High Society by Meg Burrows

The Smiths
‘Bloody Hell! Not another one of your fucking nip – tuck, plastic pushing, botox spunked Barbies! No Harold, No! I won’t have it again!’

Here they were, in the middle of the Salt House Restaurant, having yet another discussion about Harold’s tendency to jump ship of the marriage boat. This time, he had dive bombed splendorously into foreign waters.

‘Oh Sandra, please, let’s not make a scene…’

‘Make a scene? Sorry, sorry…. You think I’m making a scene?’ Sandra spat out a tiny bit of the Salmon she had been eating. It landed a few centimetres away from Harold’s pudgy hand. ‘Oh, I can get a lot worse than this, believe me!’

Harold, reaching for his brandy glass, sighed.

He didn’t understand Sandra’s behaviour at the moment. This had all been happening for years. And she knew about it. So why all of a sudden is she starting to mind?

‘Darling, darling – why are you getting upset about this? You knew that I liked her.’ He took a sip of his drink, watching his wife carefully. ‘Besides, I can’t go back on my word.’

Sandra flickered her eyes to his. She could feel her face and neck growing hot.

‘What do you mean? What have you done?’ Sandra gripped tightly to her knife. If he’s got her pregnant I am going to castrate him right here, right now.

‘I felt sorry for the poor girl. I, well, I like her. I think it’s for the best, she needs looking after.’ Harold emptied his brandy glass. ‘I didn’t think you would mind, seeing as you’re going to be away in Italy and that.’

‘What did you say to her Harold?’

Stretching back into his chair, Harold’s shirt stretched alarmingly across his round stomach.

‘I told her she could stay.’