The Queen's Margarine by Wendy Perriam

intimate pink streaks, while even the leaves seemed lasciviously moist and fleshy.
    â€˜Mind if I get on with my coursework now?’ Susanna asked, finishing her last spoonful of dessert. ‘Miss Barrett said I should have added a bibliography and several more quotations, to back up what I’ve said.’
    â€˜No, go ahead. I’ll wash up and Daniel can wipe.’
    â€˜That’s not fair! Why is it always me?’
    â€˜Because you haven’t got exams,’ his sister retorted, pushing back her chair and flouncing out of the room.
    â€˜I’ve got coursework, though, just the same as her. Mum, let me off tonight – go on!’
    â€˜All right.’
    â€˜Want me to help?’ asked Rodney, unconvincingly. He, too, had left the table, but was already headed for the sofa, with his wineglass and The Times .
    Claire shook her head, relieved to be alone, in fact, so that she could fix her mind on Fergus. She’d been hoping – indeed praying, despite her lack of any fixed belief – that he’d show up at the library again, but his continued absence posed a real dilemma. If she phoned him, as he’d asked, she might give the impression of being ready (indeed eager) to be ‘ravished’, yet if she didn’t ring, he might well feel rejected, or offended by her rudeness in failing to thank him for the flowers. And those flowers were omnipresent. They had filled four separate vases, so she seemed to be confronted by him everywhere she went. Even in the kitchen, their once tight-furled leaves leaned eagerly towards her, as she began the washing-up, as if to say, ‘Take a risk. Take a chance. What have you to lose?’
    Her family, for one thing. If she involved herself with Fergus, the affair was bound to be discovered, and she might land up in the divorce court, branded an unfit wife and mother. Yet, if she held back for the children’s sake, those children would soon fly the nest – Susanna to university; Daniel to some job or other. No one left but her and Rodney, repeating the same tired platitudes in a now half-empty house.
    All at once, she strode back to the living-room, dish-mop still in hand. Rodney was lying on the sofa, his paunch all too apparent as he sprawled against the cushions. Only since meeting Fergus, had she noticed just how old he seemed – indeed, older than his fifty-five years. The frown lines on his forehead appeared to have bred and multiplied in just the last few days, and his once robust hair was now thinning so pathetically, patches of his freckled scalp were visible beneath.
    â€˜Rodney,’ she said, ‘let’s go out.’
    â€˜Go out?’ he repeated, turning round to stare at her. ‘What now, you mean?’
    â€˜Yes, why not? We never do anything spontaneous. The kids are old enough to manage on their own, yet we’re always stuck indoors, glued to some stupid soap.’
    â€˜We went out on Saturday.’
    â€˜Only to that ghastly do. Where’s the fun in sitting still for hours, listening to dreary speeches?’
    â€˜Claire, you know perfectly well we have to support Drugscope,if only out of duty. It may mean a few dull evenings, but that’s a small price to pay for the marvellous work they do.’
    â€˜But they’re all such stuffed shirts – worthy and po-faced. I almost died of boredom.’
    â€˜What’s got into you, for heaven’s sake? Those people are really decent – unselfish and committed and—’
    â€˜OK, keep your hair on! But, reverting to this evening, why don’t we go dancing? It’s ages since we—’
    â€˜Because I’m shattered, Claire – that’s why. I couldn’t dance if you paid me.’
    Fergus could dance. She could see him in her mind, frisking among the tulips; dancing with her – all day and all night, without flagging – leaping and cavorting until they collapsed, not from