The Queen's Margarine by Wendy Perriam Page B

fetters and let them breathe. But these tulips were true mavericks and, as each day passed, became more and more unbridled; now splaying out their petals in the most licentious manner; pushing their brazen faces almost into hers. Scentless when they first arrived, they had even developed a smell: a musky odour – rank and frank and sexual, as if they were using every wile to get themselves – well, ravished.
    She glanced from their orange tumult to the photos on the sideboard: her family reproving her; reminding her that, as wife and mother, it was utterly reprehensible to be thinking of another man. Deliberately, she went over there, fixing her attention on the photos, as if, that way, she could ground herself in duty and fidelity. But her eye was caught not by pictures of her own kids, but by a snapshot of herself as a child, neatly dressed in school dress and clean white socks, and demurely holding both her parents’ hands. In fact, she had been a wild child, unruly and obstreperous, but that side of her had been ruthlessly suppressed by a disciplinarian father and strict, God-fearing mother. Yet some tiny but determined part of that pulped and trampled tomboy seemed to be alive still, clamouring and fizzing just below the surface.
    Well, she must murder it again – cold-bloodedly, remorselessly – to save herself from danger. And there was another, equal danger that she might be making a total fool of herself. Suppose Fergus had simply penned his note as a crazy bit of poet-speak – something he’d regretted ever since? After all, why should he want to bed a woman fifteen years his senior?
    Except she was no longer forty-four, but going on fourteen. Everything inside her was in ferment, like the tulips; begging to be noticed, begging to be touched. And, soon, it would be too late – this one chance lost for ever. In just a few more days, these flowers would fade and shrivel, sag and wilt, close up; fit only for the dump. And she herself would slowly limp towards stagnation and sterility.
    All at once, the phone rang. Fergus, she thought, darting over to pick it up. Tired of waiting for her call, he’d decided to ring her . The prospect was so overwhelming, she could barely find her voice to say hello.
    â€˜Claire, it’s Jenny Kirkland. Sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if I could rope you in to help with—’
    Immediately, she put the phone down, hoping Jenny would assume they’d been cut off. She wouldn’t help. Not with any more good causes or tedious, worthy charities. Not with charity fêtes or school bazaars. Not with Rotary or Mencap or Age Concern or Drugscope. And, suddenly, impulsively, she dialled a number herself, to prevent Jenny ringing back – a number she had no right to dial; a number she was mad to dial; wicked and immoral to dial; an action she would most definitely regret.
    â€˜Hi, Fergus here. Who’s that?’
    â€˜It’s Claire,’ she said, in a voice she didn’t recognize – the brazen voice of the tulips, flaunting and flirtatious and refusing to be gagged. ‘I just thought I’d let you know that …’ For one split second, she lost her nerve; had to hold her breath in an agonizing pause, but, screwing up her courage, she pictured Fergus naked in a flushed and frenzied fanfare of ardent orange flowers, and continued in a rush, ‘I’m ready to be ravished any time you care to choose.’

Repair
    â€˜Washing-machine repair, ma’am.’
    Angela stared in disbelief at the tall, gangling man standing on the doorstep. Slowly she registered each detail: the thick, unruly hair, the colour of ripe straw; the wary, long-lashed eyes, somewhere between grey and blue; the angular figure with the slight stoop to the shoulders, the high cheekbones, narrow face. The resemblance was uncanny. Of course, the clothes were totally different. Simon’s usual attire was a sweater and