CONFRONTATION.
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Petrucchio is the creation of William Shakespeare and was yanked protesting into the Twenty-First Century by Sally Wainright. I borrow him and his beloved Kate purely for my own amusement.
As ever, I see and hear Rufus Sewell when I write about Petrucchio. My thanks, as always, to Rufus.
I have given this story a K rating.
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CONFRONTATION
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She glared furiously at me. This was nothing new. She stood with one hand on her hip, her long straight black hair falling, silky smooth, over her shoulder, strands of it in her eyes. I resisted the urge to tuck them behind her ear, the way I have always done. Her heavy black eyebrows were squeezed together in a mutinous scowl.
I stared back down at her. I adore her. I have always adored her, from the minute I laid eyes on her, but she cannot be allowed to get away with this.
"Do as I say." I said.
We were in the study down at Hazlington. I was sitting on the edge of my desk and Sir John Napp, the Foreign Secretary and Tim Agnew, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were sitting in the armchairs on either side of the fireplace; John looking embarrassed, and Tim apprehensive. She was standing in front of me beside the small table that stood beneath my boyhood portrait, her head up, her back ramrod straight.
"No!" She said defiantly.
"You will do as I say."
She stretched out her arm to the small pile of books that stood on the table and swept them across the floor.
"No!"
"Pick them up. Now! "
"NO."
"You will be extremely sorry."
She kicked me on my shin.
Before she had a chance to struggle, I pulled her across my knee and smacked her small be-jeaned bottom hard. Once, twice, three times.
And put her back on her feet.
I have never struck her before, although I have often threatened to.
"That's against the law. I could report you for that." but her gruff little voice was shaking and her chin was quivering.
"Yes? Well, report it!"
She still stared at me, biting her lips; her beautiful mouth with its perfect M upper lip. Her big eyes were held wide open in the attempt to force back the tears.
I was pretty near to tears myself.
"Now, pick up the books." She hesitated, obviously considering one last act of rebelliousness, then picked them up and put them back on the table.
"And now, you will say you are sorry to Sir John and Tim, for your extreme rudeness and bad behaviour."
"Sorry" she muttered, turning first to John, then to Tim."Sorry."
Then she flung herself onto my lap with her arms around my neck, hiding her face, her tears wet against my cheek, whispering "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I held her tight to me and kissed her hair.
"Dear God" John murmured, from behind his hand. "She is just like her mother."
Yes! She's just like her mother.
My beautiful five year old daughter.
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