“There is an insult I cannot overlook,” Miriam announced “In the way that men behave towards women.” “Keep dreaming, Linda,” Jenny snorted, kicking a heel over the ashpit of her ex-boyfriend, who by now would be in St Austell with the girl he had dumped her for.
“Professional Woman, mid-forties, seeks Prince Charming for Fairytale Endings/Heroic Rescues/Castles in the Air. It was from the page which ran the personals ads, a drab little daydream of a sentence, ending in a smear where the phone number should have been. I pulled a shred out with my fingers and read aloud the two lines of text which had not been scorched beyond comprehension. The failing sunlight illuminated twists of ash and charred pieces of the newspaper we had used as kindling. In the drifting dusk, we picked through the debris of the fire with cereal spoons burned husks of photo paper, the plastic-coated lace of a tennis shoe which had failed to catch alight.
Catching me looking, she shrugged and held her hands out – two palmfuls of diamonds, as though she had clawed them out of the earth. After hanging up, she sat for a moment in silence, twisting each of her rings halfway round her fingers so the gemstones faced inwards. She wore green velvet loafers year-round, pinned her hair in the shape of a pumpkin, spoke like her teeth were made of glass. Someone had once told Miriam that she looked like Princess Anne and this throwaway comment had come, over time, to form the basis of her whole personality. “Well I’m sorry that you’ve had to close your windows, Mrs Adams, but that’s the price one pays for catharsis.” She held the phone slightly away from herself, as ever unwilling to touch the earpiece for fear of infection. When the neighbours called to complain about the smell, Miriam told them with great dignity that we were purging ourselves of evil spirits. This was the last of them, the final dramatic gesture. Miriam dragged her away at last and smoothed her palms with aloe vera, talking a circle of taut affirmations – you’ll feel better – he wishes – doesn’t know what it is he’s lost. The pads of her fingers were mottled yellow, barbecue-black around the nails.
Jenny held her hands over the flames – a bonfire of the final boyfriend – photographs with eyes scratched out, a note he had written on a napkin, the grisly confetti of toenail clippings she had pulled from the bathroom bin. We burned what we could of Simon Jenkins in a pit at the end of the garden.
0 kommentar(er)
