A darkened room in a darkened house. A glass of chilled white wine closed in the fingers of a hand that is even colder. Melancholy music flowing through the house, the only sound that can be heard except for the barely perceptible sound of tears falling. Eventually she glances up from her lap, gazing unseeing at the three silver framed photographs that stand in a line along the mantle piece above the open fire that illuminates the room with a warm glow that she can barely feel.
The first photograph is a picture that she had always hated; the formal group photograph of her wedding. Whenever she sees it she is always struck by the contrast between the two families. On one side is the vast and flamboyant Wilson family. Her mother is in the centre, every inch the matriarch standing at 5ft but still dominating the scene in her virtually luminous pink suit that clashed spectacularly with her dyed red hair and matching lipstick. Beside her stands her father looking particularly henpecked in what he later proclaimed to be the most uncomfortable suit he had ever had the misfortune to be dressed in and alongside him stand her brothers, wearing suits that matched their father's but with their own personal twist – brightly coloured ties that resulted in their mother throwing a monumental strop and threatening to cut the ties from their necks with a bread knife. It was only when Connie had entered the kitchen announcing that she couldn't possibly get married because her lipstick was the wrong shade and burst into tears that her mother had finally stopped harassing the boys and turned her attention back to her daughter. On the other side of the photo is Mr and Mrs Beauchamp who at that point were already shaping up to be the in-laws from hell. Furious that their beloved only son was marrying beneath them they had first refused to attend the wedding (Connie hadn't cared, Michael had been devastated), then refused to allow him to invite any of their small family to witness his 'sham' marriage (again, Connie hadn't cared and Michael had, although he had to admit that his Uncle Barry was no great loss to any party) and as a final act of rebellion, they flatly refused to smile in the wedding photographs, instead looking as if they were attending a funeral. In the middle of the photograph stand the bride and groom, his hand resting on the small of her back, the flesh exposed by a dress cut so low that it was virtually backless. Her father had loathed the dress, proclaiming that no daughter of his was going to get married in something that even a cheap tart wouldn't be seen dead in, but she had talked him round with a flutter of her eyelashes and a pout of her lips, a skill which she soon learned worked just as well on virtually the entire male population, bar one or two notable exceptions. Despite her father's reaction, she still classed the dress as the most beautiful garment that she had ever worn and on that score at least, Michael agreed with her. His jaw had hit the floor when she walked in and he'd had to be told to shut his mouth by the best man, the vicar and eventually, the bride.
Looking at the photograph of her outrageous family and Michael's uptight parents, she feels as though she should have seen the warning signs. With so much, and so many people against them, how they could have ever thought that it could work is beyond her. Even today she has had a message from her mother in law, announcing that the one good thing to come from their son's arrest and subsequent imprisonment was that finally he'd seen what a poisonous little bitch he'd married.
Beside the wedding photograph sits their wedding photograph; two people, entwined in each others arms, one clad in a pale yellow bikini, a colour striking against the deep tan of her skin, the other wearing slightly ludicrous Hawaiian print shorts. By rights they should have been deliriously happy; they were in the most exclusive resort in Florida with nothing to do for three weeks but sip cocktails, sunbathe, eat fantastic food and make love into the small hours of the morning. For the first week that was exactly how it was but this photograph was taken on day eight, less than twenty four hours after her week old marriage had blown up spectacularly in her face. He had always insisted that what had transpired on the honeymoon had been a terrible mistake; she maintained that his only mistake had been getting caught. Leaving her new husband in bed suffering from sunburn, she had gone down to the beach. She vividly remembers kissing the raw skin on his back as she peeled herself from the bed and made her way down to the beach. She recalls the irritation as she rooted through the beach bag on her shoulder, discovering that she had left without her sunglasses and the brief period where she lay on the beach and tried to do without them. She remembers every detail of stepping back into the hotel, taking the lift up to the honeymoon suite as the glare from the harsh Florida midday sun became too much for her eyes to stand. She can still call to mind the heady mixture of sun cream, champagne and cleaning products that hung in the air that filled the lift. She can still remember opening the door and at first, not seeing the two bodies writhing in perfect unison beneath the white cotton sheets on the bed. She can still hear her own scream of anguish, horror and red-hot rage as she realised what was going on. As she looks at the photograph, she can still make out the red hand mark left on Michael's left cheek where she had hit him and she can see the pain burning in her own eyes.
