom door . . .

*****

There are moments in life that forever are defined by Before and After. What do you do when you realize in a shocking flash of discovery that two of the most important relationships in your life are over, at the same time? What do you do when the full breadth and depth of betrayal comes into immediate, shocking focus, when you learn just how deceitful people you thought you knew could be? For a long time after that night, Ingrid would deal with what her therapist helped her understand were three betrayals: his, hers, and theirs, together.

*****

As the years passed, Ingrid came to realize that her birthday surprise, the uninvited guest, was the best thing that ever happened to her. The Book of John was right: The truth shall set you free. There is life, and truth, on the other side of betrayal, she learned. And most important, there is love.

A story by Annemarie:

The Uninvited Guest

I remember when I was invited to a fancy dress party (among people I knew or 'sort of' knew) when I was newly engaged;  though I say it myself,  I did look good - my shiny black hair in a swinging bob and fringe, surmounted with gold hairband, decorated with a brilliant blue lapis lazuli snake;  the artfully  draped sheet around me was clinched  with golden  belt and bejewelled buckle, and a plethora of gold and 'jewels from the orient' around my neck, all made, painted and decorated by my little niece – I was Cleopatra embodied and I felt so good!

This time however I was a little older and I had been invited to a 'vicars and tarts' party ( I know, it is a curiously English way of entertainment). I plucked courage in both hands and accepted the invitation as it was from one of the teachers (the only one who had been welcoming during the 3 months I had worked my 2-day week supply teaching at that school). The staff room can be a very isolating place and this could be a means of really getting to know the other stand-offish(?) teachers.

I would certainly not dress up as a vicar; no, a full-on outrageous tart and they would realise what a fun person I really was and then life in the staff room would be a whole lot better.

This is when charity shops and TK Max are so useful.  I spent a day trawling the shops and came home with my glittering bounty. A good uplift bra (a tart needs a cleavage after all), some black lacy patterned tights and very fancy black suspender belt,  a figure-hugging purple dress which just covered my derrière.  I was beginning to look forward to discover this other me.  After a lazy scented bubble bath  it was on with the black underwear, a bit of a struggle to slither into the shiny purple dress, just covering my derriere and a glimpse of suspender;  plenty of chunky gold necklaces, (my Cleopatra moment), bangles and gold hoop earrings); then my makeup: this was beginning to be fun - a smear of lilac eyeshadow topped with a swish of silver glitter, a pair of thick fake eyelashes and a generous lashing of deep crimson lipstick. Last of all deep crimson nails. My long dark hair I scrunched and teased into a spiky mess and added  a quick spray of purple to cap it all. I didn't look half bad - in fact I looked completely bad! I picked up a little glitzy bag and a pair of high-heeled shoes and, running late, drove off to my friend's house.

Arriving at her road I suddenly realised I had forgotten to bring the invite with the address and I couldn't remember the house number only having been there once;  then I saw all the parked cars. Yes,  this was the right house. I parked the car, put my shoes on, pushed my boobs up, niceand pert and tottered to the door. A little nervous I rang the bell and after a few minutes the door was opened by a somewhat older man than I had imagined Mary's husband to be. It was also eerily quiet for a raucous fancy dress party. He looked me up and down …and up again;  “Can I help you?”

 “ Yes,” I said “I’ve come for Mary's party. I've got the right day I hope.”

“Well no Mary  lives here... but you are welcome to come in.”

Muttering profuse apologies and trying not to fall over in my stiletto heels whilst trying to shrink my chest back into its uplift bra I hurried back to the car. Mortified, I sat there all dressed up, not knowing where to go. I knew I had the right road so I drove slowly along the houses and there it was;  a road leading to a field with what looked like a cricket club or some sort of hall and plenty of cars. Of course, Mary's husband was cricket mad so they must have hired the pavilion for their party. I parked the car and for a second time tottered along  to the building. Lots of noise from within which was a heartening sign - so I banged on the door. It opened and before me stood a gentleman in immaculate dinner jacket (a bit strange I thought for a vicar). His eyes stood on stalks as he surveyed me and over his shoulder were many more immaculately dressed guests, men in dj's and women in evening dress, and not a suspender belt to be glimpsed  anywhere and amongst them the parents of Daniel Palmer (year 4’s class swot) staring straight at me.

“I don't think I’ve got the right address... is this Mary Conochie's party?”

I was already slinking away in total humiliation as he said:

“I think you have the wrong address.”

I never did get to know those teachers well.

Jackie's story:


Hannah parked her battered rusty 2CV Citroen and was surprised at the number of expensive gleaming cars lined up in the paved courtyard of this splendid 18th Century Chateau.   she hesitated at the entrance … it was this evening the Count and Countess had asked her to come for a drink …  ….. a sudden thought made her wonder if she had got the wrong date 
Her host opened the door, a glass of bubbles in hand  Ahhhh  “My dear”,   he looked her up and down, frowned then welcomed her … “you’ve arrived ! ” ….. and whisked her into a room full of formal dinner jackets and sparkly evening gowns.  

Clad in cotton shirt and jeans the other guests received her as stiffly as white linen left out in the frost for the night.    Not accustomed to the high life “My dear” as she mimicked to herself lived at the Chateau’s estate, looked after the many animals there, surrounded by dogs,cats and goats, dressed in overalls and rubber boots;   mucking out, milking and hardly went out in the evenings.     She certainly had nothing anywhere near sparkly chic in her wardrobe.   She thought to herself thank goodness I didn’t come in my mucky farm boots….

Feeling awkward and distressed at being very underdressed at this very chic razzle dazzle party Hannah just wanted to disappear down a hole in the floor. 

 At this, she glanced down at the beautiful parquet Versailles and to her surprise down by the skirting board was a tiny mouse.    His whiskers quivering - little brown eyes alert, ears as pink as rose petals, and nose twitching nervously.    “ Oh miss” baby mouse cried and she bent down to listen  …  “I’ve lost my mummy could you help me find her”
Goodness Hannah thought, how in the world was she going to find a mummy mouse in this very elegant and refined soirée.   Most of the guests present would run a mile just at the word ‘mouse’ .   So putting the baby mouse in the pocket of her jeans she set off to mingle with the guests.  
She sipped banalities and swallowed her discomfort of unfortunate dress sense until the butler announced « Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served…… » 

There in the centre of the table was the most beautiful floral display.  A magnificent woodland log planted with different shades of moss interspersed with leaves of silver birch and ash brown branches  - Textures of pines, ferns and wild wispy delicate purple flowers poking through with the whitest of snowdrops - the different hues of botanical treasures were a delight to the eye.  
But, in the middle of this fabulous display poking its little face through the bark was evidently a Mummy mouse.  Round, brown and plainly distressed.     “My baby, my baby” she squealed frantically, and became more and more hysterical - the shrieking was thankfully drowned by the chatter, laughter and clamour of knives and forks on china.   But, it wouldn’t be long, Hannah thought, before someone spotted Mummy mouse as there she was,  perched on the large green lily leaf that was draped artistically across the table and she could just imagine that if seen the ho hah that would cause.   
Inside her pocket she could feel the agitation of baby mouse upon hearing her mothers cry.   Squirming and trying to look dignified she reached in her pocket to reassure the tiny creature but by a twist of her hand the baby mouse escaped onto the table - running circles amongst the silver,  slithered up and down the candelabras, knocking over wine glasses and finally found refuge in the central woodland display where mother mouse gathered her up in her paws.  

