Fete Accomplice

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

2012: Alarming intrusions Stop it right now, you dizzy tart! Marissa Nalletamby is giving herself a telling-off in front of the mirror. Hes married, youre married, and you barely know him. She pokes at her hair with the end of a comb, And did I mention, you barely know him? Last nights dream had been a doozer. Samuel had leaned so close to her ear, she could feel his breath. She had leaned back into his chest, his arms had been around her, they had gazed out at an idyllic seascape, like a pair of young lovers. Then he had unbuttoned her blouse, lingering over each pink pearl fastener and punctuating its freedom with a butterfly kiss to her neck. His long fingers had crafted a macram of silk touches that ran down her body, over her waist, and down towards the gossamer skirt that was beginning to drift away on the honeyed breeze. Surely now But the inevitable interruption cut in; this time a fire alarm, clanging its Freudian disapproval and transforming mercilessly into her ridiculous mouse-eared alarm clock. She allows herself a private chuckle. Her stab at moral rectitude is struggling, and her body overrides it with a wistful sigh that steams up the cold glass on the wall. She scrapes at the fog with her sleeve, and growls at her reflection, Grow up, she tells it, Youve parent stuff to do.

1999: The legal alien

They met, the two couples, at a New Year celebration, partying like it was 1999 because the worlds mileage was about to click over into a new millennium when the sky would fall in, if you believed the doom-mongers. They had chatted briefly nice area ... convenient for the station but drifted away as the commonalities dwindled. Still, Marissa found herself curiously drawn to Samuel, whose slight but distinct distance set him apart from their Chardonnay-swigging crowd. Not particularly reserved herself, Marissa cavorted and caroused, laughing more loudly than was entirely merited, and engaging in some juvenile hijinks left over from everyones undergrad days. Samuel watched quietly from the sidelines, glass of tonic water in hand, and with the faintest of smiles that seemed almost fatherly. As she waggled her tush to The Birdie Song, and pogod enthusiastically to a raucous punk track, Marissa sneaked glances at Samuel. Sometimes he would be looking at her. Mostly he wasnt. Mostly he seemed to be in another world, somewhere intellectual, sober, more transcendent. Marissas imagination, somewhat alcohol fuelled, assigned to him the role of alien visitor distant, detached, observing their childs play with benign humour, and placing it in a context of worlds seen and experiences lived that were beyond primitive comprehension. The Man Who Fell To Earth! she giggled, recalling an old sci fi film. Who? This was Marcus, her husband. Samuel not of this world really, is he? chuckled Marissa. Dont look! she hissed, as Marcus started to wheel around. Instead, they both pantomimed covert peeks and armed fantasy phasers as they prepared to repel an alien invasion of suburban Surrey. Then they subsided into a deep sofa, and yuk yukked their way to the bottom of another bottle of plonk.

2001: Art for arse sake

Marissas next encounter with Samuel was at the village fete. She in charge of a stall exhibiting the products of the local art and photography group, and hoping to offload a few items on passing punters. He a passing punter paying respectful attention to the wares as he followed his wife dutifully around the festive encampment. He wouldnt buy any of this if you threatened to cut off his arm! Marissa watched as Samuel made dignified and polite perusals a slight incline of the head here, the faintest curve of the mouth there - while Rita, his wife, waxed lyrical on the captivating atmosphere generated by the use of this or that lens or paint medium. Samuel responded with understated nods, and a range of nonverbal packing that served to keep his (plainly superior) views to himself. Marissa shuffled awkwardly to one side as his small procession arrived at her corner of the stall. She made a stab at a sales pitch. This local artist is quite famous actually, she said, holding up a nicely composed snap of the nearby river. Really? Samuel raised a pair of elegant eyebrows in a manner that might be construed as interest if you didnt think too hard about it. Its a delightful area for artists and photographers. Perhaps thats why he is successful, he added graciously. Oh, hes not a professional photographer, he used to be in a band. They had a Top 20 hit about 15 years ago. Thats what hes famous for. So hes not really a photographer. Marissa thought the advice about stopping digging when you found yourself in a hole ought to kick in about now, but shovelled on anyway. Well, he is of course, just not a famous one. Not as famous as being in a band that is. Although by now I imagine most people will have forgotten Curved Umbrellas. You probably never heard of them, I expect She tailed off, wilting under his bemused gaze, a child whose garbled ramblings were being tolerated by the Supreme Being. Marissa apologised, plucked at her skirt then her hair. Mouth in gear before engaging brain! she offered by way of explanation, then reversed, without looking, into a display of watercolours which collapsed and landed her, legs like a pair of sandalled

