The Picture Frame by Cath Bore

‘Just a little something to put one of your wedding photographs in, love.' Clare's maternal grandmother Edith, in her best coat, offered up her unwrapped gift.  Simon sniggered over her shoulder. Clare, swathed in designer ivory silk, cheeks flushing pink, smiled along with him.  A look from her mother shamed Clare into cooing over the object before she put it with all the other trinkets from distant relatives.

She planted a Chanel lipstick imprint on Edith's tissue paper cheek.

‘You'll have to come over to the house, soon,' said Clare. She moved on without waiting to receive Edith's acceptance.

The frame was silver, a rather plain item with a thick rounded rim. It had been given to Clare's grandparents on their nuptials some sixty years back.  It had held a black and white picture of them and lived on their mantelpiece. Mementoes of their family and lives had grown up around, leaning against it sides and back.

 Now the frame was Clare's.

‘Is this an antique?' Wading through their wedding gifts after returning from a two week Caribbean honeymoon, Simon had peered at the frame, looking for any marks that might offer up the promise of value. ‘Oh well. It looks alright, I suppose.'

Appearances are everything, Clare thought as she picked it up. She ran her fingers over the worn edges, polished within an inch of its scratched and shiny life. There was the dent on its left side, where Clare had dropped it once. She'd been five; everyone at school had to bring in a photo of their grandparents. Clare had been proud to take in the photo of Grams and Garndar, as she called them then, and in the silver frame, too. But Grams said it added to the history of the thing and just put it back on her mantelpiece.

   Simon had picked the picture of himself and Clare for the frame. It was forced into its silver confines, and positioned on the metal shelf in their lounge. The frame sat alone, exposed on the hard surface.

   In the picture Simon's eyes were glassy and red, his face blotched pink and shiny. Ever the entertainer, he was gurning, Victory V signs held aloft. One was above Clare's head, giving her rabbit ears as she stood next to him, the merest sliver of light between their two bodies as they posed.

  ‘An accountant! Our Clare's only gone and married a bloody accountant!' Clare's father toasted his new son in law's antics with gulps of Remy Martin.

   Simon grinned at him, baring his teeth. Clare cringed inside.

   Her face was cool and white in the photo, plastic smile glued in place. On her wedding day, her mind had been buzzing, her skull seemed to clank with every mangled thought that ricocheted inside it. Her spine was straight, despite the bruised ribs Simon had gifted her.  

That had been then, and Clare had been the recipient of far more than just bruised ribs during her brief marriage.

She remembered his pupils dilated and blank just last night, as she sat eating dinner. The hour old cut above her left eye became jammy, strands of hair sticking, pulling at the roots on her scalp whenever she exhaled. Her primary instinct told her to push her fringe away from the itchy scab; a more recent intuition told her to ignore it. Don't pull his eyes to the cut. Don't pull his eyes to her. Just eat.

‘Been drinking again, have you?' he had demanded.

Clare stayed silent.

‘Come on! How much have you had this time?'

Simon sneered at her.

 As Simon morphed back into the nice bloke she lived with sometimes, Clare picked at her food, and concentrated on their photo on the other side of the room. She tried to make that chink of light between them bigger. There it was, growing wider...

‘That fucking frame!' Simon spat at her.

The volume on the television from the Adams' house next door welled up, the theme music from Coronation Street buzzing through the walls. Nah nah nah, nananah...

    Simon strode across the room. He threw the picture frame at Clare. She ducked, wrapping her arms around her head. Clunk! It made the dullest sound, and bounced from wall to carpet, before flying under the sofa, out of view.

‘I'm sorry,' she pleaded anyway, hoping she had done sufficient to end all this. Grovelling usually worked on him. Her lungs froze.

 He stomped out.

 Yes. It was enough.

    It was agreed between them that the fault lay with her. It was easier that way. Things would go back to normal for a short uneasy while, until the disturbed cycle rolled around again.  

 The next morning, Simon pushed his mouth onto her cheek before leaving for work. Had last night happened?  Am I going mad? He's not acting like we've had another...argument. She frowned. The pain that zapped from the disturbed crust on her forehead reminded her that no, all was not well. That all too familiar feeling cut through her. Guilt? Shame? Or was it relief?

 The front door slammed behind Simon. The sound rocked the house, its belongings, Clare.

Her stomach turned over. Her hands shrunk into tight iron fists at her sides. She took in the Gaggia coffee machine on the breakfast bar. And its matching microwave. The organic herb and spice rack. The Smeg fridge. Something cracked inside her. She wanted - needed - to scream.  She put her head in her hands, the scab coming away. Bright red liquid ran through her fingers. She sobbed, her tears intermingling with the blood. Why am I here? Do I really want a fridge from bloody Star Trek? Is that what this is all about? Really?  

She flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time. That would have tipped Simon into a rage. But he couldn't see her! Clare grinned in triumph as she hauled clothes into bin bags, holdalls, anything.

The phone rang, slicing the air, its ringer on full volume so Clare would miss no calls. She picked it up.

 ‘Did you find your list?' Simon's voice boomed. ‘You didn't remind me to give it to you. All that messing around you did last night. It's in my study. On my desk.'

‘I'll have a look, shall I? Just a min-‘

‘I have to go. I'll speak to you in an hour.' A pause. The voice came back, gentler. ‘I only write these lists because you forget everything, you know.'

‘I know. I'll find the list and do everything on it, I promise.'

‘Good girl.'

The line went dead.

Idiot. That's what you are. A fool. Who do you think you are, anyway? You stupid, stupid idiot. He's right. You can't cope on my own. What on earth made you think you could? She unpacked the bags and returned everything to its place.

Studying the list, Clare immersed herself in the day's tasks, ticking them off, noting down time taken - when she began each errand, time completed. And no cheating either. If he suspected dishonesty, he would time her...

Clare shuddered.

She began cleaning the lounge, moving the sofa out of the way. As the sofa slid sideways, the glinting silver of the picture frame caught the light. It winked at her. She sat on the floor and looked at the picture, turning it over in her hands.

A short ten minutes later she found herself on the pavement outside the house. Simon's house. Clare picked at the stitching on her handbag. She jumped at the click of their neighbour's front door shutting. Mrs Adams was standing there.

‘Hello, love.'

‘Oh. Hello.'

Clare gripped the strap on her bag.

Mrs Adams looked at Clare, and stared at her packed bags. A pause.

‘Goodbye, love.'  

Clare nodded. She stared at the pavement.

A taxi pulled up. Clare rushed into the back seat. The driver's eyes flickered at her scabbing forehead. He breathed in, sharp, but said nothing. He got out and hoisted Clare's belongings into the boot before getting back in. The taxi pulled away; Clare turned for one last look at the house she'd existed in for the last eighteen months and caught Mrs Adams staring back at her.    

As the taxi turned the corner, Clare sat back in her seat. She held on tight to her grandmother's picture frame, the heat from her hands marking it with sweat and grease, condensation casting an opaque film across its surface.

 She felt the dent knocked into it by Simon the night before. It's symmetrical now; a flaw on either side. Never mind. It's all part of its history. She took a tissue from her pocket and began to wipe the frame clean.