A huge colourful arrangement of burnt-orange and egg-yolk yellow blooms that clashed badly with the lounge-room drapes. Mattie put them in the laundry, on top of the washing machine, and closed the door. Because she simply didn’t want to see them, or smell them. There was something about the aroma of florist’s arrangements, perhaps from the little foam cushions as they aged, that she found unbearably depressing. The day before, Mattie had begun with every intention of staying in bed for the duration. Just pulling the covers over herself and hibernating until the children were back. But instead, after an hour of lying there feeling sorry for herself, she began brewing a righteous anger that eventually energised her to such an extent that she was propelled out of bed to roam the unit with her fists clenched. How dare he do that to her. How dare he. And, strangely, the anger pleased her. For the past few years her anger had been blunted by a dull acceptance, whereas today it felt sharp and precise, and by lunchtime she had convinced herself that what had happened last night was actually for the best, because it clearly told her how right she’d been to leave.
