Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts by Talli Roland

autumn chill.
    Peter pulls me even closer. I flip on my side and we watch as the BBC woman talks her discomfited way through the war in Afghanistan, onto the Middle East and then through to some disturbed weather patterns in the North. As if that’s news.
    Ah . . . it’s so nice lying here. I snuggle even closer, thinking we should move this on to the bedroom. It’s been ages.
    Peter grunts. A grunt that sounds suspiciously like a snore.
    “ Peter!” I turn, scanning his face. Yup, he’s snoozing. Guess I should have come home earlier; I know what he’s like after ten o’clock. Still, I’m not going to let a little sleepiness stop me. I move my hand down to the inside of his thigh, smiling when I feel his body respond. Oh yes, the doctor is definitely in.
    Peter lowers his lips to mine and presses against me, and I let out a contented sigh. I’ve got a successful man who cares about me, and a great new life in London. Now all I need is the job of my dreams, and everything will be perfect.
    Tomorrow, I tell myself as Peter scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. Just wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    “ Have you seen my blue tie?” Peter yells from the bedroom the next morning as I jam myself full of Jaffa Cakes in the kitchen. I don’t care how early it is, there’s no way I’m facing the Botox Bitches on an empty stomach. My tummy is rumbly enough just thinking about whether there’s a response from Leza Larke.
    “ No,” I grunt through a mouthful of crumbs, noting with fascination how several float out of my mouth and onto the black marble counter. I grab some kitchen roll and carefully wipe them up. Brits don’t like crumbs. Or maybe that’s just Peter.
    “ Serenity. Serenity!”
    I sigh and stride into the bedroom. “I don’t know where your tie is,” I say, lodging the Jaffa Cake in the side of my cheek to avoid spewing more bits.
    Peter stops rifling through his closet and turns to face me. “Didn’t you take a load of shirts to the dry cleaner’s last week? Wasn’t my tie in with that?”
    Staring up at the ceiling, I strain to remember. Every week seems the same around here, the days seamlessly blending into one giant mushy time sponge. But I sort of remember thinking I’d do something nice and take Peter’s shirts and that tie I spilled wine on (in my defence, it was abnormally splashy wine) to the dry cleaner’s around the corner. The guy had given me the tag and told me to come back . . . Monday.
    Shit. Monday last week . Eight days ago.
    “ Oh, um . . . they needed extra time to get that wine stain out,” I fib. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.”
    Peter’s face relaxes. “Oh, okay. I thought you’d forgotten, as usual.”
    “ Of course not,” I say, coughing as more crumbs make their way down my throat. As usual? When was the last time I forgot to get the dry cleaning? Oh, right. Pretty much always. A geyser of frustration gushes inside me. Why can’t I remember all these pesky domestic details? No matter how hard I try, they always slip my mind.
    I make a mental note to pick up the shirts and tie on my way home from work tonight. Peter’s got his monthly dinner with all the other cosmeticians (he gets so annoyed when I call them that, but ‘cosmetic surgeons’ just seems too pompous), so I’ll be on my own. I’m planning an exciting evening of takeaway curry. Then I’ll use lots of dishes and leave them wherever I want. It will be nice to have a breather from Peter’s all-dishes-must-be-washed-as-soon-as-they-touch-the-surface regimen.
    I feed Smitty his organic cat food and mushed-up meds, then Peter and I head out the door, into the silent corridor, and down to the street. Just like I do when I leave the clinic, I let the sounds of traffic and the noise of people wash over me, taking in a deep breath of that wonderfully sooty London smell. I love this city. If I breathed in too deeply in Harris, I’d probably get a noseful of eau de manure .
    We walk