The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife by Gill Davy-Bowker

stare. It’s a difficult thing to do when you keep swaying and burping and hiccupping.
    â€˜Mel, there isn’t anyone else. Honestly! Where did you get that idea from? What’ve you been drinking?’
    Alan’s eyes looked shifty and he had a sort of hunted look about him, Mel thought. He was definitely a guilty man.
    â€˜Empty your pockets, Alan!’ she demanded. There was bound to be incriminating evidence in his pockets. ‘Come on!’
    â€˜Mel, this is ridiculous. Look, sit down and I’ll get us both a cup of tea and we can talk about this sensibly.’
    So Mel plunged her hands into each pocket in turn. Well … no condom packets. There were receipts, however. She’d keep them for later inspection and perhaps to present as useful and damning evidence in divorce court one day. Alan just stood there pretending, she thought, to be perplexed, but at least he didn’t stop her. Maybe he’d covered his tracks as far as his pockets were concerned. She’d have to check his phone and his underpants later, before he had a chance to put the latter in the washing machine.
    â€˜Come on! Get your trousers off!’ demanded Mel.
    â€˜Why? Do you want it right now? I’ve only just got in through the door! Let’s at least sit down first!’
    â€˜If you won’t take them off, I’m going to rip them off!’ screeched Mel like a mad banshee.
    Alan tried to run into the kitchen … a sure sign of a guilty man, Mel decided. He ran through the door and was almost impaled on a protruding bit of plumbing before Mel caught up with him, pulling at his trousers, which proved no match for her gargantuan drunken strength. Down they came while Alan’s bottom was in the air as he held on to the cement bags to prevent becoming skewered by the piping, tools and spirit levels which festooned the room.
    â€˜Mel, really! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?’
    Mel was scrabbling around trying to check out Alan’s Calvin Kleins. She wasn’t quite sure by this time what she was trying to locate as evidence on said underwear. She was too far gone to even think sensibly now.
    All thoughts of having a rational conversation and presenting herself as a dignified and supportive though wronged wife had completely gone out of the window. They were now both on the floor surrounded by bits of metal and tiles.
    â€˜What the hell’s the matter with you, Mel? Have you gone totally insane? And what the hell has happened to this kitchen? How much are we paying for this? Or rather, darling …’ he added sarcastically, ‘… how much am I paying for this while you swan around at the hairdresser’s all day with your frilly friends? Hmm? Look at my suit! That was Savile Row!’ He picked up the trousers and waved them at her. ‘Look! You’ve torn the crotch!’
    Mel started to cry. Not quiet ladylike sniffs, but great huge, gut-wrenching sobs and wails.
    â€˜You’re having an affair, aren’t you? You are! You have to tell me the truth. You must think I was born yesterday if you think I believe you’re spending all this time at work! Give me your shirt! I’m going to get a private detective and have you followed!’ Mel cried.
    â€˜I think we need to talk, Mel,’ stated Alan curtly.
    â€˜Oh God,’ thought Mel. She didn’t like the sound of that. And as they were trying to pull themselves to their feet, the children appeared at the door, the cat jumped onto Alan and the dog wandered away, whining with his tail between his legs.
    They do say be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.
    That thought spiralled around Mel’s agitated and squiffy brain like a cartoon Tasmanian Devil, as she picked herself up off the floor ready for her long-awaited talk with herhusband. First of all, however, they would both have to show solidarity in front of the children who were staring, wide-eyed,