The sight of those finely dressed sophisticated ladies attempting to escape a tiny helpless mouse by clambering on chairs - thus ripping their taffetas and silk gowns, twisting their ankles on their high heels;  the men in a flap waving bow ties, flailing arms and hopping up and down had Hannah in fits of laughter - 
After the guests had calmed down, (some of them had left without finishing their dinner)  she thought what fun it was  being an uninvited guest.

Using five words to create a story

"Wilderness"   "Age"  "Dream"  "Copper"  "button"



Annemarie's story

Wilderness, age, dream, copper, button

The two of them had arrived in a quaint little street and entered through a door discreetly marked “Miss Asia. Your future in her hands”.  January in Britain was dank and miserable compared to hot, sultry weather of her native Texas. The visit was a birthday treat from her friend for reaching the great age of fifty. Of all the self-help, new -age therapies she had tried this visit had most filled her with apprehension, with trepidation. Would the psychic foresee anything bad? Yes, Lucy was a little nervous, to say the least.

They sat in  the darkened room across the table from the clairvoyant.  The clairvoyant took hold of Lucy’s hands, turned them over, turned them back again and gazed at her palms and the rivers of lines therein. She muttered words as she gazed at her client's hands: “ wilderness, I see open lands, copper.. unfulfilled dreams? and buttons, I see buttons ....”.
“Oh yes, “ cried Lucy “I am off home to see my family and go on my first camping holiday in the wilds of Texas. This is so wonderful ... and look I have my copper bracelet on; (for my arthritis, you know.) And Janet,” she added, turning to her friend,” remember this morning when I was so nervous I couldn't do up the buttons on my black coat and you told me to wear my duffle with the toggles? Miss Asia, you truly  are the real thing.”
On their way home, after the half hour session, Janet and Lucy marvelled at the ability of the psychic;  then Janet reminded her of other birthday gifts, new age therapies and treatments Lucy had tried during the twenty years of their friendship.
“Remember when the children were little and you had your first aromatherapy session. The woman brought her bed to your house, played gentle music of the mountains, or some such thing, and you forgot to pick the kids up from school? “

“ I know, and it was the last day of school but it was so relaxing and my lumpy muscles all smoothed down and eased with scented oils. When she left I was only going to rest for a few minutes before taking a shower and the next thing I knew I was woken by a persistent phone call from the school. The head and their two teachers could barely contain their anger. I was red in the face from running, panting like mad, my hair scraped back, face etc. all oily God, the teachers weren't happy, last day of school. Two little lost kids, last day of school term.”

“Then you did yoga but couldn't bear the fat people or the body odour or the dusty floor, you couldn't concentrate because of trundling traffic noise; that only lasted three sessions,” said Janet. “After that you enrolled me with you, for a piranha pedicure. My goodness I remember those fish with jutting jaws filled with piratical teeth, circling impatiently. The second that we lowered our feet towards the ravenous swarm, they latched on - hundreds of tiny mouths sucking and nibbling at heels, ankles and in between toes. Feeding off the dead flesh on our feet. Just so we could have perfectly smooth tootsies - ready for summer's peep-toe shoes, flip-flops and those strappy slingbacks. Never again!”” 

“What about the ader -,, averd- you see I still can't pronounce it, “ said Lucy.

“Oh you mean 'ayerverdic therapy'. Is that why you stopped - you couldn't pronounce it.” asked Janet. .”And you only lasted two sessions of Reiki - the stones were too hot and you were sure he was placing stones where stones shouldn't be placed!  Last year's mindfulness therapy. Well first session and chaos in the whole group when a spider lands on your face during meditation and you start screaming. You know, Lucy, you are hopeless!”

“You have to admit,” Lucy laughed, “ I am easy to choose presents for. Remember the orgasmatron. Oh you know, that  head massage device made of minute copper wires attached to the handle of a spider-like contraption, designed to 'gently massage the head and the back of the neck.' I think we only used it once at our new year's party and then not just for heads!”

“Last year it was hagstones, all those white stones with holes through you hung at various windows to bring good fortune. Pity your obese marmelade cat chased a fly and swung the hagstone against the glass.”

“I can't believe how that window shattered (or how expensive it was to replace - or how angry Howard was because it was antique  glass,” added Janet.

“Well the clairvoyant visit was good and we're off next week to Texas, first time since the kids have left home.”

Ten days later Lucy and Howard were in Texas. After a couple of days with family they were spending their first night camping  beside a dried up riverbed. Before settling down for the night she tapped Howard on the shoulder;

  “Howard, Howard - I am just off to the lavatory… and I may be some time, “ she joked.

  Clambering out of the tent she gazed up at the night sky bestrewn with stars.

“ It's just like the psychic predicted,” she mused, “ here I am at my age in this wonderful  wilderness, a dream come true.”  

Feeling the late evening chill she did up the buttons of her long blue cardigan and gingerly followed the leaf-strewn path to the outside toilets. She did not see the copperhead snake lying silent and motionless on the path. She only felt, first pain, then tingling, then a painful throbbing in her foot. She struggled to the rough-hewn wooden toilet cubicle, tottered onto the seat and in the dim light of an eco lamp hanging from the ceiling she saw  the  swelling of her ankle visibly climbing up her calf, felt her muscles in excruciating pain and  she was gradually overtaken by a dreadful nausea. Her copper bracelet was of no use now.

Paula's story:

The metalsmith lived in a small cottage on the edge of town, just steps from a grand and wonderful forest, with his three daughters, Gold, Silver and Copper, and a tiny gray kitten named Pewter.

To mark the birth of each of his children, the metalsmith fashioned a special button out of the material for which they were named. The buttons were quite beautiful, and the girls prized them above everything but their love for their father and for each other.

Gold kept her button under her pillow because, she said, it gave her sweet dreams.

Silver sewed her button into the lining of her coat because, she said, it kept her toasty warm.

Copper threaded her button onto a thin ribbon of black velvet and wore it around her neck because, she said, it kept her father’s love close to her heart.

As the weeks and months passed, Gold and Silver began to notice something odd about Copper. Where the beautiful button lay against her chest, a green circle had begun to form, in the exact shape of the button. Copper scrubbed her skin with a rough cloth, she scratched at the spot with her fingernail, she used a pebble to scrape the circle of color, but to no avail. Her skin remained a lovely shade of green where the button lay against it.

As Copper grew, so did the circle. By the time Copper reached the age of 15, her entire body was a translucent shade of emerald green. Her eyes were green, her hair was green, even the tips of her fingers and toes were green. People came from all over to see The Girl Who Had Turned Green. Copper and her sisters were very gracious, and they offered tea and biscuits to everyone who visited their little cottage. They became known for their kindness and generosity almost as much as for the hue of their sister’s skin.

