As I walked in everyone was sitting down to high tea. It was very fine with silver service and elegant cakes, Victoria sponge with extravagant cream and scrumptious strawberries. I saw her. She was ingratiating in her services to all those seated, stitched into their lace serviettes and doilies. That veneer of smiling servitude. They clearly didn’t have a clue. The incongruity screamed out cutting across the tinkling of tea cups and polite conversation. This was my moment. This was when I would call her out. It was so public there would be no escape, no hiding from the obscene reality. I had no idea of who she was. I just knew it was her. The pretence of being one of us. The calculating control over the charade of high tea. Everything we have done to lay our tables to claim our place at this ritual we call life.
I strode forward and tried to speak. I couldn’t. My mouth was open, the words were there. A jumble tumbled out. A slur. Have I had a stroke? I regroup and muster everything I can and suddenly the words leap out in a scream ... ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY HUSBAND?’
... I woke in a sweat.