periscopes, in an ungainly heap. A hand, long fingered, graceful, extended downwards through the clutter of dubious treasures. Marissa took the hand, tracked back along it to the ascetically arranged face and the eyes that displayed gentle amusement. You probably could have done without that, Samuel said, and a slight smile tiptoed across a mouth drawn inwards instead of spreading over his face. He extended another elegant hand and Marissa grasped it, finding herself lifted gently towards the vertical, where she stood directly in front of Samuel, their hands still clasped together in a clich of first contacts. They let go simultaneously. Samuel uttered concerned noises, hoping she was recovered from her fall, and Marissa responded with a cut and paste selection of generally acceptable expressions. Absolutely fine. No, no damage done. Most kind, thank you. If youre sure Samuels wife had moved on long before the impromptu cabaret and now he followed, even-paced, governed by some internal guidance system that eliminated the need for haste. That he might choose the wrong direction or have doubts about where to go was inconceivable, Marissa thought, he just knew, or the world would wait, or it would reconfigure itself according to his requirements. Thats aliens for you. She checked herself over and found to her relief that her clothing was as it should be; not tucked into her knickers, or suddenly and inexplicably transparent. She set about retrieving the scattered art work and talking herself into a more edifying view of events. Divots. Definitely the fault of errant divots.

Back home, the clanging noise from the sofa was diabolical. Jali, ten years old and a beginner guitarist with more enthusiasm than aptitude, had only two speeds minstrel (plink-plonk, two bars of caterwauling) and George Formby. The latter rendered ballads at breakneck speed and with only marginal attention to accuracy, so that they became unrecognisable. His older sister, Saskia, abandoning her carefully cultivated faade of pre-teen sophistication, hurled a sandal across the room. It described a graceful arc above the coffee table and walloped Jali on the ear. The caterwauling and clanging stopped, to be replaced by a stream of juvenile invective, and the sandal executed a similarly aesthetic arc on its return journey. Marissa opened her mouth to deliver a parental rebuke, reconsidered in view of the resumed electronic assault, and went off to stash the cash from the fete in a box marked Art Club Funds. Fifty two pounds. Not bad, she observed to the air. Should just about cover the breakages. Ruefully, she rubbed a nascent bruise on her hip and considered upgrading the phantom divots to a tale of heroism and sacrifice. A smash and grab! A ram raid with howling Harleys! She had thrown herself in front of the steal-to-order art thieves! She mimed displaying her injuries to the creators of the sorry pile of undistinguished watercolours. Ha!

The dreams began that night. She was in a strange but vaguely familiar building, with people she knew somehow but could not quite place. Samuel emerged through a door marked Private and raised one of those exquisite eyebrows. An invitation? She wasnt sure, but by the time she had decided to pursue the matter, a faceless individual, brandishing a monstrous paintbrush, had interposed herself, and Marissa woke, heart pounding and with a disquieting sense of disappointment at the interruption. Two nights later, in a bar that looked like a library, they actually sat and talked. Samuel had been on the point of well, something

when another unknown friend had barged in, clattering a plate of chips onto the table between them, and cheerily bemoaning the unavailability of baked beans. I have to be going. Samuel smiled and rose, then glided off, as if on wheels. Marissa woke with her teeth gritted, her fists clenched, and a mood strop that lasted all morning. Of course, telling anyone about this was out of the question. And anyway, it was a phase, an early mid-life crisis, and it would pass, wouldnt it?

