Barbara had just faked her one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth orgasm. Not consecutively, you'll understand. A biological impossibility surely? She noted the new figure as the sweeps of artex metamorphosed and abstracted into strangely erotic line drawings; like something she had once seen at a travelling exhibition at the Arts Centre with Carol. The toilet flushed behind the bathroom door, and she hoped that Graham wouldn't splash the mirror. Graham's ablutions following intercourse were considerable and time-consuming and it often crossed her mind whether he was attempting to physically remove every trace of their copulation, like the mud and ground in dirt from his fingernails when he returned from work; scrubbing his privates just as frenetically with his well-worn nailbrush.

Figures scrolled through her mind. She cross-checked and tabulated, totting up household bills and calculating tax returns, as her ceiling pictures melted and gave way to symbols, flying in and out from every corner; she fought the urge to get up and Write it! swiftly on neat, crisp sheets of ruled notepaper. Barbara hadn't always been a faker. In the beginning she had experienced something close to delight in Graham's explorations, which had, more often than not, resulted in a reassuring shudder. But, after time, the whole exercise had become less of a treat, and more of a chore. The usual preliminaries, the same positions - lights off, legs spread, ra, ra, ra. Not that she complained. Graham appeared delighted in his ability to extract all manner of murmurs and groans from his wife, and she rather enjoyed the performance; having secretly harboured an aspiration for amateur dramatics, ever since her performance as Nun #3 in The Bridport Players' production of The Sound of Music. How she'd longed to be Maria: Von-Trapped forever in Vienna. But it was Graham, and not the Captain who presented her with flowers at the show's climax. They'd said goodnight to their friends and driven home in silence. Fifteen years of togetherness and she clutched a limp spray of carnations. He'd asked her to keep her costume on, quietly drew the curtains on the cul-de-sac, and slowly sodomised her over the coffee table; grunting along rhythmically to his videotaped episode of Ground Force.

But that was all by-the-by, too long ago and unspoken of, and things had settled down immeasurably in the years following that unprecedented event. In any case, these were not morning matters. The numbers didn't total, there was a discrepancy. Her fingers hovered absently over a non-existent calculator somewhere on the duvet cover. Tap, tap, tap. Graham liked morning sex more than any other. Set him up for the day. 'Never send a man out to work unsatisfied', her mother had once advised. Not that there was ever a choice, if it was up, it was to be used. Graham was not one for waste. The shower lurched into action; he would be some time yet. Four times if it was a bad day. She hoped it was a bad day.

Of course, she'd imagined him dead hundreds of times. Three hundred, to be precise. Not wished for it, or desired it exactly, but just rehearsed the moment. The doorbell would go or the phone would pierce her thoughts and she would brace herself, compose her face, ready for the news. 'Oh God, please God, no'. But it would be Carol, or a delivery for Graham, and she would return to the kitchen and stare out of the window at the burgeoning hydrangeas. She'd given up on God a long time ago. He used to exist in the margins of her mind, and would gently whisper to her in the night when she called out to the stars for an answer. Then he was gone, and she felt very --, well, very alone. Whenever she passed by little ones on the pavement in town, staring vacantly out of their pushchairs, not in control and other-worldly, she wondered if they were lonely too.

Forty four pounds and eighty nine pence at the builder's merchants.

Of course. There. She was satisfied, the books were squared and all tables tallied. She felt the strain of her arched back, and the muscles somewhere near her pelvis contract and retract; sinking into the mattress, falling into oblivion, down, down, down into the depths, watching the motes within her closed eyes.

She began to clear the breakfast things, sweeping toast crumbs into her hand, stacking lines of china in the dishwasher. Her mother would not approve. Best china in dishwashers? Unheard of. The jam and marmalade were re-sealed and put away. 'Always have preserves on the breakfast and tea table Barbara'. Graham had downed his coffee and toast with enthusiasm, but could not clear the mess. She understood. She was used to it. He would need to wash again. She hummed 'What will this day be like?' and wished that the phone would call and Carol would be there chirping. 'So, they've gone Barb, what shall we do?'

They could go to the French market in town, she wanted some cheeses and meats; it made her feel happy, swinging a basket and feeling the sunshine. They would often talk of the future, their husbands retired, and mortgages paid off. Barbara had calculated the cost; Carol had chosen the cottages in Cornwall. 'We'll grow old together darling'. They'd paint the scenery and collect teapots, and their men would buy a sailboat and explore the length and breadth of the Carrick Roads. But Carol's sons had never taken over the business. They'd gone to University and had girls on their minds. Big strapping lads, lolloping all over her sofa and who had loved their Mum, and were there by her side the whole time she was sick. 'Look after my boys, Barbara', and she'd watched her friend's blue eyes burn dry and kissed them closed for the last time.