Even now, she still thinks of that photograph as the beginning of the end. Considering that less than a week after they married she was screaming that she hated him and wanted him out of her life, it's a wonder they lasted for twelve years, she muses to herself as she stands, taking the photo in her hands and tracing her fingers over the unhappy faces of the younger man and women in the photograph. Even though they are so clearly unhappy in each other's company, there is a hope that radiates from them and she finds that she barely recognises the young woman any more. Admittedly she had been in shock when the photograph had been taken but it had taken a little longer for the cynicism to set in and the disenchantment to truly take hold. At that point, she still believed that there was a chance, albeit a small one that she could change her husband and make him into the faithful protector that she dreamed of. It hadn't taken long for that dream to be shattered. Now when she looks into the mirror that stands over the mantle piece she sees no hope in her eyes; only guarded pools of blackness where, if you look very closely and know what you are looking for, you can see a hint of sadness.
The third photograph is the most recent. Two people, outwardly the perfect couple, standing hand in hand outside a charity ball. She is immaculate in a long red halter neck dress and diamonds draped around her neck and wrist and the man her side compliments her in every way. His hand rests casually on her waist, her own hand placed delicately on top of it. If you didn't know you really wouldn't notice her white knuckles or the small half moon shapes on the back of his hand where her nails are digging into him, the only outlet that she can find for her anger. The only place where true evidence of their unhappiness can be found is in her eyes. His eyes are guarded; affable blue pools that hide the dissatisfaction and deceit going on beneath the surface, her eyes are more open. If you look deep into the hazel rings around large, black, innocent pupils there is a depth of sadness that even surprises her when she sees it. She remembers being unhappy at that ball; her marriage was once again on the skids and, if it is the occasion that she thinks it is (and she isn't sure as after a while, one ball is virtually indistinguishable from twenty others) then it was only weeks after she had miscarried the only child that they had ever come close to having. The photographer had accosted them as they stepped from the limousine, still smarting from the furious row that had transpired when she announced that under the circumstances, she had never felt less like going and making small talk with a group of uninteresting charity workers and their bored wives. She recalled that Michael had told the photographer to leave them alone as his wife had successfully fought the tears that filled her eyes but the man had been insistent; they were perfect in every conceivable way and he wanted to preserve them for posterity in his portfolio. Eventually she had told Michael to stop arguing and let the man get his photo and as a gesture of goodwill, a few weeks later a print had arrived in the post. Michael had framed it and presented it to her 'as a gift', apparently unable to understand that she would sooner forget all about that night, but how could he understand; he had long since stopped seeing his wife as a person. In his eyes she was merely a tool to be manipulated into doing his bidding and removed when she proved a threat. This picture is the only picture in which she recognises the couple staring back at her; perfection on the outside, disillusionment, disappointment and resentment on the inside.
Her movements are slow as she fingers every photograph in turn, recalling how happy or unhappy she felt when they were taken, surprised by how readily the images elicit the same emotions within her as she takes herself back. She feels that she should get rid of them – sitting on the mantle piece they serve only to torment her further – but she puts them back, arranging them in a perfectly straight line. The pictures aren't what's holding her back – they merely remind her that she is living in the past and needs to stop moping, missing something that was never really hers to begin with. Perhaps another day she would have been stronger and the photographs would have been thrown away without a second thought but not today. Today is her twelfth wedding anniversary; she'll start again tomorrow.