2004: Saskias cuckoo Well, pass it did, at least for a while as the family struggled with Saskia s transition from smart, mostly compliant child to Teenage Mutant MySpace Monster. You can NOT have boys on a sleepover! Everyone else does. No they dont, and youre not everyone else. Who have you invited? Just Slugfest, Jimbo2, Barbie, Nollie, and Esbat - pleeeeeze. Marissa despaired of the fad for bringing onscreen names into the real world Slugfest and Jimbo2, indeed! The ginger twins who, only last week, it seemed, were focused on putting spiders down girls T shirts. God knows what they were trying to get down girls T shirts these days. Not Slugfest or Jimbo, the others are fine. Authority, thats what it took. Hands on hips and elbows akimbo, Marissa gave her daughter the parental Last Word look. Ok. What, no argument? Ok? So whats that look you just gave Jali? Nothing, Mum. So its me, Esbat, Nollie, and Barbie? Ok done! Marissa was certain Jali was sniggering, in the way only thirteen year old boys could, with undisguised snorting and their heads under the cushions. Probably just the thought of all

those stupid girls talking stupid girl talk. Well, he would be elsewhere so he couldnt interfere with the festival of hair straightening and fingernail embellishment that would surely ensue. The Friday night arrived, as did a bundle of giggling teens of all shapes and sizes, carrying duvets, pink heart-shaped overnight bags, makeup, devices to curl hair, other devices to straighten it out, extensions, clips, and an armoury of sprays and glues. Jali was despatched to his own sleepover at a friends house, where brain damage from trampolining off the bed into the ceiling seemed more likely than gathering stalkers by chatting online to goodness-knows-who. Marissa and Marcus barricaded themselves in the front room for a while with the TV. Then they headed for bed, disturbed only by random shrieks and hootings from Saskias bedroom, and the occasional pyjama-clad figure wisping on pink-socked feet into the kitchen or bathroom. There was a great deal of giggling, and it went on for a great deal of the night. There would be no dreams for anyone, Marissa thought, as she and Marcus resorted to catching up on a couple of abandoned novels in the early hours. In the morning, Marissa and Marcus tiptoed around until ten a.m. when decency suggested that some sort of reveille be sounded. Marissa rattled pans, Marcus turned up the radio, and eventually muffled giggles could be heard emanating from Saskias room. Ok, Im going in. Marissa shrugged on an imaginary flak jacket and shouldered the figment of a weapon. You got my back, Capn? You betcha, soldier. Make us proud! Marcus handed her a tray of glasses containing orange juice, aimed an actorly kick at the door, and dropped neatly into a crouch, pulling the handle down as he went. Mornin campers! Marissa greeted with cheery bonhomie the pink-swathed, frillfestooned nest of nearly-women. And one nearly-man. Who the hell are you?

You said he could stay. No I did not, I said You said me, Nollie, Esbat, and Barbie. Yes, I Hes Barbie? Barbie is a boy?! The youngster with a hint of facial hair began to disentangle himself from the girlie frippery. Sorry, Mrs N, nothing happened Are you gay? No, Mrs N. Youre not? Well out you jolly well go then! Saskia, a WORD. The WORD, as it turned out, proliferated to near enough half a dictionary. Key among the additions were grounded, never again, let us all down, and a non-exhaustive list of directives ending in Young Lady. Marissa wondered how other parents handled these sorts of shenanigans, because surely it wasnt just her kids? Nah. They were all in the same surreal boat; adults never quite expecting to have to be grown-ups and falling back on childhood models of authority. Oh dear, maybe everyone just made it up as they went along. Except Samuel, of course. He would just beam up any offending minors and teleport them off planet! A little smile tickled the corners of her eyes. A little thrill tickled some other parts, and she gave herself a mock slap to the face. Give it up, hussy!

A month later, after dinner with friends that led to a late night disturbed by the consequences of too much wine, Marissa found herself suddenly in Samuels company again. There he was, disappearing down a long corridor that looked quite Escher-esque. Its behaviour was Escheresque as well, turning illogically back and forth on itself, and describing an unlikely geometric footprint. Marissa followed Samuel, encouraged by his backward glances and the