One day, a grand carriage pulled by four huge, snorting horses thundered into the village, through the gate and straight to the metalsmith’s cottage. When the carriage door opened, a huge man dressed in brocade and jewels stepped out. His shoes had buckles made of diamonds. His belt clasp was made of pearls. His hat sported the finest peacock feathers in all the land. He was the richest, fattest man the sisters had ever seen. He called to the metalsmith, announcing, “I have come for your daughter’s hand in marriage. She will live with me in my castle, and she will want for nothing for the rest of her life. And if you do not agree to let her go, it does not matter, for I shall not take no for an answer. If you try to hide her, I will search far and wide for your gorgeously green daughter for the rest of my days, until I find her and she is mine.”

The metalsmith eyed the man, then looked at his three daughters, his pride and joy and the source of all his happiness. Gold and Silver stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to shield Copper behind them. Copper was terrified by the fat rich man, and horrified at the thought of being torn from her family, her home, everything she loved. The metalsmith thanked the man, and told him that he would talk to his daughter, and it must be her decision. Then he whisked the girls inside the cottage.

“Quick,” he whispered. “Copper, you must undress quickly.” Copper trusted her father, and she did as she was told. As she took off her dress and underthings, her shoes and stockings, her bonnet and hair ribbons, her father continued to talk softly. The three girls listened very carefully, their eyes intent on their father’s face. As he spoke, they began to smile, and Copper even began to take on a bit of a glow. Finally, the metalsmith opened the front door of the cottage, stepped outside alone, and told the rich man, “No.” The rich man was furious. He pushed the metalsmith out of the way and forced his way into the cottage. Inside, he found Gold and Silver, sitting on the hearthrug, peacefully playing with Pewter, the kitten that was by now a cat. There was no one else in the cottage.

For Copper had slipped out of the back door and into the forest, where she disappeared into the wilderness, among the trees and the bushes and the tall grasses, surrounded by the exquisite colors that matched her skin perfectly.

Jackie's story:

Buttons are my passion.   Their history, shape, colour and the way they can change the look of a garment in an instant are all fascinating to me.    A few years ago I went to a place called Briare.    Just an hour and a half from Vezelay in the Loiret department of France. 

  Mosaics, tiles , buttons, beads, and enamels were in production in this town since 1845.  You can see the famous Briare tiles at Orly airport, in the Metro, and in some bathrooms of French homes.  The button production stopped in the 1950’s when the washing machine came into fashion but they continue to manufacture Briare tiles to this day.  The movement of the washing machine caused the porcelain buttons to bang against the sides of the copper  drums and broke the rather fragile material.   Plastic buttons were introduced from that moment on.
 The remaining stock of buttons from the factory were thrown onto a lake behind the manufacture and over the years piles have risen of rejections with small ponds interspersed and remain to this day buried with grit, grime and soil.   I learnt about this pile from a friend with whom I had gone to do a button show in 2010.    As the land where the button heap was located had been bought by someone and this land was attached to his house - it was forbidden to go onto his property.   But …. My friend knew of a way and we climbed through a hole in a wire fence - crawled up and over an abandoned forest like wilderness, round some trees, stepping over ponds and ditches.    With trowel and a bucket (which my friend just happened to have in the boot of her car) we started to dig in the dump which was the size of two football fields, and 20 feet high.  This area is made up entirely of tiles.  We walked over this slippery heap and it was like walking over broken glass stumbling over broken tiles but sometimes whole ones.     I had never imagined in all my dreams seeing such a place.   I was ageless, digging down into the tile covered surface in some spots we came across beads  and china buttons.   The buttons were black, white or blue decorated with red or yellow, green flowers, and a variety of coloured beads.     We happily spent a couple of hours digging away until the sun became too hot and snakes appeared on top of the piles and so we   hastily left.      Not though without a pot full of the most beautiful buttons, beads and some pretty mosaic tiles which I scrubbed clean and used in my workshop.   I have pots of them still today.  This day remained one of the highlights of my working life.      I’ll go back one day in the near future to see what else I can dig up.  

This months theme for our writing group "TASTE"

Jackie's contribution:

Taste
Lily was doing her maths homework.    The assignment was an algebraic problem and she was finding it hard to concentrate and find a solution.    It was already 7pm and she hadn’t had dinner -   Mom was in the next room getting ready to go out. 

Tonight was her Mom Zelda’s first internet date and Lily had pushed her into going.    Looking at the photo together on the internet website a few nights ago they had agreed that the man in question a certain “Steve” looked quite nice and could be just the type of man her mom needed in her life.   Since her parents had divorced,  Lily worried about her Mom.  Her Dad had found a new partner almost immediately and he seemed happy enough.    It was funny Lily thought that her parents happiness was essential to her well being.     Dad had changed since he had met his new companion - more open about things, gave his opinion whereas before he had held back avoiding conflict in the family and more importantly now he was back to cracking his old jokes and laughed a lot.   

 Lily being an only child was perhaps hyper sensitive and only felt comfortable when  Zelda was in a good mood.  These days it wasn’t that often.   Mom in a bad mood meant nothing in the fridge, cigarettes left in the ashtray to leaving a stale smell in the house, wildly coloured oil paintings half finished and empty wine glasses scattered around and drying up like riverbeds.      When Zelda was in depressed mode Lily  often found her when she got home from school, still in her pyjamas, just as if she had got out of bed    - Lily worried then, her school grades dropped,  she sank to the bottom of the class, she stopped eating properly and her best friend avoided her as she was so pre-occupied with herself and her family.

Her Mother had a lot of qualities but as most artists she was an eccentric and the way she dressed sometimes made Lily  feel embarrassed at school events and even walking into town.
 Her clothes were all over the place and if it wasn’t purple trousers with a tartan shirt and fur lined hat on a hot summers day it was a summer dress in the middle of winter with stiletto heels and striped ankle socks in the ice.       

Listening to her Mother get ready for this important night out Lily thought carefully about how she could approach the subject of her dressing more carefully,  putting  colours together, staying casual but smart so as not to frighten off the man in question.     Although listening through the thin partition that separated her bedroom from her mothers she could hear that the dressing process was already well on the go

Mother was humming a song in the next door bedroom - trying to concentrate on her homework she couldn’t help hearing the psst psst  of perfume, the clunk of shoes as they were thrown out of the closet, the rummaging round for a suitable bag and the clank clank of jewellry and she imagined her mom picking and choosing which pair she would wear so she sat calmly waiting to see the outcome.    Her Mom had style that was for sure and she had learnt in college that style meant individuality and she admired her for that even though it was a bit wacky.

The doorbell rang  -OMG  it was “him” and he was early and she hadn’t had time to check out the way her Mom was dressed ….   It was too late now and she watched helpless as Zelda ran downstairs to greet her new date and horrified she caught a  glimpse of her Mother in pink leggings, high heeled sparkly boots and red leather jacket with fringes, dragging a purse by its rhinestone chain down the stairs.   At  the same moment through the glass front door she glimpsed a shadow of purple shades mellowing in yellow and red stripes
Sizing up the purple coat, red trousers and yellow black spotted scarf this man called Steve was wearing;   she knew instinctively that her Mom had met her match.    They had the same taste in clothes that was for sure.




