Oyster

Janet stared at the dresser. Expensive jars, heavy with cream, decorated the wooden surface. They looked out of place here, somehow wrong; illicit purchases made out of desperation. Maybe this was the answer. Maybe the glittering promises lying before her were the solution to her problems, but she was apprehensive; her unpractised hands limp in her lap. An oyster of deep purple eye shadow smiled invitingly up from the surface making her feel like a child in a sweet shop. She didn’t want to spoil the packaging yet the promise of the texture and the shade against her pallid skin was intriguing. Carefully releasing the fragile clasp she hovered her finger over the contents. Purple, like the dress the woman was wearing, she thought dipping in her forefinger and crushing the silky powder over her skin.

The image appeared again in her mind, the one that thickened her throat and prompted a twist deep in her stomach. Her husband, two hours after he had left for his business trip sitting in a restaurant window with a woman in purple sundress. The two of them framed in the glinting window, an elegant tableau in which he was laughing and leaning towards a wide smile and bare polished shoulders.

Janet had responded unconsciously to the sight of his familiar profile as it flashed into her preoccupied mind, past the colourful shopping bags and the dark spots of sunglasses parading the warm bright street. She had paused, obscured from view on the other side of the road suspended in an unreal moment and noticed the detail of the woman’s dress and the long fingers intimately running over her husband’s face. The sunlight glancing off the shop facades disorientated her and she let herself be carried along by the tide of weekend shoppers before she pushed herself into a café. Inside the cool interior, she had watched the brass fan revolve on the ceiling and tried to reconcile the scene she had just witnessed in her head with some explanation. At first she felt flushed and almost apologetic for intruding on her husband’s private moment before the hurt began to numb her mind and the humiliation crept down over her perspiring unkempt figure.

John doesn’t drink wine, she thought as she lifted one of the opalescent jars off the dresser; the contents smooth and heavy like whipped cream. Yet he was sharing a bottle of wine that day. She had seen the amber liquid shining that day in the window, and unhooking the heavy lid she imagined his slow smile over the wineglass at the young complexion smiling back. The cream was cold on her face as she massaged it into her unremarkable skin. His smile; she believed that smile was reserved for her face only.

She thought about John and their fifteen years together as she methodically painted her eyelids smearing the gloss out and over the socket to make her eyes seem wider She thought about John’s smile and his wide hands clasping her waist. She thought about the decisions they had made together, the house they had decorated and furnished and all the places they had visited, preserved in the silk-bound albums she displayed in their living room cabinet. Janet thought about all these things and more as she stained and painted her reflection.

Not as beautiful as the girl in the purple dress, Janet critically inspected her appearance, not as glossy as the pouting women on TV The artful faces and ripe cleavages thrusting into their comfortable living room every evening embarrassed her. She sighed, even at home I’m not safe.

John’s sneers, directed at the inflated breasts and exaggerated features paraded on screen, were becoming more and more insincere, but she knew he found them infinitely preferable to her spreading thighs and greying underwear. She felt used, unattractive, his perfunctory kisses feeding her fear everyday.

The frustration began to make tracks through her carefully applied powder and she realized competing with the woman in the purple dress was utterly futile. There were no other options open to her. John would come back from his business trip and quietly she would listen to the fabrications. She would stare at the wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes and pray quietly that the years they had spent together would be enough for him to stay.

In the beginning Janet had felt like a princess basking on a bed of furs. She was beautiful, exotic, a sensual figure to be shared readily. Covering her with kisses he would open her up like a satin-lined jewellery box and she would sparkle, her head filled with the scent of musk. She knew if he saw her purchases he would laugh and tell her she didn’t need them yet he would still turn over at night and brush away her hands with gentle reprimands.

Janet stared at the artifice in the mirror, a painted mask staring back at her accentuating her ageing skin and tired eyes with garish accuracy. Pressed her fingers to her lips, she suppressed a hysterical laugh as she imagined John’s reaction if he saw her now. They would laugh together and she would let herself be folded into the crook of his arm affectionately and silently feel foolish. Wiping the grease off her face, she noticed a crop of spots appearing on her chin. The rivulets of mascara running through her foundation lending a tragic air to her reflection. This is not the way, she thought, not for me anymore.

She took the bin-liner and walked around the front of the house swaying the bag in her grip. The pots began to leak into one another creating a lurid paste which dripped unnoticed onto the pristine concrete. Janet would notice these marks a few days later on her way back from shopping. She would place the bags down containing the thoughtfully purchased fresh steaks and red wine she planned to serve up for John later that evening and inspect the vermillion smudges with faint disgust. Later that evening she would scrub them off on her hands and knees in the setting sun before he noticed them.