69236538256563

I was their target because I was socially unacceptable, and so they did everything they legally
could: they publicly lanced me with words which were written, examined and edited, each process
carefully honing them in a calculated effort to push people’s buttons once they were published, to
froth up public opinion around them so that my situation could titillate others, could thrill and bolster
the minds of the smug and judgemental. Schadenfreude. Conservatism. Better the worst happens to
somebody else, because, quite frankly, they must have done something to deserve it.
And they felt entitled to do that, these so called ‘thinkers’, as they sat comfortably behind their
desks with their reference books and their own unexamined moral compass, because I was nothing to
them. Ben and I were simply the commodity that would sell their papers, nothing more. And these
were the very papers that I used to read, that I used to carry down the road from the shop and bring
into my home.
It was cowardly, yellow journalism, and I knew that. The problem was, knowing it wasn’t enough
to stop every single word from chipping away any final scraps of self-respect or dignity that I might
have had left. I was only human, after all.
And I suppose I’m interested now to know whether it troubles you to read these things, to know that
the rug you’re standing on so securely can be whipped out from under your feet rapidly and
completely? Or do you feel safer than that? Do you assume that your foundations are more secure than
mine, and that my situation is too extreme to ever befall you? Have you noted the moments when I
made mistakes that you might have avoided? Do you imagine that you would have behaved with a
more perfect maternal dignity in my situation, that you would be unimpeachable? Perhaps you
wouldn’t have been stupid enough to lose your husband in the first place.
Be careful what you assume, is what I’d say to that. Be very careful. I should know. I was married
to a doctor once.
I’m also interested to know how uncomfortable you feel now. Whether you’re regretting our
agreement. Remember the roles we allocated each other? Me: Ancient Mariner and Narrator. You:
Wedding Guest and Patient Listener. Do you wish you could shuffle away yet? Refill your glass
perhaps? Now that my grip is loosening whose side are you on? Mine, or theirs? How long will you
stay with the underdog, given that she’s so beaten now, so unattractive? Displaying here and there
signs of mental instability.
If I were to make a final bid to keep your attention I suppose I would say that if it troubles you to
hear these things from me, to witness my descent, then perhaps you can take heart from the fact that it
pains me very, very deeply to confess them.
When, finally, the darkness outside my studio began to dissolve that morning, I pulled my chair
away from the computer, tore my horrified eyes from the screen. With ice-cold fingers I pulled my
dressing gown around me and I watched the grainy night contours of my garden morph slowly into a
strangely lit morning where the rising sun tinted the pendulous clouds so that they were not entirely
black, but coloured instead with bruised fleshy tones, burnished in places. It was the kind of light that
nobody would mistake for hope.
Back in the kitchen, it felt as though I was meeting my possessions after an absence. I boiled the
kettle, and realised that I hadn’t done that myself for days, because Nicky had done everything.
Almost out of curiosity I opened the fridge, having no idea what was in it, and found cooked meals, in
labelled containers, prepared by Nicky before she left, and half a pint of fresh milk.
At the kitchen table, warming slowly as the heating in the house cranked up around me with its
familiar clicks and clonks, I began to look at Ben’s schoolbooks.
There were five of them. There wasn’t a great deal of work in each one as it was so early in the