MAGGIE RAINEY-SMITH
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Through the Belgian Glass
Grant had lifted her once like that. Just once and even then he’d almost dropped her. It hadn’t been romantic. She’d been worried she might fall. He’d been so reckless and tipsy and it hadn’t been about her at all. He was trying to impress another woman at the time. Holding Barbara precariously (possibly even carelessly) and watching another woman – a dark, plump woman, who worked on the floor above Grant at Head Office. Of course there’d been benefits. Grant’s libido had improved in direct ratio to his infatuation with the plump predator. And as far as Barbara knew (although she did worry at the time), it was only Barbara who had benefited from this. It was in the early years of their marriage and Grant’s self-confidence in bed, his increased physicality, the intensity, had impressed her. Growing up on a farm, she’d learned from her father about bulls and teasers. At the time she’d accepted the dark, plump influence in their lives as just that – a teaser. And even now, watching the wedding on the beach and thinking about Grant holding her to impress this other woman – her elbow flared and itched, and she scratched and this time her elbow bled. A large red teardrop sat on her elbow, it gathered momentum and fell and neither of them noticed a small red stain seeping into the new caramel-coloured carpet.
The wind picked up outside, increasing Barbara’s concern for the bride and she’d extended her concern to the photographer now, who was directing the bridesmaids away from the shore-line and towards the shelter of the wharf. Viewing the wedding through their new front window and with hindsight, Barbara was able to imbue her own life with not so much rose-coloured glass, but at least expensive Belgian glass. It was good to be worrying about someone else’s future. And at that moment a rogue wave crept up on the unsuspecting wedding party, encircled them, washing their feet, spraying salt water on all their finery. Barbara felt panic for them, a physical shock that tingled down her arms and into her fingers. She worried all alone at the window, and the wedding party doused in salt water, ruffled by the southerly, simply laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and the photographer, seizing the moment, stood back and carefully captured the chaos.
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