The first time she tried the tablecloth trick, Molly and Neil were eating out at 'Le Neuf' a restaurant in the smartest part of Guildford. The act was neither a response to something Neil had said or had done, nor was it an untimely catharsis of some inner pent-up angst. It meant, she explained later, nothing. It was just a single moment out of line with logic, a misfired synapse, a cerebral glitch. She just had to do it.
Of course, technically speaking, she failed. Unlike the grinsome television magicians whose sleight of hand drew a breathy 'Woooh!' from delighted audiences, Molly was only capable of the un-enchanted wrecking of an orchid table centrepiece in its smooth, glass vase; and which shattered fine smithereens against the edge of the table, creating a small pool of water on the carpet. Waiters attended like curtseying medics to splattered hor's d'oevres and splayed cutlery beneath the reassuring and doctorly explanations of the maitre d':
'you must have caught just caught it, madam, no explanation needed!'� he smiled, drilling Neil with the cold steel eyes of one who was bought up with the familiarity of domestic violence. Neil stood, legs astride, hovering between realities, trying to find a place of reason between extreme concern for his cherished wife and the urge to divorce her on the spot. Molly stood, in wistful elegance in her teal cocktail dress and sling-back shoes, and with one edge of the cloth still clutched in her hands.
'What on earth happened there?'� He hissed, red in the face, and finding a purpose for himself amidst the scene by the meticulous straightening the knot in his tie. 'You could have just asked for another soup if it was cold!'� She was unconcerned, ethereal.
'I think I should have pulled it more level,'� she replied, blue eyes looking calmly into his, 'lifting it too high undermines the spin-factor of all the objects. I think it's that that keeps them on.'�

It was several weeks later, and after many vague, almost mystical explanations on Molly's part (and that Neil could only interpret as her need to get-something-out-of-her-system; or an opportunity for him to learn to see the funny side; or for their need to have children now and not in a few years as planned) that the second time occurred: one Sunday in April, at the blessing of Neil's best-friend's sister Dawn's marriage-blessing. Dawn's mother Sue, being as superstitious as she was pious, had manipulated this compensation for her daughter's hurriedly carried out wedding two weeks before, in a pink satin lined 'Temple of Luurve' whilst on holiday in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, the vicar of Saint Matthew's Parish Church, Dartmoor, who had kindly shifted his schedule to accommodate this family's needs, had that week also kindly decided that the altar should be covered, for the occasion, in the brand new linen cloth whose weft was shot with occasional weave of fine, gold silk thread. It had crossed Neil's mind that his now unpredictable wife might do such a thing as '� but surely not'� he had considered and sweated profusely about such an action on several occasions since. A visit together, at his parent's house one tea-time, table laid on pale yellow gingham cloth; a pub last week at Sunday lunch, pale green, some kind of fabric paper; a tea-shop Molly passed daily on the way from the car-park to work; and especially, their close proximity to a bone china dinner-service display on a beautifully dressed table only the day before, in a department store where they were choosing the wedding present. But no. No whisking of cloths, no myriad crash of receptacles, no acute nervous disorder. He had even begun to place the experience in that slightly more relaxed zone between short-term and long-term memory. So, it was with extreme emotional disorientation and heart-choking anxiety that Neil experienced the moment when Molly, who had wandered glassy eyed and oblivious to the sacred declarations taking place, stepped unnoticed around the side of the tight-huddled nuptial party and towards the altar behind, dropped her hips into a t'ai chi type stance and yanked at the edge of the cloth with gusto.

TO BE CONTINUED'�!

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