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WHEN your husband's surname is also a term of endearment, it's not easy for him to know if you're being sweetly affectionate or pogo-hoppingly mad.
That's why you should always try to make it clear in other ways.
I stop in the middle of a carpeted corridor. From beginning to end, paintings from the artist Monet line the walls. There are nine in total, and while eight of them are reproductions, the centre piece is an original. Kept in a gilt-edged frame, it was procured after a very tense hand-raising competition in an auction and dug a deep crater in Jared's wallet.
I place a gentle hand on the glass. Underneath, irises bloom in daubs of violet shades, and the grass looks like it just needs a friendly wind to come alive. I don't know much about art, but an odd feeling starts spreading in my chest whenever I look at this piece. It seems to press out against the underside of my ribcage and beg to break free.
Three years ago, when construction began on the house, Jared commissioned this corridor as a testament of his love and devotion to me. In front of our family and friends, he proposed to me while kneeling on the red carpet – the very carpet I'm now standing on – as the sunlight streamed in from the window behind him. He told me it's no coincidence that the painter and I share the same surname, and that I carry the ethereal beauty of Monet's paintings in my entire physical being. It was all really romantic.
At the end of the corridor there's a baseball bat hanging on a pair of mahogany wall brackets. Previously owned by a famous baseball player (whose name I've clean forgotten), it was last used in 1934 to hit the winning home run at Yankee Stadium.
Today, it's about to be used again.
Taking the bat down, I give it a few experimental swings. I like it. A nice, solid weight.
For a second there's an ounce of hesitation at what I'm doing. For a second the idea of smashing a priceless piece of art fills me with guilt.
But then the bat comes down, and the glass framing the original Monet shatters into a thousand pieces, and suddenly all I'm feeling is euphoria.
Anthony skids to a halt at the end of the corridor. "Madam! What on earth are you doing?"
I look at Anthony, raising the bat. "You were right, Anthony. Jared was doing the cleaning."
The bat comes down again. The painting wobbles, teeters for a second – then it falls forward, hitting the carpeted floor. I put my stiletto on the frame and look at Anthony.
"You best get your master before I do anymore damage," I say.
The butler doesn't need telling twice. He flies off and comes back with Jared just before I'm about to tear an irreparable hole in the oil canvas.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" I've never heard Jared scream before, but it's something I imagine pterodactyls sound like. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT COSTS?"
I whip my hair away from my face. The bun's come loose in all my exertions, and I'm working up a real good sweat. Holding the bat high, I roll my shoulders, ready to swing again.
"STOP HER GODDAMNIT!"
Anthony leaps forward to place both hands on the bat, holding me at bay. Here's a tip, never try to restrain a woman in high heels, because this inevitably happens – I stomp on the butler's foot, hard. He lets out a queer choking noise and his face starts to turn a shade of purple I've never seen before. Remarkably, he's still holding on.
Then Jared's security guards reach, and I know better than to fight those guys. I drop the bat, allowing myself the satisfaction of hearing it thunk dully on the floor, and hold both hands up.
Jared is marching my way, veins protruding in his too-shiny forehead. He's got a receding hairline, and I can't believe I'm only just noticing it for the first time. The moonlight is quite literally bouncing off his skull. When he's a foot away from me he sees the chipped state of his prized baseball bat, and another vein pops in his skin.
He opens his mouth, but I get there first. My voice is dangerously calm.
"I'm leaving you."
That takes the wind out of his sails. He gapes for a second, mouth flopping open like a useless fish.
"You can't leave me!" he splutters. "You – this is our third wedding anniversary."
"I don't think that was on your mind when you had sex with Janice on the snooker table."
Anthony's jaw drops open for a second before he clamps it back shut. Like I said, Jared hides his cheating well. No one besides me knows of his philandering ways. And he won't want it to get out.
"That was not what I was doing! I was ... I was just showing her how to clean the table properly," Jared finishes lamely.
"With your pants off?"
"It was hot."
I point upwards at the air-conditioning system that runs through all three floors of our house. "Somehow, I doubt."
"Please darling," Jared whines. "It's all a mistake! I would never cheat on you with Janice. I mean – Janice! From the kitchen!"
Exactly. Janice from the kitchen.
"I'm leaving you," I repeat. "I'm leaving this house. There's no way I'm coming back, unless."
I can see Jared's brain working. I can see him calculating the amount of money he'll need to spend to coax me back. Back to being the pretty wife he gets to show around. I can see him thinking – will I have to buy another Dior Couture dress? Bring her to Paris? I can see him thinking all that, except for the obvious – I won't ever cheat on her like this again.
I can't blame Jared for measuring his mistakes in pounds. It's how he's been taught all his life. It's how I've been taught all my life.
"Unless what?" Jared presses.
I shrug. "Unless it's to see you in court. That's right, Darling, I'm divorcing you."
I walk away. The glass has probably torn small holes in the train of my dress, but I don't care. I have more dresses, and they weren't paid by me. Besides, how many times in your life do you get to walk away in Versace after leaving your husband speechless?
"You can't divorce me!" he rages. "You have nowhere to go! No house! No car! You don't even work!"
I wave him away. I'm drunk and feeling giddy about what I've just done. I'm not in the mood to care about boring little details like owning a job.
"You take steam baths every Friday!" he's saying. "Where can you possibly go that has a steam room for you to use for free? Iris! Listen to me!"
I reach the front doors and whirl around. By this time, our little marriage tiff has accumulated quite the crowd of witnesses.
"Oh, I am listening, Jared! And you want to know what I hear? Yip yip yip, bark bark bark!" My hand is up and gesturing for additional emphasis. "Woof woof woof! That's what I hear. A dog barking. And you're not even some gorgeous husky, or beautiful Alsatian – you're nothing but a common, short-haired, whiny old poodle!"
Jared reddens until he resembles an overripe tomato stuffed in a black and white suit. "I am not a common poodle!"
I narrow my eyes and hiss, "Your dick, is shorter than poodle hair."
A collective gasp ripples around the household staff. Stepping outside into the chilly night air, I snap my fingers. Half a minute later the limousine pulls up.
As I step into the passenger seat, Jared declares, "You'll come crawling back to me by tomorrow, Iris! I guarantee it!"
"That's as unlikely as you keeping your dick in your pants," I retort, and then the car door slams and I'm speeding off into the night.
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