Annemarie's contribution:

Taste

The first taste for most people will have been mother’s milk. No choice really until you begin solids and at an early age you take control over your own eating habits, when can throw your food about, spit it out or squish it around the plate until , hopefully, you learn a few manners. It is surprising how quickly our tastes make themselves known, some of due to culture, some to individual taste.  

Hindu babies progress to  dahl and lentils, African babies to mashed bananas and in our daughter's case her first solids were liver pâté which was all the fashion and being an ignorant mother I had no idea it was far too strong for a little baby. (She is now a vegetarian- I wonder why?) Our son on the other hand had a predilection for Brussels sprouts; it was his first birthday meal and for each following birthday until one day chez his grandmother, having said he loved them, he was served a plate of muddy green coloured objects cooked for 30 minutes, so bitter he never came back to sprouts again. (He is now a dedicated carnivore). Yes, even in families children have wildly different appreciation of meals which have been slaved over a hot stove by their parent. 

A bitter pill, sour grapes - phrases we use to describe unpleasant tasting experiences.  Bitterness is often an indication in nature of poisonous plants and sourness of rotting food and  our evolution was aided by taste, by which we tested the foods. There are people in malarial infested parts of the world who tend to carry a gene which makes them less sensitive to some bitter compounds such as those containing cyanide. Scientists speculate that cyanide ingested at low levels fights malarial parasites without harming the host.

'More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar' - true for flies and in our human world sugar  and salty foods produce positive sensations and are prevalent additives, together with fats, in manufactured foods, leading to global health problems. In nature there is no natural food that combines both fat and salt. Who doesn't love a cheese-melting slice of pizza or a 'Dunkin Donut' oozing raspberry jam?

Of course taste only fully works if the nose cooperates, which explains why as a child my nose was held whilst swedes were ' choo-choo-ed down the track and into the tunnel' that was my objecting mouth. Generally speaking if it smells bad it tastes bad!

 Test and taste - close sounding words but taste is indeed used to test food. 'Just try it, just a little bit,' says mum or dad and a little pink tongue hesitantly pokes out and just touches the morsel on the end of the fork. “Eurrgh! disgusting!” says junior. Yes 'the proof is in the pudding' - you need to taste it to know if it's good or bad even though your nose may be wrinkling for a 'no'.

 Sometimes it is merely the texture, the feel of the food that is repellent. I mean, how can an entire nation savour 'andouillettes'? Not only do they smell repellent (the andouillettes  not the nation!)  but the tubes and bits of mangled innards resemble the remains of the tasty mouse my cat has crunched her way through. And there are worse foods - eyeballs, tripe, trotters, tête de veau and that's just Europe. Be suspicious of funny names! Ladies fingers - why such a name for these slimy morsels of vegetables and Rocky Mountain oysters have never been near the sea, they’re deep-fried testicles of young bulls. A-ping  sounds jolly enough    well it is  fried tarantula on a stick and that’s candy to a Cambodian. If you can't pronounce the food steer well away -   Surstrumming - fermented herring from Sweden and one of the most putrid-smelling foods in the world…. Paula, are you still with us??

You have to feel sorry for a small number of people who suffer from lexical-gustatory synaesthesia. When they hear certain words they experience random and often unpalatable taste associations. One nineteen year old woman tastes rotten food when she hears the word 'puce' or she tastes cement on hearing the word 'thrills'. Too many words and she suffers sensory overload leading to panic attacks.

But 'tastes bad' is not the same  as 'bad taste'. No, not at all  the same thing. Who is the arbiter of what is good or bad taste? Three flying ducks on one's living room wall is considered bad taste by some but  should you be rich enough to acquire it, would hanging the masterpiece  “L'Origine du Monde” by Gustave Courbet, over your mantelpiece constitue good or bad taste? Personally I would rather Courbet's work of art -  spread legs and female genitalia - remained in the Musée d'Orsay, whilst I sat sipping tea with the vicar gazing at three ducks.

Have you ever tut-tutted over a joke in bad taste? Or did you laugh  hysterically? I suppose it depends where and when it's told.

There are amongst us some who have  a taste for chocolate and champagne but others who have a taste for fast cars (or fast women); you may have a taste for opera and ballet whilst others have a taste for dressing up as women or being chained to bedposts. Who knows? 

As the saying goes 'there’s  no accounting for taste.'

"Crossroads" this months theme for our writing group

Jackie's contribution: 

The blast could be heard for miles around at what was called Dipster Junction located in Americas ' Mid West.    The crossroads so named when two main roads both sloped downwards preventing drivers from seeing each other until the very last minute.  

Located in the middle of the prairie there were no stop signs or traffic lights.       
Hearing the terrible explosion farmers, families and villagers stopped cooking New Years Eve dinner -   hosts pouring out champagne to guests hesitated and then celebrations forgotten as people rushed to  windows of their houses and those who had gone to bed early on that evening of the 31st December, not wanting to celebrate the new year, were roused by a horrendous crash at the crossroads.       
Everyone from miles around stopped what they were doing - looked out of their windows, checked their yards and listened and knew instinctively this was serious.  The villagers prepared for the worst.    
Accidents had happened before but as smoke rose from the scene into tornado like spirals and black fumes billowed into the countryside and orange flames reached up to the sky creating massive Guy Fawkes night displays - they feared grim news.
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      Amy crushed  her cigarette on the pavement before catching the elevator to her apartment.    Boyfriend Chris was waiting up for her - arriving late from her weekly yoga class she was happy to get home and pictured her evening with her lover imagining herself relaxing in bubble bath with her last cigarette of the day.    She kissed Chris hello and was surprised at his reaction.   Oh yuk - he exclaimed, I’m so fed up with kissing an ashtray  - this smoking habit of yours is going to ruin our relationship you’ll have to choose between me or your cigarettes.  You probably don’t realise it but your clothes smell of smoke and  mine too.     You should make this your new years resolution Amy - then our relationship can progress .     So vowed to give up she fixed the date of 1st of January  in her mind as this was when she had planned to visit her long lost friend Julie - they were going to spend the evening of the 31st together reminiscing over a bottle of champagne and cheering in the new year.    Her friends home was situated in a remote part of the State,  was the home she had known in her childhood, playmates as children they hadn’t seen each other for  4/5 years.   Chris was to lend her his car - a Golf that had seen better days  but she would drive carefully leaving early to be on time.     He was off to DJ in a club so she was free for the weekend.     Putting all of this to the back of her mind she got on with her holiday preparations.

