Category: Flash Fiction

‘Showoff,’ she declares as her French polish acrylic nails click on the screen as she swipes left.

‘I thought he looked fun,’ I protest.

‘He was wearing a Captain’s hat at the helm of a yacht…In my experience people who can afford a yacht, don’t need to show it off to the whole world.’

‘But…’

She casts a pitiful look – the kind of look you’d give the runner-up on The Bachelor the moment she realises she’s “not the one”. 

‘Who’s better equipped to do this…Me…’ She flashes her 2 carat diamond ring in front of my face then picks a clump of cat fur off my coffee-stained t-shirt. ‘…Or you?’ 

Why had I let my oh-so-perfect sister get involved in my love life?

‘What about that one?’ I indicate the next candidate.

My sister snorts. ‘The one scoffing a giant pizza slice?’

‘I like pizza.’

‘Seriously, you need to raise your standards. Aim for someone perfect…you know like––’

‘––like my Rohan,’ I say in sing-song.

‘Exactly,’ she smiles triumphantly, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘The right job. The right friends. The right car. The right look.’

‘I don’t want the perfect guy. I want someone normal…with a sprinkle of different.’

‘Like this guy?’ She points at the profile of a guy with a pencil moustache, dressed as a hobbit. His profile says he likes cosplay and stamp collecting.

‘Maybe not that kind of different.’ 

I give her the nod and she swipes left.

‘You need to switch things up,’ she says. ‘Don’t swipe right for anything less than perfect…that’s what I did.’ 

‘Okay,’ I concede but wish my sister didn’t sound so smug. I’m itching to point out some of her fiance’s flaws but none come to mind.

The muffled notes of the Bridal Chorus ring from her designer bag and she shoves my phone at me so she can answer hers.

I swipe left through a sea of guys, determined to find Mr “perfect”. My finger stills when I get to a hot abs photo. I can’t see the guy’s face and would normally write him off as someone who’s clearly into himself, but my sister did say to switch it up.

‘Do “perfect” abs count?’ I call out as my sister hangs up.

‘Depends on everything else.’ She’s typing on her phone. ‘Just got to cancel our dinner booking. Rohan’s got to work late tonight.’

I read Mr Perfect Abs’ profile out loud. ‘A good sense of humour. Likes dogs and the gym. Six foot. Looking for a relationship. Score!’

‘What’s the rest of him look like?’

I go to the next photo and my breath catches in my throat. I recognise the photo from the engagement party, but he’s cropped everyone else out.

‘Well?’ My sister is back by my side.

‘Ah…he’s not for me.’ 

‘Of course he is.’ She snatches the phone from me and we both stare at the photo. 

My sister’s fiance, Rohan, is smiling back at us and while I know it’s wrong, a small part of me is smiling too.

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The day humour was outlawed was a happy one for Irma Maddex Otic. She celebrated by working three hours of unpaid overtime in her data entry job, logging the serial numbers of thousands of microchips.

Irma is a no-nonsense woman who values hard work and takes her civic duty seriously.

So on her lunch break, she marches down to the Ministry for Humour Control. There is no one in line at the government office but to get to the counter, she has to negotiate a twisted rope barrier system that goes forever. 

‘Do you have a number?’ a man, with an overgrown beard and horn-rimmed glasses, asks at the counter.

‘A number?’

He points at a ticket machine at the beginning of the rope barriers.

‘But I’m the only person here––’

‘Everyone needs a ticket.’

Irma scowls and races through the barriers only to find the ticket machine is broken. She huffs her way back and reports the faulty machine.

The man frowns. ‘I need a ticket number to report broken equipment.’

‘Forget that. I’m here about a serious crime.’

‘Do you have a ticket number?’

Irma’s eyes bulge. ‘It’s ninety-seven.’

‘Madam, it’s a crime to lie to a government official.’

Irma spins on her heels, feeling dizzy as she weaves her way back to the machine. She rips off a partial ticket stuck at the end of the dispenser. 

Back at the counter, the man asks her name, then one-finger types into his computer.

‘Sorry, there’s no record of you. Are you sure that’s your name?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ll try your address.’

She gives her address.

The man’s brow furrows. ‘The name listed there is “I.M. Exotic”.’

‘It’s obviously a typo.’ She shows her driver’s licence. ‘Fix it, please.’

‘Sorry. Not my department.’

‘Fine! Look up my licence number.’

He types away. ‘There you are, Ms Otic…A couple of security questions…What was the name of your first-grade teacher’s pet?’

‘Are you joking!’

‘We never joke at the Ministry…Oh…’

‘What is it?’

‘The computer needs to shut down for thirty minutes for an update.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘We don’t kid at––’

‘Can I do this in hard copy?’

The man gives her a form with a bunch of tiny fields, forcing her to sandwich in all the details. 