fact that the corridor was empty apart from the two of them. She reached the corner and turned, to see him disappearing around the next one at the end of a chequered line that seemed to telescope away to infinity. She tried to run but waded through treacle. Somehow, though, she arrived at the latest corner, turned it, and he had gone. There was no sign of him, just the faintest hint of a scent. Essence de Samuel. Her dream-self inhaled; the combination of tar and corrosive acid suddenly the most seductive of pheromonal inducements. But where was he then? A light tenor voice whispered, Over here. It seemed to come from a room to the left, access to which was barred by a door, incongruously bright and glossy red, with a large brass knocker. But there was no handle. The voice repeated its invitation. Samuel, Marissa replied, I cant get in. You must, I need Oi you cant go in there, thats engaged. A man, looking a bit like the caretaker at her office, but wearing chainmail, was suddenly at her side and re-painting the door with huge sweeps of a big, black shovel. With each sweep, the door shrank, stroke by stroke, to a postage stamp. Samuel, Im here! Marissa battered at the disappearing door with fists of jelly. Jesus, woman, what are you doing? And whos Samuel? Marcus was blinking and rubbing his temple, as Marissa slowly surfaced to squint at her unintended victim. Oh Marcus, Im so sorry! She dabbed at his face, A dream, just a dream. You were a door, a red door, and I couldnt get through! And Samuel? Marissa missed a beat. No idea. Wasnt there a Samuel at dinner last night? One of Geoffreys colleagues? And there it was, her first lie to Marcus, and for what? This was a dream, she was hardly having an affair. But you want to have one.

No, no! Not for real, just Just what? What constitutes an affair? Only the physical act? What about the emotional betrayal? Im not doing anything, how can it be betrayal? But you lied. Oh God.

2010: Peaks and troughs So when did you last see him? I mean, for real, not in fantasy-land? Laura had finally, over lunch and a couple of glasses of chilled white, extracted a right royal titbit and was maximising her advantage before the caffeine kicked in. Oh, years ago. I crashed through an art collection and he pulled me out of the rubble. Romantic, eh? Marissas eyes drifted a little, down and left, and her friend spotted it. You said he was freaky, alien whats so goddam attractive about him then? You have a face like a love lorn guppy! Oh. Marissa pulled an animated expression out of her social repertoire and let it loose, but Laura wasnt to be diverted. How often do you dream about him then, and have you you know? Well? Laura was no psychotherapist and her interest was beginning to take on a lurid quality, to Marissas mind. Not far off the mark though. She felt a flush leaking out over her cheeks and flustered a tissue from her pocket. Friggin hay fever, she said, and scrubbed at her nose and eyes while Laura waited; a cosy predator at the mouse hole of a tasty coup. So? So what? So have you ?

Course not! And anyway, theyre just dreams, not real life. And hes not my type too lanky and insipid. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Laura was wearing smug eyes and leaning forwards over her folded arms. She nudged her empty coffee cup a little further into the middle of the table, and coalesced into a good cop tell me all about it posture. Youve at least snogged him, yes? Well, not exactly Well what, exactly? What, indeed. There was that time in the garden when someone had folded his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck; little whispers of kisses behind her ear, so that she nearly passed out. He would turn her around, breathe warm and luscious tenderness across her shoulders. He would But then he was gone, and she hadnt even seen him. Its always just a feeling, it never quite happens. Oh crap! Snoggus interruptus how frustrating! Do you erm engage more tangible services when that happens? Like what? Like Marcus, of course. A ready hunk of man already conveniently in the sack with you. Might take the edge off things, if you know what I mean. Marissa certainly did know what she meant, and no she hadnt because - because why? It wouldnt be fair on Marcus? She was afraid she might call out Samuels name at a crucial moment? No she was afraid there wouldnt be a crucial moment, because sex with Samuel would be a dizzying honeymoon under the stars on a tropical beach, and sex with Marcus would be a perfunctory wham bam on an old sofa that smelled of last nights dinner. She let out a sigh that came from her boots, and Laura dived into it. Youre in love with him!

I am not! Anyway, I dont fancy men my age any more, and hes definitely my age, if not older. Probably pretty doddery by now, I shouldnt wonder. Not even Marcus? Well, of course Marcus. Marissa groped for a convincingly mature and reassuring face to replace the guppy that Laura was pursuing to hideous exposure. Ill always fancy Marcus. Hm. Lauras own expression was hovering between concerned friend and hungry crow with one end of a promising worm in its beak. So, hes an old bloke you havent seen for years, you fancy the pants off him, youve never actually got the pants off him, but youre ready to drop your Freudian knickers, at the first sign of a train heading for the tunnel. That about sum it up? Were not old, in the dreams. Marissa had missed the point, distracted suddenly by a phenomenon she had not noticed before. They were not aging. At least he wasnt. In fact, lately he seemed to have gone into reverse. He must have been in his mid-thirties when they first met, and now he seemed to be mid-twenties, with all the sexual vibrancy that went with it. She assumed her own dream-self had undergone a retro refit too, or wouldnt that be a bit creepy? She in her forties and he a testosterone fuelled young fellah-me-lad? Not that she could ever quite visualise Samuel in that mode. He was more of a 1950s gentlemanly, onefoot-on-the-bedroom-floor type, not the bodice ripping subsumer of delicate femininity. A woman would be wooed by Samuel, not taken. Another sigh, this time with puzzled eyebrows exposing a little more of the juicy worm to Lauras crow. Midlife crisis! Laura diagnosed, sitting upright in a triumph of amateur psychoanalytics. Or the evil menopause. Come on then, what you need is retail therapy lets go find serious products.

