Chapter One

An End& A Beginning

My husband once broke wind in the kitchen with such a protractedly loud, rippling intro and stomach-turning flumping finale, that from afar I thought he must have prised open our large, well-suctioned refrigerator and tipped a massive casserole out onto the marble floor. In my startled disgust I remember thinking: he needs to die. No, really.

“Better out than in!” he snidely declared, more mitigation than excuse, but it was just another lie. To see that same naked, butter-wouldn’t-melt backside now you wouldn’t believe it capable of such horror. Studied reflected in the large mirror designed for such things it is undeniably a nice rear; a smooth rear. It is all grab-able soft innocence one second and then driving taut muscle the next. It is waxed and tended and toned. It is a very rich arse, used to sinking daily within the leather sumptuousness of a Maserati’s interior, and the ergonomically designed, swivelling, high-backed comfort that only the very successful financiers at his company are given. The dimples give it a perpetually youthful cheekiness. Surely this backside could do no wrong? And yet here it is now: pump, pump, pumping away, sodden-slap hammering into me even more humiliating, inside-ripping dismay than that wind-breaking incident aroused. He thinks I just have to take it but boy, is he wrong.

So, anyway, the other day a frozen goose hit the house. I kid you not. I actually saw it land. I was lying in bed, idly playing around, staring up at the ceiling because that’s what you do if you have a bed positioned specifically for looking up through the snazzy pyramid-shaped skylight above. Then a bulk flashed through my vision and landed with a thump. I simply had to go up for a look, even though I don’t normally do ladders. Not in high heels anyway. But I couldn’t risk falling through the roof and finding myself too broken to crawl to my shoe cupboard to swap safer sneakers for my signature stilettos before the emergency services arrived to scrape me off the floor. Got to look one’s best, especially in such moments. I even put a puff of Love in Black behind each ear in case I died up there and wasn’t found until I’d started to turn a little gamey.

The goose wasn’t looking quite so spattered and sorry for itself as it would have done if not frozen. It was reasonably in one piece. I’m no scientist but I’m shrewd enough for a fair deduction and it was this: it was flying along happily until it hit a cold front or got swept upwards in a therm or something, causing it to freeze and plummet. I don’t think it was shot out of the back of some refrigerated truck. Most worrying was its fina