It was accepted and understood many years before that Graham didn't want children. It would be unfair to them and to her. He couldn't have coped with it you see. She watched him wash and re-wash his hands again and again, and handed him a clean tea towel. There were times, after he'd left for work and the van disappeared around the corner, that she would rest her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The school run. Madness. Who would want the aggravation? Grubby grey dresses and kisses goodbye at classroom doors, and the sweet smell of the baby's hair after his bath. Two hands gripping your neck so tight, hugging him close on her hip. I've got you, I've got you. Shall we have egg and soldiers for brekkie, Billy? And she would finally give in to it, slamming her head on the glass over and over until she lost count.

So she would go out. It would do her good. A constitutional, as her mother would say. Old haunts, half-remembered conversations and four hundred steps in to town. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, suffocating her like a damp washcloth; stale with water. Hottest summer on record. Thirty two degrees. Graham and Chris would be at Mrs. Harrison's by now, finishing the pagoda, planting the perennials. Chris had taken her by the hand at Carol's funeral and just held it, his eyes lowered. He drew in some breath and didn't say a word. It was enough. Funny how we all just get on, muddle through. Didn't someone say somewhere that we should suck the marrow out of life? That's all very well, but there's a lot to be said for getting by.

She bought an ice-cream from the vendor and sat in the market square, resting her bag between her feet and thought about Carol. They'd sat here on Saturdays, discussing their childhoods and the things they'd dreamt of as young girls. The women they'd hoped to be, the men they thought they would love. Carol had taken her hand; no words necessary. Barbara looked about her, ice cream dribbling down the side of the cone, and counted the people passing by.

Graham's van was on the drive when she reached home. He was back early and she notched up the cracks on the pavement. The roses were heavy with heat and could no longer hold their heads up, slumped in defeat. She knew how they felt. The lawn needed to be mown, but she liked the wildness of it, dandelions sprouting up like unruly teenagers. He'd put the fan on in the kitchen and she stood before it, the oscillations bringing alternating waves of fresh, clean air and she watched a sparrow drinking greedily from the birdbath, making her long for a glass of cold water and she ran the tap and cooled her warm hands. She unpacked the shopping basket. They would have afternoon tea in the garden, in the shade of the trees, and she would read her magazine.

Barbara carried the glass with her. Up the stairs: thirteen in total. He would be showering still, until he felt clean. She'd left him five towels, in case he spoiled one and had to start over. Tonight she would rub his sore knees, elbows and knuckles with Vaseline and hope the worry wouldn't return before morning. The bedroom door was closed and she stood before it momentarily, the cold tumbler in her hand, and she swayed slightly before turning the handle and felt a sensation, something --, something like, --contentment. She leant against the door. There on the bed, their bed, Chris was on all fours, naked and making the most peculiar noise. Graham was behind him, holding Chris's shoulder, his fingers sinking into Chris's flesh, thrusting and groaning in a familiar low tone, wearing only his tool belt.

The whole scene was obviously illusory, a world away. She watched with interest as Graham's hammer gently knocked against his thigh. Slap, slap, slap. She thought of the Captain and Maria, kissing in the garden beneath the jasmine, 'for here you are, standing there, loving me, whether or not you should'.

Gently, Barbara turned and closed the door behind her and counted the stairs one by one. Slowly, deliberately; calculating each step of her descent, and emptied the remaining water from her glass into the soil surrounding a spider plant on the window sill. The kitchen counters were clean, everything was in its place and she began to make a pot of tea. She heard movements upstairs. There was panic above and calm below. Carefully, she set three cups and saucers on the table, picked up the teaspoons and buffed them with thick squares of kitchen towel. The kettle began to tremble and her hand began to shake.
She totalled the costs.

Eight thousand in savings; the account she and Carol had opened months before. Enough, she thought. She popped the teacakes from the toaster and laid them gently on three white plates, and thought of the children who would have devoured them hungrily. They would have been proud of her in that moment. She would have called her girls, and they'd tell her to do it if it made her heart sing. Her boy would have thrown everything aside to hold her tight. She put the preserves on the table and then removed them again. No, Mother, she smiled. This doesn't warrant jam.

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