Marissa gathered up her belongings; a battered handbag, and two carriers containing birthday presents for Saskia. How could she possibly be twenty-two? A young woman with a flotilla of admirers, all about the age of about the age She stopped; so it was envy. Envy of her daughters youth, being at the beginning of her life, and falling in love with beautiful young men, while she took the roller coaster to entropy with Marcus and their smelly old sofa. She hoisted her bags, slapped on a middle aged right then sort of a smile, and headed, with Laura, back out into the Saturday shopping centre scrum. No more dreams, that smile said. Maybe Laura was just an old gossip hound but shed got to the nub of it, hadnt she? Marissa suddenly felt much more in control than she had for some time. She would stop this silliness, make a proper fuss of Marcus, and start to adopt a role more suited to a future mother-of-the-bride than inappropriate daft old tart. That lasted roughly twelve hours.

Some time before dawn, Marissa was lying on a bed, naked, with Ophelia hair drifting over a pristine pillow. She could hear Samuel talking somewhere nearby; he was coming back to her after he had dealt with this distraction. Marissa tried to arrange her legs to imply invitation. No that said slut, not virgin. She clamped her knees back together, and then bent the right one, angling it slightly outwards. Just a hint, enough to show him he was welcome. She could almost feel his hands on her breasts, sliding down her body, parting her thighs. His body would envelop hers, his fingers would probe and explore. He would breathe his soul into hers, and she would wrap her legs around him, draw him into herself, and let him pound against her while she Cuppa tea, love? Marcus plopped down on the edge of the bed and clattered a cup and saucer onto her bedside table. You ok? You look a bit peaky. Marissa felt a bit peaky; in fact she had very nearly peaked in Samuels bed and now she had to struggle out of it and back into her own. Anti-climactic didnt begin to cover it.

She rolled onto her front and buried her face in the pillow. The one that did not smell of Samuel, that was not pristine, and that had never been draped with her Ophelian locks. Marcus slapped her on the rump, Im off, five a side match, silly old farts league, see you later. The bedroom door banged closed and bounced open again. Rugby? Sunday morning. Tedious, humdrum, middle-aged, normality. She sagged back into the pillow; everything ached, like she had been She rolled onto her back, eyes suddenly darkshadowed headlamps in a pink, crumpled fascia. Had she been playing out her dream in her own bed? Chilly fingers poked ice into places where honey glowing lustful innocence had been. Shit! Shit shit shit. Marissa threw herself out of bed, grabbed her tea, and headed for the bathroom with a business-like bustle to set the taps running for a hot bath. She would soak out this nonsense and get back to reality. She swigged the tea cold, ugh shuffled across the hall to the kitchen to make coffee, and took it back to balance on the edge of the bath next to the loofahs and bottles of shampoo. Marissa slid off her dressing gown and nightdress, carefully avoiding the tell-tale mirror that would confirm, as if she needed it, that she was not the glorious twenty-something of her dream, about to be ravished by a beautiful alien, but a fading forty-something with dodgy hormones, and a concertina for an abdomen. She slipped into the bath, propped her head against Saskias heart-shaped plastic cushion, too un-cool to have gone with her to college, and cradled her coffee. The physical aches began to dissolve and drift away. The deep dark hollow in her chest and the imploding emptiness in her abdomen did not. Its an affair. It is not, its a dream. Lots of dreams, you want him. Not for real! Think Marcus would see it that way?

