The Last Selfie

by Hazel Hitchins 2 years ago in breakups

Revenge is a dish best served with DairyLea.

The Last Selfie

Steam billowed behind her through the open bathroom door. She tightened the towel across her chest and padded to the bedroom. The scent of furniture polish and Airwick mingled with the lingering scent of her bubble bath. She dabbed her pink skin gently with the towel and reached for the jar of La Mer on the thrift store dressing table she’d bought that morning. She breathed in it’s soft aroma. Half the jar was gone already, she’d have to use it sparingly in future. But tonight warranted something special. She massaged the lotion into her skin in slow circular motions. Her hands were tight and red, her shoulders ached, but every surface of the apartment gleamed. She closed her eyes and sighed with satisfaction. She wrapped herself in her cashmere robe and went into the living room, taking time to drink in the freshly vacuumed carpet and battered pine coffee table. Her eyes fell on the bottle - the only dusty thing left in her new home. She smirked as she remembered the day it was bought. The vendor in his white gloves guiding them through the maze of oak casks to the “special selection”- rows of dark dusty bottles lying in cushioned racks, and the crown jewel, resting in it’s own lined casket. The vendor hovered his hand over the bottle. He spoke with her husband in reverential tones about tannins and bouquets. She had stifled a yawn. This wasn’t how she had expected their honeymoon in Venice to be. The Vendor had explained that they could import specific dust to adorn the bottle. Her snort of laughter had been silenced by their glares. When they spoke of the price, she baulked.

“We’ll have to save this for a really special occasion, won’t we?”

The men had looked at her pityingly before her husband explained.

“Darling, one does not buy the Chateau Lafite 1787 to drink!”

“Then why…” her cheeks had continued to burn long after their indulgent smiles had faded.

They went upstairs to sign the paperwork.

“Make it out in my wife’s name” ordered her husband. “A wedding gift - tax deductible” he explained to the vendor. He’d patted her head.

“Don’t worry, darling. We’ll buy something for you later.”

“Forse il supermercato vendera un bel prosecco” added the Vendor, snidely.

Both men had laughed and, not knowing what else to do, she had joined in.

Seven years and an envelope of incriminating photographs later, she had stood in the marble hallway of their home and pondered her next move. Regardless of the the grainy proof of his infidelity, he would not make leaving easy. Looking around, she saw his furniture, his ornaments, his paintings on the wall. The perfect showcase for his trophy. She would not fight him for it. She would take only what was hers.

He’d laughed when he discovered the wine was gone.

“When you can’t afford rent, call me and I’ll give you £10,000 for it.”

She smiled again at the memory. Wandering through to the kitchenette she grabbed a couple of packets and a paper plate and made her way back to the sofa and coffee table.

She’d had an email this morning confirming her new job. The pay wasn’t much, but it was enough.

She laid her feast out on the table. She wiped away the dust from the bottle, broke the seal and picked up the corkscrew. No wine glasses yet, so she’d have to use a plastic beaker. She lined up cream crackers and spread them thickly with dairylea. She positioned them next to the bottle and saluted the camera with her plastic beaker. Inputting his number, she chuckled to herself before clicking “send”.

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Hazel Hitchins

I love a good story, be it reading them or writing them. If you like my work, feel free to find me on Facebook at Hazel Hitchins author:

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