Money, a considerable sum, sat in Laura’s bank account, proceeds from the house sale, proceeds from the marriage that never was.
We took her to a prestige new housing estate. Showed Laura a house on a plan, not yet built. She chose bathrooms, kitchen cupboards, the tiles to go in all. She put a holding deposit to secure the deal.
We were pleased with her investment.
Laura worked hard at being a nurse. She enjoyed her role in the hospital.
Husband and I came home early one evening, Laura was in bed, an early shift the next day. I popped my head round her door, she asked for a glass of fresh orange and gulped it in one. Laura and I chatted for a while. She told me of the beer festival she had been to that afternoon with Mr Big I Am.
Next day a tale came our way: Laura, at the beer festival, was paralytic. I confronted her, asked whether this was true?
‘No, you saw me that evening, did I seem drunk to you?‘
I dismissed the tale, an act of jealousy. The same person saw Mr Big I Am walking in a direction that made no sense.
I think of the orange juice, the need to drink in one. I think of Mr Big I Am, and the direction his womanising took.
I look back and I wonder, what was fact? What was fiction?