He neednt know. Now that sounds like an affair. But we never meet. So an affair is just physical then? Weve been here before. Yes, and you didnt answer then, either. Ill ask you again; is betrayal in the act or in the desire for the act? Id like to see you take that to the divorce court. You thinking of divorce? No! No. But youve left Marcus, havent you? When did you last have sex? This is ridiculous! Really. You are in love with another man, you have secret assignations with him where you make it obvious you are his for the taking, and you have stopped having sex with your husband. Is that, or is that not, an affair, a betrayal of your marriage? Im not having this conversation. You are, Im in your head. Fuck off, conscience.

Marissa heaved herself out of the bath, dried herself down with cursory attention to any vestiges of hedonism, and tried to think about pasty and chips. Yes, she and Marcus would share what they referred to as their roots supper tonight a real bottom of the social ladder, slobbing-out fest of chips, meat pie, gravy, baked beans and mushy peas. She thought there might even be a bottle of brown sauce lurking in a cupboard somewhere. That was home, that

was where the real love was. She pulled on some clothes, grabbed the car keys, and headed off to the supermarket in search of fat chips.

2012: The sons of the fathers are visiting Unfortunately, that strategy had no more substance than any of the others she had tried, and so today Marissa is scrutinising the woman in the mirror and giving her a bollocking on matters of parental responsibility, maturity, and insubstantial lovers. She slaps on some lipstick, hauls her top upwards a tad to reduce the expanse of cleavage on display, then dangles a pendant over the cleft as a cursory disguise. A door opens downstairs and then closes. Voices. Saskia is back from university, and with a new boyfriend in tow. How they found time for real reality in amongst all that quantum stuff, Marissa could not fathom, but here they were, two particle physicists for Christmas, yippee! Marissa cocks an eye at the pendant and picks up a silk scarf. Cocking her eye back the other way, she ditches the pendant and arranges the scarf over her dcolletage heaven forbid this young gun loses his eyeballs down there and clatters off down the stairs to join the greetings. Saskia is standing holding the arm of her new love. Mum, this is Ken. Her face is the sun and her eyes are bright as a million starbursts. She adores him. So does Marissa; it is Samuel. Stunned into silence, Marissa stands, mouth open and dry as sawdust, incapable of uttering the expected courtesies. I look like my dad dont I? Ken laughs. He asked me to say hello. Your dad? Marissas voice is sandpaper on concrete. Sam Jones. We used to live near you when I was a kid. Ken Jones? You probably dont remember me, we were quite a big crowd.

And we called him Barbie! snorts Jali from the other room. Barbie? Marissas mind flings scraps of memory this way and that as she burrows down to one that is wearing a beacon, and a pit opens up in her stomach, You are Barbie? Ken shuffles his feet and looks at her with his fathers deep grey eyes, smiling his fathers cinched-in private smile, Er, yes, the very same! Barbie? The smuggled-in sleepover totty? Samuels son? Marissas breath is stuck in her chest, and she scrunches the ends of her scarf into a small damp knot in her hands. No, surely not! Yes, Mum. Told you. Photos on Facebook ringing any bells? Saskia is giving her mother a look that rings of deep tolerance: poor old girl, technology not your thing? Never mind, heres some knitting. Of course he was on Facebook; who wasnt? She must have seen him a hundred times. Jali turns an innocent screw, Sams dropping by later to pick Ken and Sazz up. I said you wouldnt mind if he stayed for supper. What?! Well, if hes going to be an in-law Jali pulls a face at Saskia who is mouthing an emphatic SHUT UP at him from the hallway. Ken is not fazed, I hope thats ok. Recovered from his embarrassment, he raises a concerned eyebrow and Marissas heart does a flip-flop as she stifles a gasp. This is the man with whom she has spent her nights, her daughters lover, a man half her age. Jesus H Christ on a stick! That their dream selves have not been intimate is suddenly a mercy. Then a column of awfulness marches up her spine like a parade of soldier ants - what if they were in the future? Who could control dreams? Marissas knees are turning to water, she needs an escape route, and fast. Oh, was that the oven timer? she contemporises, Please excuse me, we wouldnt want the fire alarm going off, would we? She slaps on a plastic grin and makes her exit,

