Girl in Profile by Zillah Bethell Page A

sit by the picture window, Wendy and I. Light glides in furtively revealing the floorboards at our feet. Peter’s diary on my lap full of the meals he cooked for his wife – the chocolate puddings, the drizzle cakes, banoffee pies, the roast dinners, the steak tartares. All with grades and whether they stained when she threw them up on her clothes. Lists and endless lists – like he got scared of using verbs so he just put down the nouns. The nouns surrounding the verbs. Agitating them.
    Wendy bites into an imaginary apple, opening her mouth wide and clamping down. It’s what ancient Hollywood stars do apparently to prevent jowls and sags. I try tentatively, opening my mouth wide then clamping. Horseshoe, who is mending the rotten fence by the ornamental pond, stares up at us for a moment. What can he see? Two gurning old women in a picture window. At least I have my own teeth and tits. Sometimes Wendy retracts her lips like she’s Snow White being offered a poisoned one.
    â€œSometimes I wish I’d never met Eleanor.” The light is glaring at the wrinkles etched into her skin. Too bright. Too bright. Too bright for our weak old eyes. “Since Peter died, I’ve been thinking about her a lot. How in many ways she ruined my life.”
    â€œApple bobbing.” I try to distract, innocent as Eve before that fatal scrumping. “Did you ever do it? My late husband had an abiding memory of Halloween. He had a friend round, and his father, Bampa, the blithering idiot, ducked the boy’s head in as a joke. One of his jokes gone too far, and the boy, irate, chased him round the room with an apple.” I laugh at how we laughed at the memory.
    â€œShe bullied me, you see. ‘Oh, Wendy, could you wash up while Rosemary and I entertain the guests? Oh, Wendy, could you walk Bruno? Oh, Wendy, the garden needs a little weeding…’”
    â€œI think you loved her, and I think in her own way she loved you too.”
    Wendy smiles. The welcome relief of shade. Of grey. Of rain. “Just before she died she opened her eyes and said ‘Dear Wendy’. That must mean something, mustn’t it?”
    â€œDefinitely.” My heart fills the gap between what I think and what I say. How many times did my heart do that? Inflate like a red balloon to fill that cavity, that empty space.
    We bite in unison like two ancient Hollywood stars. But does biting count if you’re doing it to an imaginary object? Is it still an action verb? Fair play to Eve. At least she got a taste of the real thing. What is life after all but the biting of imaginary apples?

Gwen
    Working
    My delight upon hearing the cock crow as it signals the start of a day spent painting. Without interruption. Just a cup of tea and asparagus quiche and a day spent painting in my room, Edgar purring contentedly in his basket. Oh that my art may become my salvation, my redemption, the transformation of all my sins.

Girl in Profile
    Spent all day on Girl in Profile , and I asked myself a hundred times did I want the mauve ribbon in her hair. And then in a tremor of agitation I scratched it out. Sometimes I feel I shall go mad. Sometimes I think this solitariness is mere obstinacy.

Moth
    Monopoly
    I’m sitting playing Monopoly with Dove getting all the pink ones like Pall Mall, when the phone rings. It’s Adam. My heart right hooks my ribs. Is that how the first Adam felt when God made Eve? Hellboy is polishing the brass knocker quite calmly today, though yesterday he kicked the recycling bucket so hard down the street it broke.
    â€œThere’s a photographic exhibition on at Cardiff Museum next week.”
    Dove moves the top hat to green. Takes a five pound. Sensible girl. Going up a level. Drew just buys up all the utilities. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Pushing the dog with his hammering spirit level hands.
    â€œI thought Roan might be interested.”
    â€œRoan’s at school.” As