‘You heard your neighbour laughing?’ the man asks, reading the completed form. ‘How would you describe the laugh?’

‘Huh?’

‘A chortle, a chuckle, a giggle? You’ll need to demonstrate.’

‘What?!’

‘To be sure it was a laugh.’

Irma clears her throat and makes a loud braying noise that reverberates around the empty office.

‘That certainly sounds like a laugh. Thank you for reporting this matter. We will look into it immediately.’

‘Right…thank you,’ she nods approvingly. Irma turns to leave, so she doesn’t notice the man’s beard twitching as he screws up her form and throws it in the bin. 

The man removes his glasses to wipe away a tear. Another job well done for the nation’s last comedian.

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The bride wore a second-hand wedding dress from Vinnies that had to be altered. The groom wore a clip-on tie and no pants.

‘Cut!’ the videographer shouts at his assistant like he’s directing some Hollywood blockbuster instead of filming the most ridiculous wedding in history.

I’ve been in the wedding photography business for longer than I care to admit, so I’ve honed my ability not to judge people on their special day – or at least not to appear like I am.

There was the couple dressed as Hobbits who said their vows in Elvish. The bride who wore a full replica of Princess Di’s dress but in acid-yellow. And the groom who insisted on doing a jazzercise routine for the bridal dance, stripping off to an eighties leotard he wore under his suit.  

Then there have been the weddings where you wonder whether loving the other person is actually a prerequisite for getting married. 

I photographed a wedding once where the bride stabbed her new husband with a steak knife over how hot he said one of the bridesmaids looked. 

From the weird to ‘WTF were they thinking’, I thought I’d seen it all but this wedding is a whole new “Tiger King” level of crazy. 

The ceremony was a farce with neither the bride or groom bothering to make eye contact during the vows that were punctuated by snorts and grunts.

The kiss at the end of the ceremony was awkward and forced.

‘Should we get a close up of the bride and groom?’ the wedding organiser asks.

The bride grins at me with oversized teeth, which protrude from her lower jaw. Something green is stuck between them. 

The groom looks like he’s been to the same hairdresser as Boris Johnson. And there’s a distinct wet-dog smell wafting from his direction.

‘I think I’m fine from here,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the zoom—’

‘A close-up, please,’ the organiser insists, ‘I want to give the local paper lots of options.’  

I nod encouragingly at the couple as I approach them, but at that exact moment the groom spits. The foul smelling spittle landing on my suede boot.

I fire off a couple of shots and retreat back to safety.

‘I think I have everything I need,’ I say as I try and wipe my boot clean on the grass.

‘Are you sure? We could try and get another one with the whole family. We can put the bride’s mother and father on opposite sides this time so they don’t kick each other.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to go to another job now.’

The organiser glances at her watch. ‘Oh…I didn’t think it would take you that long.’

I grit my teeth. ‘The next time I’m asked to photograph an alpaca wedding, I’ll be better prepared.’ 

It’s been hard times for the petting zoo since Covid and I know they need publicity. I just wish they hadn’t called me.

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Photo by Alejandro Avila via Pexels.

Job title. My pen hovers over the form as I wrestle with what to put down. 

I’d like to say ‘Writer’. Being a writer is my dream job and I do write … when I can. 

I take a deep breath ignoring the searing pain in my jaw and scrawl ‘Writer’. Then my inner voice takes grip. 

Fraud! You’re no writer. 

I squeeze in the word ‘Aspiring’ before ‘Writer’. 

My inner voice chortles. As a job! You’ve missed the boat on that one. 

I did have a job once – before children. I was a Logistics Manager. It wasn’t writing but I was bloody good at it. I’d managed twenty employees and multi-million dollar accounts. I’d moved goods from factory to port to store, from country to country, successfully negotiating everything from customs and union strikes to bushfires and floods. 

I cross out ‘Aspiring Writer’ and squish ‘Logistics Manager’ above the scribble. 

Who are you kidding? You can’t even manage three tiny people, let alone yourself. 

I wince as pain shoots up the side of my face where the soccer ball hit me and dislodged a crown. My seven-year-old daughter had thrown the ball at her twin brother’s head – I’d only just managed to block it. I’d heard them arguing from inside but I’d been caught up making school lunches and chasing my three-year-old around the house after he’d stepped in dog poo. He’d cut laps in fits of laughter like we were playing some sort of game. 

I’ve been in agony for days but my husband is interstate and Master Three didn’t have daycare until today. Clearly I was failing at logistics as well as motherhood.  

I request a new form and a heaviness fills my chest as I write, ‘Stay at Home Mum’. 

‘Are you all right, dear?’ an older woman pipes up beside me.

‘I’m fine, I just made a mistake on the form.’