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 Several hundred miles away Jim checked his car and found a black oily patch underneath the bonnet of his old red Masarati.        OMG he had forgotten the appointment at the garage and he’d spent his salary last Friday night on the blonde bombshell who had winked at him in the bar last week.    So he’d have to wait before he could repair this leak.    Jim was crazy about cars - this one was an old model and had 250,000 kilometres on its clock but he loved the way it revved up and especially the looks he got from the pretty girls as he drove down Main street on a Saturday afternoon.  
He drove home conscious that gas was oozing out from under the petrol tank - and resolved to get it fixed by the 1st of January the day after he was due to drive over to his grandfathers house as he had promised him a check of $400 , a belated birthday present.    It was going to be worth driving 200 kms to pick it up.  Then he’d have enough money to pay for the repairs.   
For the moment though he’d just have to put up with the drip of  petrol.
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On that fated evening of the 31st   December Amy and Jim arrived at the crossroads at exactly the same time - Amy seeing the clock in her car marked 11:58 pm lit one last cigarette, inhaled slowly but deeply - just one more she thought as in 1 minute I shall be finished with smoking for the rest of my life.     She drew the smoke into her lungs,  inhaling deeply, and enjoyed that relaxed feeling she got when the nicotine hit the spot.   
She swallowed the smoke and threw her still lit cigarette out of the car window and it fell onto the road,  a red glow in the dark night….
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Jim’s car had been leaking badly on the way to his grandfathers house.    He sped towards the crossroads -  he couldn’t see the other car coming from the opposite direction as there seemed to be a dip in the road -  he was late anyway the roads were as straight as an arrow and after all there would be no one out at this time of the night on New Years Eve so he didn’t slow down after all - everyone was partying eating drinking champagne - he hurried towards the crossroads and swerved seeing the oncoming light of Amy’s Golf.   Too late he glimpsed a tiny red glow in the middle of the road and too late wished he had attended to that leak…

The gasoline dripping onto the black asphalt caught Amy’s unfinished cigarette  when they collided,  the two cars exploding and destroying the lives of young people not related in any way except by their inadvertence to avoid details and procrastinate . 

Paula's contribution

Vivian was 53 when she stood behind her husband as he sat at his desk in their den one Sunday afternoon and said, “I can’t live like this anymore.”

Her husband swiveled his chair around slowly until he was facing her. “Like what?” he asked.

She stared at him in wonder, this man she had married 30 years ago, when life was full of promise and possibilities. “Let me ask you something,” she said softly. “Are you happy?” He looked away, then down at his desk, then, finally, at her. “I’m content,” he said. “Content,” she repeated. “Content. Is that enough for you?”

“Yes,” he said.

Two weeks later, Vivian moved into a furnished attic apartment, taking her cat and her clothes and her books.

As she settled into this new space, all hers and hers alone, she told herself sternly that this was a good thing. She needed vowed to spend time alone – at least a year -- to find out who she was, to turn up the stereo loudly when she got home from work, to luxuriate in her own company and that of family and good friends, to make decisions about her life without having to consider or consult others.

She filled the days with her consuming work as an art curator at a local museum, and the nights with a new kind of solitude, of her own choosing, a loneliness that she tried to stave off by reading, and wondering, and dreaming of what might have been and what might come next. At her age, she had no illusions of a grand love affair, of excitement and passion and adventure. But she knew she would no longer settle, for a life of polite indifference, for a marriage of benign neglect.

Here’s what Vivian did know: She had to get away. She needed time, and space, away from work, away from this city, away from this life. She would go to Paris, she thought, or New York, a big city where she could lose herself among the bustle of people who didn’t know or care about her or her problems. Or she would go to an island in the Caribbean, where she could lose herself for days under an umbrella in the sand, watching the ever-changing ocean waves in the soft, salty air.

She confided in an old friend, a writer she had known for ages, a man who seemed to always be there at the edges of her life, always just a phone call away, always a ready lunch or cocktail hour companion, someone with whom she had laughed over the silliest things until their stomachs hurt, and with whom she had cried over life’s cruelties until their eyes were red and stinging. She told him she was feeling bruised, and bewildered, and adrift.

“Look,” he said to her. “This might sound fantastic, but I think it could be exactly what you need.” He was leaving in a few days for a month in Australia, he told her, doing press interviews for his latest book. “When all that stuff is over,” he said, “I’m meeting some dear friends, and we’re going into the Outback for a few weeks of camping and hiking and swimming. You’d like them, and I know they will love you.”

Australia. A land 153 hours away by plane. A land so vast and wide that you could lose yourself in it – and maybe, find yourself, again. A land where even the stars across the night sky were different from the ones she was used to.

She was afraid to think too hard or too long about his offer and all that it might mean. Here was a man she cared about, and who cared about her, offering her a chance to go to the other side of the world, with him, to a place far, far from her troubles. And Yet, there waswhat about the promise she had made to herself to take a year to just … be?. Going off to Australia, with even the smallest hope of romance, seemed to be an explicit break with that promise, a risk of a different kind.

But here’sHere’s what Vivian did know: She laughed when she was with this man. She felt like her best self when she was with him. When she was with him, she felt safe.

She scheduled vacation time at work. She arranged for a cat sitter. She arrived at the airport, with one bag and three books. As she sat at the gate, fighting off all the questions in her head, her flight was called for boarding.

Here’s what Here’s what Vivian could could not possibly know: T: That when she finally arrived in Perth, the writer would be there at the gate, waiting for her, heart in his throat and tears in his eyes as he watched her walk toward him.

What she did know is that she had made a decision, to put aside her reservations and her reasons, to embrace her hope, and carry it across the ocean. She couldn’t know this, but she could hope.

She stood, shouldered her bag, took a deep breath, and walked onto the plane.

Annemarie's story

Crossroads. (Annemarie)

This was her first day back working after a seven year break.  Jo looked at her son as he gulped down some cereals. At fourteen, dark-haired Alex was already taller and leaner than his father and he towered over his mother.  She turned her gaze on six year old Martha , slowly munching on her cornflakes, her corn coloured hair unbrushed and tumbling round her face, she was short and petite in complete  contrast to her big brother.  

Jo had no regrets about having been an at-home mum; Alex and Martha were two happy, well-adjusted children and as a family they enjoyed each other’s company, camping at the weekends or trekking in blustering winds on some coastal path.
All the same  she was looking forward to starting work at the high school, filling in for an absentee art teacher. Who knew where it might lead.
Breakfast finished Alex took himself off to school while Jo hastily loaded the dishwasher and then took Martha to school and waited with her until her school bell went, then she hurried across town to prepare for her first art lesson in seven years.

Taking a deep breath she followed a rowdy group of fourteen-year old boys and girls into the classroom. One boy in particular, caught her attention but why she couldn’t say but somewhere she felt a little niggle. A few days later he was sent to her for a minor misdemeanour and again there was a disconcerting niggle, a 'deja vu', when reprimanding the same  mop-headed lad. Somehow his mannerisms seemed familiar - just the way he picked his school bag up, the way he walked in a rather determined manner, even his expression. Then, as though struck in the stomach she realised it was Peter, her husband he reminded her of - not just his mannerisms but physically as well - short and muscular, unruly fair hair, the slight downturn of his mouth when he smiled.

She dismissed immediately the briefest of fleeting suspicions. She and Peter had always had a strong and loving marriage. It must just be a coincidence. She could not even consider the possibility; after all the boy was the same age as Alex and surely Peter couldn't have been conducting a secret affair when she was pregnant. They had both been so content, excited, in fact deliriously happy about their first baby. 

 Two weeks later the same boy, Josh Baines, skidded on paint on the art room floor and suffered a bad cut above his eye. Jo cleaned it up as best as possible, blood  staining her cardigan in the process.  He would really have to go home so after a quick phone call to his mother she drove the boy there.

