Love Is the Answer. Tracy Madden

      First a confession… I interviewed my husband’s mistress for him. You might ask yourself how could I? Well I didn’t bloody-well know, did I?

      It’s not what you think. I interviewed her for a position. Not that type of position, a position with our company. I thought she was a dream.

      I thought she could replace me in the business perfectly. I just didn’t expect her to replace me everywhere else as well.

      Today was not a good day. Today was a doona day. Today I shed tears. Today I ate too much chocolate. Today I got angry. And today, I finally walked away.

      On second thoughts, perhaps today was a great day.

      *

      One last time, I cast my eyes around our warehouse home, the decor uncompromising and modern, with free standing units and open chrome shelving, never my idea of how a home should look. So… it had come to this.

      My eyes settled on a small crystal bird sitting atop of a gardening book, Field of Dreams. I thought of how the book had been allowed, as it was personally signed by the author, a so-called friend of Davis’s. The crystal bird had been a gift from Davis in happier times. My mind went to the look on Davis’s face as he had repeatedly moved the bird to my bedside table, out of range of viewing. He abhorred clutter, always telling me I had bowerbird tendencies.

      For a few brief seconds, my hand hovered as I toyed with the idea of taking it with me. However, much like my old life, I no longer wanted it.

      My eyes settled on the contemporary chandelier hanging over the dining table. Really, how could you miss it? Six sheets of silver coated paper, it was truly ridiculous, looking more like an old fashioned flying machine. I wondered what our friends had thought.

      And then something made me walk down the hall towards the master bedroom, a room I had vacated many months earlier, preferring the guest room. Hesitating at the door, I glanced around as if I was looking for something. Without knowing why, I walked over to what used to be my side of the immaculately made up sleek modular bed, and slipping my hand under the cool charcoal coloured top sheet, I reefed it back. Using both hands, I mussed the bottom sheet, and then pulled the pillow on an angle.

      Standing back, I surveyed my handiwork. I may have been evacuating my home, walking away from my business, my life, and unwittingly giving her my husband, however I sure as hell wanted her to know some things had belonged to me. In fact, there was a half-eaten sandwich still on the kitchen bench. I wondered if she wanted that as well.

      Dusting my hands, I walked back along the hallway. I paused outside another bedroom door. It was closed. My hand went to the knob. I hesitated, before wisely walking on. The nursery I had been readying was now packed up and in storage. The room was empty, much like my heart.

      Seeing my coffee mug on the kitchen bench, I automatically picked it up, taking it to the sink to rinse. Running the tap, I reached for the sponge to wipe the tell-tale lipstick mark from the rim, when with mild satisfaction I left it on the drainer, lipstick mark and all.

      With a snort of indignation, I shook my head at the memory of Davis many months earlier, during our one and only counselling session. In response to a question from the counsellor, his answer had been that he didn’t like the way I drank my coffee. Apparently he found it annoying when he saw the lipstick marks still on the rim of mugs after they had come out of the dishwasher.

      Really! I wanted to shout to him now. Tell someone who cares!

      Picking up my keys from the spotless plexiglass study desk, I stared out through the huge pane of glass at the top of the stairs. To the left, my eyes settled atop the massive Moreton Bay Fig trees at Davies Park. Each Saturday, those same trees canopied the famed West End markets. Although Davis used to tease me that many years earlier, the park had been owned by his family, and that is where his name originated from, I used to think of them as my markets. Now nothing seemed like mine. I felt misplaced, uncertain of where I belonged.

      Turning to the right, I took in the impressive view of Brisbane city’s skyline. Davis called it the money shot. I recalled the excitement we felt when we moved here. With a view like that we thought we’d had it made.

      Exhaling heavily, I headed down the steel staircase, my purple suede Stella McCartney heels loud on each tread.

      Halfway down, I caught my reflection in the huge round mirror

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