‘Did you, dear?’ The woman tilts her head. ‘I saw you put ‘Writer’ as your job title but you crossed it out.’

Tell her to mind her own business.

‘Do you write?’

‘When I can.’ My clipped tones don’t invite further conversation.

‘Have you done any training?’

‘Well, I’ve done creative writing courses – quite a few of them. And I’ve written articles for a parenting magazine.’ 

‘Sounds to me like you’re a writer.’

‘No, it’s not like I’m making a living from it. I didn’t get paid for the articles.’

The woman smiles. ‘So you get paid to be a Stay at Home Mum then?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You know I might be getting senile in my old age,’ the woman laughs, ‘but it sounds to me like you’re a writer.’

‘Just letting you know,’ the receptionist calls out, ‘the dentist is running thirty minutes late.’   

Any other time this would send me into a spin but today I see the opportunity.

‘No problem.’ I reach for a notebook in my handbag. ‘I’ll do some writing. It is, after all, my job.’

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Five years. That is how long there’s been peace. No more warring factions. No more grief and pain. Then the dragons came.

I’d always wanted to start a story like that. As an author of fantasy novels, I believe every good story needs a dragon…unless it’s these dragons. Forget Game of Thrones. Forget the Hungarian Horntail. These dragons are a whole new Defcon level of scary.

My father had named them, Black Heart, Forked Tongue, and the Silent Assassin – also known as his mother and two sisters.

Black Heart, my Nan, is turning eighty and Dad in a moment of guilt-ridden weakness agreed to a family dinner at the local leagues club. 

So far the evening has consisted of awkward but non-eventful small talk. Then Dad excuses himself to order our meals – his shout.

I shoot Dad a look begging him not to leave me alone. Forked Tongue’s reptilian eyes catch my meaning and she immediately strikes.

‘What’s the matter? You want to avoid us too? Just like your mother.’

I tighten my grip around my glass of wine, wishing I’d ordered something stronger.

‘Mum’s on night shift and couldn’t get out of it.’ It’s only partially untrue.

‘Hmph,’ Black Heart grumbles. ‘I knew your mother was a bad egg the moment I met her. Got pregnant to trap my boy. Could have dealt with it, you know. But oh no, a good Catholic family they were.’

‘Mum, you shouldn’t say such things,’ the Silent Assassin chastises, ‘the girl doesn’t need to hear that she was unwanted.’

I gulp down my wine.

‘Tell me, love,’ the Silent Assassin offers a thin-lipped smile, ‘are you still playing around with those fairy tales?’

‘They’re novels,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘So nice to have a hobby,’ Forked Tongue chimes in, ‘My two are so busy with their financial advisory company they don’t have time for such things.’

‘It’s not a hobby. It’s my job and I’m doing quite––’

‘No boyfriend either I suppose,’ Black Heart interrupts. ‘You’ll want to hurry up before those ovaries of yours shrivel up.’

I gulp more wine, draining the glass. I need a replacement. Now! Then the answer comes to me. I stand up and shower the dragons with my politest smile.

‘I’m getting another drink but you really must catch me up.’ I turn to the Silent Assassin. ‘Starting with your son in Kazakhstan. So far away but you must see the silver lining – at 17 he’s so independent that he couldn’t wait to leave home.’ I direct myself then at Black Heart. ‘Just like Dad. Couldn’t get out of there soon enough.’ 

Finally, I lock eyes on Forked Tongue. ‘I suppose your two will be off soon as well. After conning you, Nan, Aunty, and all those investors out of millions, they’ll have to go on the run or risk ending up in jail.’ 

Yes. The only certain way to kill a dragon is to let them kill each other.

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Photo by Magda Ehlers via Pexels.

A life-size, paper mache Shrek donkey, on rollerskates, ridden by a bloke dressed as Xena: Warrior Princess – that’s the strangest thing I’ve seen on the side of the road…until now. 

Actually, the donkey isn’t even in my top five of weird things I’ve seen during the graveyard shift at the Roadhouse. 

The Roadhouse is a local icon situated a ten-minute stagger from the town’s pubs and en-route to the university’s residential college. It’s also a regular stop for red-eye coaches and long-haul truckies called Bear, Yowie and the like, so I get to see a very special brand of weird.

What isn’t normal is a soccer-mum Volvo wagon pulling up beside the Roadhouse’s skip, at 3am on a Tuesday. I put down the latest detective novel I’m reading and watch as the driver gets out. It’s a woman in jeans and a black hoodie. She looks around to see if anyone’s watching. I slip out of sight behind the drinks fridge. 

The woman grabs a garbage bag from the Volvo and dumps it into the skip before speeding away. 

Logic tells me it’s nothing, but my curiosity prevails. I don a pair of rubber gloves and retrieve what is a lemon-scented kitchen bin bag from the skip.

