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-17-
Elizabeth
Mrs. Williamson is an attractive woman. Around fifty but her face is wrinkle free and expressionless – Botox most likely. She is dressed immaculately in a figure hugging, low cut blue dress, two large, fake breasts bobbing like apples at her chest. A line of pearls lay over her collar bone, and her ear-rings flash in the flickering candle lights.
I bet they are real diamonds. I bet her husband bought them for her. They are greedy. A greedy, disgusting, proud couple. Not pure like my husband and me. I look at my husband and feel a clench in my gut. Bradley no longer buys diamonds for me.
Throughout the dinner I see him throwing glances at her, a thin sheen of sweat on his gaunt face.
"She's very attractive, isn't she, darling?" I say. "I bet you'd like to fuck her, wouldn't you?" I smile sweetly. "More apple sauce? It's homemade, from our orchard."
The Williamson's both smile.
"Of course, it's delicious, Mrs. Roberts." They reply in unison.
Suddenly Margaret reaches across the table and knocks the pot right out of my hands. Her face is drained of colour.
"Don't eat anymore of that," she shouts.
Bradley turns to her.
"Princess," he says sharply "What on earth has gotten into you?"
She looks at him, her face horrified.
"Can't you see? It's making you ill. All of you. It's making you...say things...do things. Don't eat from the apple tree. Please."
Bradley's face turns a dark shade of red. His eyes flash – rage behind them.
"Go to your room, young lady."
Spit flies from his mouth – spraying the joint of pork.
Margaret looks at the four of us, lost for a moment, then abruptly stands and storms out of the door. There is an uncomfortable silence for a moment, permeated only by the sound of guzzling and slurping from the pantry.
"I'm so sorry about that," I say "Such inappropriate behaviour. Our daughter is troubled. There was an incident back home and she hasn't been quite the same since. I hope she hasn't put you off your dinner."
Mr and Mrs Williamson smile.
"Of course not," they say.
I smile then click my fingers and June waddles out of the pantry, rotten food smeared around her mouth.
"Bring out the apple pie," I say. "It's time for desert."