The door was opened by a worried Mrs Baines to an even more startled Jo. She could barely  take her eyes off the woman as they led Josh into the sitting room.  Turning hurriedly to leave Jo caught sight of a family photo - a tall, dark-haired father, tall elegant mother and in front of the parents short muscular Josh next to his slender younger brother. The brief thought that he might be adopted was quickly followed by an intensely more frightening realisation. She turned, her hand poised on the door knob.

'Have you always lived in this area?” she asked Mrs Baines.
“Oh no. We only recently returned from overseas. “
Jo visibly relaxed and was about to open the door when Mrs Baines added,
“However, when we were first married my husband's firm was based here. In fact Josh was born here - you could say my son's come home.”
“So was my son. In Westfield Hospital.” said Jo.
“What à coïncidence! That's where Josh was born!”exclaimed Mrs Baines.
With a tremor in her voice Jo stuttered 'goodbye' sped home somewhat erratically, her mind in turmoil, took off the blood-stained sweater, put it carefully in a plastic bag, put on a clean sweater and returned to school, her brain churning with dreadful possibilities. Was Josh their son? And Alex - was he really Alex Baines? Josh who looked so like her husband and Alex the spitting image of Mrs Baines. You heard of hospital mix-ups. She had to know if Josh was her birth son but she said nothing to anybody, not even to Peter.

Friday she called in sick to school.  She raced around the house in a blind panic, hardly knowing what she was doing and with samples of hair carefully bagged and labelled from Peter, herself and Alex and the stained sweater in the plastic bag, she set off first to see Mrs Baines - after all she would be as anxious to know the truth and she would need her cooperation for hair samples and then she would drive to the Alpha laboratories in London.  She was not really sure what she needed or quite how to go about getting a DNA test.

Desperately trying to think what she would say to Mrs Baines she turned into Whiteleafe Road.  There was a long queue at the crossroads; a van broken down and behind it a stream of cars and an inordinate wait. Hands resting on the steering wheel, her mind in a turmoil, she considered the situation; what would happen to both families should a DNA test prove a hospital mix-up? How would effect the other members of the family? Now nobody else had the faintest inkling and she could, after all, be completely wrong. Ten minutes later she, her hands sweaty, her heart pounding she still had no idea how to approach Josh's mother.

A car horn hooting shattered  her thoughts. Quickly she started the engine, indicated to turn right, direction of the Baines' home, but on reaching the crossroads she continued straight on, oblivious of the shaking fists and horns from other motorists. As tears fell down her cheeks she headed home. Tomorrow she would hand in her notice and find another job this side of town. Now she was going home to her family.

Betrayal September 2018

Paula's story:

Stix and George arrived at the medium-security prison outside Davenport, Iowa, two days apart. After George was processed in to the prison, he was ushered into a cell. Stix was sitting on the top bunk, his long legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. George dropped his prison-issued bundle – towel, sheet, blanket – onto the bottom bunk and sat down with a sigh.

The cell was predictably Spartan: the set of bunk beds, a toilet, a small sink against one wall, a slit of a window high up on the opposite wall. Ten paces from wall to wall.

Stix was in on a charge of manslaughter. He had been the lookout during a liquor store robbery that went horribly wrong when the clerk reached under the counter and Stix’s buddy shot him, right in the face. Stix’s buddy was tried for murder and got a life sentence; Stix pleaded out and pulled 15 years.

George, who supported himself through a string of burglaries in his hometown, got six years after one particular rainy night, when, just outside a house’s gate, with his sack of loot slung low over his shoulder, he slipped in a mud puddle at the edge of the road, fell and broke his wrist, just as a deputy sheriff rounded the corner in a squad car.

The two men settled into the routine of prison life: sleep, eat, walk around the dusty yard for 30 minutes, eat, bed check, sleep. They learned to avoid the more sadistic of the guards, but they both kind of liked Andy, the guard most often assigned to their cellblock. Andy was the warden’s brother-in-law, and he seemed to be a nice guy, not too invested in his job, nor in the plight of the prisoners. He was usually good for a cigarette, and he had a way of treating the convicts with something close to dignity.

Prison life was boring in its day-to-day sameness. Between meals, confined to the small cell, George often paced the floor, from bars to window, although the slit of sunlight was too high on the wall for the shorter man to be able to see out. From his bunk, Stix could watch the sky, and he would tell George every morning if the day was cloudy, or clear, or threatening with rain clouds. Sometimes at night, Styx, who at 6-foot-5 and beanpole-thin, seemed to be unable to keep his feet from hanging off the edge of his bunk. George often bumped his head on them when he got up in the middle of the night to take a leak. At least Stix, in all his leanness, didn’t cause his mattress to sag down into George’s bunk space, but all the same, the worn mattress springs creaked through the night with every turn of Stix’s frame.

An antidote to boredom was the escape game that George invented for the two of them. The men played it endlessly, whispering to each other about how they would do it, where they would do it, when they would do it. After a few months, the game ended and the planning began. Use the bunk beds to disguise a hole in the floor, exposing a shallow tunnel leading out to the yard. Time the run across the yard to the fence against the guards’ routines. Cut a piece of the wire fencing in the yard, not so you could tell, but just enough to bend the wires and squeeze through. Cut through the second fence that was a few feet from the cornfields on two sides of the prison. There would be plenty of good hiding in the cornfields.

Every day through that summer, George hid in his palm a makeshift razor, scored on a trade of a dozen girly magazines, and rocked against one spot of the fence during their allotted 30 minutes out in the yard. Sometimes he rocked slowly; other times he sped up to edge the blade sharply against the wire. The guards took to calling his antics, “George’s rain dance,” and didn’t pay him any more mind than that.

Stix had a small pair of nail clippers, missing the nail file, that he sharpened with George’s blade every night after lights out. That would make the cut at the second fence.

And for several hours every night, they would take turns under George’s bunk, shifting dirt from the hole in the floor into their extra pairs of socks, which they would empty into the dusty yard every noon.

Three nights that summer, in the space of two weeks, the men made practice runs, ending at the first fence, where they tested the flexibility of the cut wire. Their confidence grew each time.

They planned their escape for the night of laundry day. Their freshly cleaned clothes would leave less scent for the dogs to track, they figured. And as soon as they reached the cornfield, they would part ways, so the guards and dogs would have to split up, too.

They went over the plan, 10 times, 20 times, 30 times. They knew there was a risk of a guard varying his routine, but after their practice runs, that didn’t seem likely. Prison routine was prison routine, for the guards as well as the inmates, after all.

After supper on laundry day, George got a stomach ache. It’s just nerves, Stix reassured him. George laid on his bunk, taking deep breaths. Two hours after bed check and lights out, they shook hands, squeezed under George’s bunk and slipped into the shallow tunnel. Stix slid ahead easily, but the going was slower for George. Finally, he could no longer tell how far ahead Stix was.

Stix made good time, not giving a thought to the man behind him in the narrow tunnel. He scurried across the yard, squeezed through the first fence, dashed across the darkened no man’s land, and cut the second fence easily. He dropped to his belly and crawled the few feet to the safety of the cornfield. As he plunged into the tall stalks of corn, he pulled up short. There, standing between Andy and several other armed guards, was George.