My fingers tremble as I open the bag to reveal a single item – a hammer. I take a closer look and my heart stops. There’s a splash of rust-coloured pigment on the hammer. Blood.

I spend the next twenty-four hours debating whether to go to the police, but then an even stranger thing happens. The Volvo comes back.

This time the woman dumps two bags in the skip. What I discover this time sends chills through me. Inside the bags are a saw, a welder’s mask and apron. The apron’s ribbon is singed and there’s a burnt patch in the middle, but I can’t see any blood.

My spidey-senses go into overdrive when the woman turns up again.

This time I sneak up on her and snatch the bag away, ignoring her protests as I pull out a roll of gaffer tape from the bag. 

‘Ha!’ I say in a TV-detective kind of way.

‘I can explain.’

I stop short of saying, Tell it to the judge.

But she does explain. Her husband is having a mid-life-crisis that started with him taking up skateboarding again after 25 years. Despite twisting his ankle he was now building a skate ramp. He’d already mangled his thumb with a hammer and set himself alight welding. She’d gotten rid of his tools to sabotage the project, but then he’d resorted to using gaffer tape to hold the ramp together. 

‘A likely story,’ I say, but then she shows me photos of the project on her phone.

I make a garbled apology and say she can use the skip any time she needs.

‘Or maybe I’ll just up his life insurance policy,’ she says and winks at me.

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Photo by Andre Moura via Pexels.

‘The trick to telling a lie is to keep it believable. There has to be some truth in the lie. And don’t elaborate with too much detail.’

I want to please my dad but my mother told me it was wrong to lie.

Dad must sense my hesitation because he crouches down and puts his hands on my shoulders.

‘Sometimes you have to lie…for the people we care about. You remember why we’re doing this?’

I nod earnestly. I’m secretly thrilled Dad brought me along but my tummy is wound tight like a rubber band. 

‘Good.’ Dad stands and glances up at the full moon. ‘Too much light. We’ll have to be careful.’ 

He pulls the black hood of his jumper over his head and reaches into his pockets for his multi-tool and torch.

A bat swooshes overhead and I visibly shiver. 

‘It’s okay, buddy,’ Dad says with gleaming eyes. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ 

He then slips inside the shed as I hide in the shadows of a mango tree to keep watch. It’s my job to make sure we don’t get caught.

Banging, clanking and tapping sounds spill from inside the shed. The noises probably aren’t that loud, but I’m terrified someone will hear us. 

I glance up to the sky, trying to calm myself. My mum loves the night sky. I’d asked her once why she liked it so much, and she’d sighed – not her tired sigh, a happy sigh. She’d said it didn’t matter who you were, the riches of the night sky were for everyone. Then she’d pointed out all the constellations by name and the features on the moon surface. 

My eyes go to the Southern Cross, then Centaurus. I mentally join the stars to form the half-man, half-horse.

I’m startled as a possum scampers across the back fence. I seek out the moon for comfort. In my head, I recite the moon’s seas – rains, tranquility, serenity, fertility, nect––

The backyard is suddenly flooded with light. My heart pounds as I race to the shed and whisper-shout to Dad. ‘The light’s come on. We have to––’

My eyes fall on the object illuminated by Dad’s torchlight.

It’s a telescope. Not like the cheap one we got for Mum off eBay for Christmas. It fell apart after a week. This one’s the real thing. ‘Wow!’ 

‘Come on!’ Dad grabs me by the arm and we race from the shed, but it’s too late.

The back door flings open and we’re confronted by my mother, her hair wet from a shower.

‘What are you two doing?’ 

I look to my dad but he fumbles his words. I think it’s the excitement of it all. Dad’s been saving up for months for the telescope. He’d hidden it in the shed, waiting until the night before her birthday to assemble it. 

I nod at Dad, as if to say, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this.’

I give Mum my best smile. ‘We were looking at the moon.’

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Photo by Tom Fisk via Pexels.

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the biggest loser of them all?’

The answer is clearly the single, unemployed 47-year-old, disguised as a drowned rat, staring back at me in the public toilet mirror.

Clumps of hair stick to my forehead. One of my false eyelashes is missing. And my Zimmermann silk-chiffon dress clings to me like wet toilet paper. 

Not the look I was going for to impress my high-school sweetheart.

Mark and I had drifted apart at university in Sydney. I loved city life as much as Mark missed his beloved horses. Our last argument ended with me saying he needed to change. Soon after he moved to Scone to train polocrosse horses.

I heard he married the Beef Week Queen and had a couple of kids. While I married my job as a corporate lawyer. 

Then I came across a profile pic on my school reunion Facebook page. It was a black and white picture of Phar Lap, just like Mark’s poster from high school. His profile consisted of old campdrafting photos and his basic details; