Shades of grey

Try as I might, the words 'What A Complete Fucking Cunt' leap, gambol, stroll, whichever, into my mind, unbidden. And I really really wish they wouldn't.

The scene: the white house of doom where the social climbing step mothers of this world live. And my daddy, obviously. Silence rings through the house, echoing pervasively through all the white rooms, uninterred by the white furniture or the silver mirrors scattered liberally throughout. Dinner is punctuated only by the cadence of silver cutlery scraping upon white china, the table so quiet the fizzing of coke in glasses sounds loud to the drinker. Drinkee?
I imagine the kind of silence that echoes with weight, the kind you experience as a child; that sense of utter menace you feel when you finally push a little too much, step too far beyond the carefully marked white line, and an irate parent sends you to your room, to be 'dealt with later', where the silence is heavy and oppressive with guilt and the dull thud of your heart.
Later; the television is on, the dulcet tones of Noel Edmonds blare out of speakers as they both watch unseeingly, for perhaps the first time ever. Even the grating voice of useless female contestant A with a latest 'strategy' to 'win' seems to gain body in the silence in that house. The sound does something to bolster courage while at the same time failing utterly to raise spirits. Or spirit. A large hand, elegant manicure somewhat at odds with the abundance of freckles, reaches out towards the remnote control lying in the gulf between them on the white sofa. She hesitates, hand hovering for a moment longer, before it dips, takes the plunge. Drops the stone into the abyss.

"Are you going to leave me?" she asks, quietly and levelly, still staring at the screen, heart no longer pounding.
He turns towards her, one knee on the sofa. "I don't know," he says. "I'm still thinking about it."

______________________

Clearly I am now about to bring all this round to relate to myself. I do not like Rose. Last time I saw her she called me 'Turkish trash', which was certainly a novel experience, visibly and verbally joined the ranks of those who refuse to take me seriously because of my accent and my education, informed me I was certainly my mothers child in that I was a total 'selfish fucker'. I was washing up at the time, this being about six thirty am, and, this being me, I ignored the tirade. Actually, I thought it was washing over me; until I realised I'd accidentally smashed an elegant but ridiculously overpriced wine glass while not being bothered in the least. I maintain what I was actually bothered about was my fathers inability to step in at any of the available junctures.
Last time I saw him was about fifteen minutes later, by which time I'd packed my things and was standing in the doorway, shaking a little, blood snaking its way down my wrist from the glass. I kissed him goodbye, steadfastly refused to let him even try to apologise for her, or bandage me up.

Ah, September. A-fucking-h*, having to soak teensy tiny shards of a £50 wine glass from ones palm and inner wrist** while completely submerged in the belief I wouldn't see him again. Was I over-reacting? Perhaps; and Stuart, he of the totally functional family, thinks so. But, my brother hasn't seen my daddy since they got married seven years ago.
So maybe not.

Regardless, I feel terrible for her. Not the divorce; the fact he's decided on it, and isn't telling her until he's sold the house and done something complicate involving stocks and shares she can't get her grubby divorce court hands on.

Admirably mercenary. Frightfully callous, to the extent even I'm going 'ouch'.






* Work with me here.
** Actually, it won't come as a surprise when I say Joel did it. Left to my own devices, I'd probably have ignored it until the whole infection thing made digging around in open wounds for little slivers of glass seem like a soft option. Lots of swearing.