As the guards cuffed Stix, shackling his feet for good measure, and led him away to solitary, Stix wailed, “Why did you do it, George? Why’d you turn me in?”

George looked at Stix and a slow smile spread across his face. He said: “I wanted the top bunk.”

Angie's story:

Emma loved her amateur dramatic group and almost all the people in it with the exceptions of a rather opinionated and boorish ex army man , a founder member who was past his sell by date and  Sally, a young and rather  beautiful young lady who was not surprisingly much in demand. Rumour had it that she was in fact seeing someone and not a single someone, hence the secrecy.

Ironic then that they should be about to start rehearsals for the famous Pinter Play ‘Betrayal’ arguably one of his best and inspired by his seven year long affair with Joan Bakewell.

Emma was lying in bed pondering these thoughts with a cup of tea which had been deposited next to her by John on  his way out to work and delivered with the cursory peck and good wishes for the day trotted out each morning with perfunctory ease.

She in turn lifted her cheek,  returned the sentiment and opened her iPad, checking the day’s emails before taking a shower, dressing and downing a yoghurt all in her usual record time of 1O minutes  before grabbing her bag, locking the door, climbing into her car and heading out into the already congested traffic.

As she drove she reflected on how long it had been since she was  consciously aware of her loss of feeling for her husband.
Had it been there before Terry had begun to show more than a passing interest in her school drama productions.
Or had she still thought herself as content in her marriage as any other of her friends of similar age where time children and careers had all taken their toll on what had once been a hot bed of desire and a longing to please the beloved.

This she knew was the stuff of dramas. The pattern of marital fluctuation, waxing and waning recharging and drifting into times of annoyance or loss of respect or frustration or perhaps the worst total apathy.

Had she actually arrived at this point. She supposed so. In the four years she had been with Terry she had found her ideal man.
Not conventionally good looking or wealthy but he made her laugh constantly, made her feel special and was generous to a fault. John by contrast had become more introvert, more business aware and less sociable as the yers had gone by.

From watching her school productions Terry had finally joined Sally’s dramatic group just to see more of her and had discovered an innate talent for acting that he would never have known he possessed.
Before long their clandestine meetings began and they became lovers.

So here they were, Sally and Terry in this latest production cast as the two central characters Emma and Jerry the best friend of Emma’s husband Robert.
Here real life and drama parted company since John had only met Terry fleetingly at the odd end of term do at Sally’s school. Did that make it slightly less bad that she was not betraying John with his best friend (actually did he even have a best friend?)
Terry seemed able to justify their relationship and while not wanting to hurt his own wife who seemed oblivious, continued to enjoy his family,  two children in late teenage whom he was adamant he could not hurt in any way since he felt a breakup was traumatic at any age.This of course stopped Sally harbouring any thoughts of a fuller relationship at the moment.

Sooner than usual, the inner city school gates hove into view and Sally braced herself for a day of non stop stress interspersed with glimpses of Terry, usually in sports kit and heading for the playing fields, with a raffle taggle of semi willing participants trailing behind in various degrees of sports attire.

The day passed in the usual melee of classes, marking and meetings with other heads of departments. Problems with difficult pupils always loomed large and Sally was grateful that her subject was English and drama which meant lots of chances for free expression and letting of steam.
She hadn’t really had a chance to speak to Terry even in the staff room at coffee time.Lunch was always full on for both of them with various clubs and for Terry away games and practises.

So tonight at rehearsal would be a wonderful chance to catch up a little and maybe, as they sometimes did, if it was an early finish, leave separately and drive to a nearby secluded wooded area where they could spend a precious half hour or so alone together.

She got home in time to throw together a pasta salad before John arrived looking distracted.A successful business did not come without many stresses and demands on his time and energy. A weekly game of squash was one way of unwinding and he wandered upstairs to change saying he’d eat later.
Sally ate while catching up on the news and then took a leisurely shower luxuriating in the hot stream of water embracing her body hoping that later Terry might appreciate that smooth warm perfumed skin.

When she arrived at the rehearsal room, people were already milling a bout clutching scripts and chatting animatedly.There was a feeling of expectation in the air as always at the start of a new play.

Sally was there of course, surrounded by various admirers and explaining why, this time she was not taking the lead part since inevitably it must go to a more mature woman.
They were  all finally brought to order by Bruce, the director for this production and a mainstay of the group.
Chairs were pulled noisily into a circle and Emma and  Terry were seated next to each other as the two lead characters.it was infact a very small cast but everyone liked to be involved  from the start, props, lighting, scenery etc.
The read through went quite well and Emma enjoyed the chance to speak lines to Terry that seemed ironically, so familiar to her, as they discussed their secret love, their ongoing affair and the need to be discreet.
In the play, the lovers were actually able to buy a flat for their clandestine meetings and Emma felt a twinge of envy knowing Terry would never be able to afford such a thing on a teacher’s salary.
Afterwards, as people began to chat amongst themselves Emma noticed that Terry was in earnest discussion with Sally. She thought little of it but was a bit surprised that there should be much to discuss with Emma having no part.
She waited for him to come over to her as usual and suggest a rendezvous.
When she finally caught his eye she read something chilling in his expression. It flitted across his face and was gone but she recognised in that split second something she never thought to see, guilt.
He touched Sally’s arm lightly to excuse himself and came across to Emma. The nonchalant posture was back and apparent attentiveness but Emma had seen in those looks and in that touch the thing that she thought was hers had slipped away.Sally might not have a part in the play but her new role would be the prize.
Her secret lover was indeed not single as everyone knew, but only Emma could see who it really was.
Whether or not she could now play the lover would test her acting skills to the limit and her broken heart so much more.
For her, betrayal had become reality.

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Jackie's story


November fog had dumped itself in the apple orchard obscuring the usual fabulous views of rolling hills, rose bushes and marigolds.   Mavis had just returned from the train station after dropping off her sister who’d been on a weekend visit from Paris.    The house still lingered of her signatory perfume.     They had had a fun weekend, but all that talk of the bustling rue Faubourg de St Honoré, the Champs Elysees, Paris cafés and the girly lunches Mavis realised she dearly missed her old life.   Her sister on the other hand seemed preoccupied and stressed and she had caught her once or twice foraging in cupboards and an old chest of drawers.     

  As Mavis adjusted her reading glasses she pinched the tendrils of wiry  grey hair that framed her face.      Oouch  - she felt a drop of blood behind her ear and felt slightly dizzy.    -  Surprised,  she discovered they were not her usual glasses but some she had found in the kitchen drawer.  Absent-mindly she set them aside for her own blue ones. 
  
Her partner of 10 years had died suddenly last year - one minute getting on the metro in Paris for a conference and the next speeding in an ambulance to the Hopital Val de Grace with cardio arrest.     Ten years of bliss and he had left her totally destitute.    As is the custom in France no matter how many years you live with someone you do not automatically inherit from them.  There had been no pacs agreement and no marriage. 