suddenly grateful for the convention that still requires women to prioritise the kitchen over anything short of the Royal Tank Regiment rumbling into the front room. Thoughts tap dance through Marissas mind like flickering images in train windows; barely glimpsed, out of focus, and moving too fast to identify. They are all dreadful, she is sure. She chops and stirs and fiddles with the hob. She turns the heat up and then down under the pans, off and then on again. She scrapes, turns, and flips; all the while listening to Saskia, Ken and Jali trading taunts about impending matrimonials in the other room. The closer the time draws to Samuels arrival, the more knotted and damp the ends of her scarf become. Fortunately, they have all been consuming festive libations of one sort or another and so no one notices Marissas loss of composure when she takes her own glass into the lounge. Here she sits, pictures of her gallivantings with Samuel running through her mind like a slide show of guilt. She takes a sip of her wine and squares her shoulders; it will not be a problem, Samuel will be bald with a belly, and obsessing about golf. She will look on him with affection, not attraction. But her shoulders lose their resolve in a defeated sag; so wouldnt that confirm it was the son she was ridiculously infatuated with and not the father? Oh crap! The doorbell rings. Marissa cannot bring herself to answer but Saskia is up and over in a flash, opening the door and throwing herself into the enormous hug offered by the man framed there. Over Saskias shoulder, Samuel is looking at Marissa. Elegance. Those quizzical eyebrows. Plenty of hair and no belly. She groans. He detaches himself from Saskias grip, smiling down at her the way he had smiled down at Marissa during that embarrassing encounter at the village fete. Saskia goes to re-join Ken, who has moved off into the lounge with Jali and Marcus, leaving Marissa and Samuel in the hallway. They stand for a moment, Marissa trying to martial her face into a more appropriate expression, while he regards her with that same benign distance he has always presented to the mere mortals who come into his presence.

Whats the correct form of address for someone who doesnt know theyre having an affair with you? And they arent, but you are? Kind of? Marissa is trapped somewhere between Hello, how very nice to see you again, after so long, and flat out jumping on him. So it is almost a relief when the sauting onions, left to their own combustible devices on the abandoned hob, trigger the smoke alarm. Whats the code, Mum? Jali is poised at the keypad. Never mind the code, cover the damn pan! But if we dont stop it, the fire brigade will turn up! And weve nowhere near enough charcoaled onions to go round! Saskia suppresses a hiccup. Could flamb some sprouts, at a pinch And set light to the pudding a bit early Only needs the tree lights to explode and Turn off that ruddy racket! Marissas sense of the ridiculous took a hike when the two fantasy Sams (or the two fantasy Kens who could tell?) broke into her reality. Code? Jali stands to attention and semaphores a salute. The cat. T-H-E-C-A-T. No, dumbo, OUR cat! Georgie. And somebody get that phone. Saskia makes a theatrical leap to grab the landline. Its the monitoring centre, wanting to know if were on fire. She is clamping a grimace over a grin, and Jali is pretending to curl up and die of asphyxiation on the kitchen floor. Are we? Marissa asks, with an over-efficient snap. Are we what? On fire!

No. Tell them no, then. No, were not on fire. Just a few onions were not having for supper any more but if Yes, thank you, merry Christmas to you too. Saskia doubles over and lets out a hoot, while Jali erupts in a fit of real coughing, brought on by inhaling his own saliva. Marissa goes on a responsibility offensive, lobbing the blackened onions into the sink, wafting at the smoke hanging over the cooker, and throwing a frame yourself look at her snorting, convulsing family. Sam, she observes, has punched in the keypad code and stopped the alarm, and Ken is quietly re-positioning some dishes, shifted awry in the debacle. They have not a hair out of place between them. Look at them smug bastards! Marissa scratches at her own hair, gropes for the scarf, which has abandoned its post so that her cleavage is now fully available for inspection, and flaps a damp tea towel at the mess. Thank goodness for fire alarms, she says, we could all have been another Christmas statistic. Indeed. Ken and Samuel exchange a glance; father and son, the calmest of ports in this domestic storm, unruffled, as if they werent really there at all. Of course, they can also be dreadfully inconvenient if they interrupt something important. Samuel puts a hand on Kens shoulder; Ken drifts a light touch over his fathers elbow, and the two of them look back at Marissa, their faces poised above a momentarily conjoined body. Most annoying, wouldnt you say?

First published by Ether Books 15/02/13 http://www.etherbooks.com/