So there she was a few weeks after the accident his two children claiming their beautiful and comfortable apartment and she out on the streets with only a tiny cottage in the deepest part of rural Ardeche to go to.   Luckily she had kept this inherited tiny country property and was now safe in the knowledge that no one could claim it
After a year living in a state of disbelief and shock Mavis was finally  beginning to take control of her life again
Her labrador puppy had been a great help and it was due to his playful behaviour that on this  particular dreary morning she discovered something that sent her emotions into a terrible turbulence and fired her into revenge.

Puppy was scratching at an old desk , the one thing that she had salvaged from her previous home with her partner.   Being too painful to examine it before today she opened the drawers.    Papers, bills and notebooks spilt onto the carpet in a river of past times and one small leather moleskin bound notebook caught her eye.

It was unmistakably a diary,  the red leather cover was crackled, worn and had obviously been manipulated a lot.   The binding so creased, bent and crinkled it created patterns like a Vasarely painting.   A page opened and upon seeing “his” writing a tidal wave of memories flooded her mind and she felt  an undercurrent of emotions;   rivulets of tears poured from her heart.  

  She couldn’t help but read the letter that fell out of the diary with a whiff of perfume that seemed familiar “my darling, I cannot be with you tonight as planned - by the way, did you give Mavis the reading glasses?     You must,  then we can be free to be together     … I’ll see you tomorrow usual time usual place” 

 Flipping back through the pages Mavis discovered other letters, with poems and scribbling.    Familiar handwriting all addressed to “My darling,  my soon to be husband…” and dating back through the ten years Mavis and her partner had been together.
She had been mourning all these time for a man who had cheated on her, never cared for her, or admitted to having another love -all those trips he took to Amsterdam, London and New York time away from her he had been fleeing to someone else. -   her love turned to hate in several minutes.   But the tables had turned for him and it was he who was the victim not her.    Now it was her turn to get even.

Intrigued by the reading glasses she had retrieved that morning and upon examining them found a very small needle on the left branch;  the bit that went over the ear which must have pinched her - Mavis was alerted as she had always thought her partners death was suspicious.  The pharmacy confirmed traces of poison  - deadly enough when fresh to send a shock to the heart and cause death.   So the glasses were meant for her after all but by mistake had been used by her companion.  Pretending medical reasons she ordered some more of the deadly venom.

  … trembling with emotion she went online to buy her train ticket.    

Mme Martin next door was given strict instructions not to feed the dog too many biscuits and she packed a bag.   
;;
Arriving in front of the apartment building she composed herself - was she really prepared to do what she had planned - was betrayal worth all this ?    

“I’ve been waiting for you, you took your time to find out but now you know.” 

“I just came to return these to you Mavis said thrusting the glasses onto her sisters face and pressing them onto her head firmly - 

 “Put them on,  you’ll need them to read your prison sentence”


______________________________________

Annemarie's story:

Betrayal
Tony had been out of work for over well nine months but each morning, he took the train into London dressed in his suit and freshly laundered shirt, just as he used to when he worked.
The family had stopped eating out, there were no more holidays abroad and they had all cut back on personal spending. Tony even suggested Melanie's beloved cat should go (to someone else or cat heaven, she was not sure which he meant). Melanie's salary (self employed aromatherapist) paid for everything. At the weekend she took the boys for walks, foraging and blackberry-picking  and then spent time  making jams and chutneys. The household chores she finished late at night , before falling into bed exhausted.  When her friend asked why Tony could not do some of the chores, particularly ironing his shirts, Melanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she replied:
“Well, the poor man, he's already been made redundant and to ask him to iron - well that would be a little demeaning for him. He's never had to do housework, he doesn't even feed the cat, wouldn't have a clue how much to give it let alone cook a meal for us.”
Melanie's friend sighed. It saddened and angered her to see Melanie working her fingers to the bone at home, whilst Tony spent money on daily train fares to avoid their wealthy friends knowing he had no work, then returning home ill tempered and critical.
It was a far cry from the affluent life they had led when he'd worked for a high-end property magnate involved in London’s theatre land. They were the golden couple  - Tony regaling their friends with the latest luvvie scandals and Melanie with her big brown eyes, her glorious  auburn hair, in  her designer dresses,and to quote Germaine Greer, “fuck  me shoes” all chosen by Tony.
'Were' being the operative word. No longer did Melanie get invited to cosy coffee mornings  (after all she had her ironing to do), or join the 'ladies who lunch ' in chic little restaurants and no longer did they go to smart dinner parties (after all her clothes were all last year's models). She did, however, get called upon to make house visits with her aromatherapy table and to give foot massages.
Having decided Melanie needed a day out, away from London and having dropped their children off at school the women drove out to Amersham, its quaint high street lined with black and white timbered buildings jutting over the pavements. They browsed the shops, sometimes trying on clothes but each time Melanie declined buying anything - “ I couldn't. Poor Tony would be devastated if I spent money on myself when we have so little coming in.”
After a leisurely lunch, and several glasses of wine, Melanie was more like the old Melanie her friend remembered from art college.
“Before we go to visit the garden let's look at the gallery across the road - Tony is never interested in anything like that.”
The gallery was empty apart from a bespectacled middle-aged man behind an antique desk, apparently engrossed in a book. They sauntered round, Melanie happy and slightly wobbly after her rather liquid lunch. Then she stopped stock still before a large modern painting, mesmerised.
“Oh!” she exclaimed “just look at those colours. Look at the the way it draws you right in! I would so love to have that, I would never tire of it.”

 The man at the desk quickly roused himself, approached the women and with an obsequious air he said,
“You have great taste. Romane Albers, greatly inspired by Georges Braques and

becoming  internationally recognised. This painting has only recently come onto the market and likely to go very quickly as there is a huge demand for his work.”

Melanie gazed at the painting. She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted this painting. Glowing and content after her meal she imagined, she dreamed of, owning such a painting.

“Why don’t you treat yourself,” said her friend, “you work hard enough and you have your little inheritance tucked away.  You'll never have a chance like this again.”

A little more persuasion from the art dealer, a little more “you deserve. It” from her friend and in no time Melanie was the proud owner of a Romane Albers painting and her bank balance reduced by the sum of £4,575.

When she arrived home with a slightly clearer head, panic set in. How on earth would she explain her new acquisition to Tony. He would be furious. No matter that it cost less than his golf club fees (after all how else was he to network?) She would just have to hide it for the time being, wait for a better time, wait for when Tony had his new job. She would hide it in what should be her art studio but was in fact her ironing room since she had no time to indulge in painting and Tony never, never went near the ironing.

Having hastily stashed it in the room she shut the door and hurried off to pick up the boys, rushed back home and begin the evening meal. Tony arrived home in bad humour and poured himself a whisky and Melanie moved gingerly around fearful of rousing his anger. Meanwhile a feint meowing could be heard; it grew ever louder and demanding and Melanie called:

“Someone please see to the cat. I'm busy at the stove”. Seconds later she heard Tony yell:

“ Melanie, come here! “.

Too late she realised the cat had been shut in her studio. Tony's face was red with fury as he gazed at the painting or rather the price ticket still attached. Trembling she looked first at Tony then at her escaping cat , her cat who had betrayed her.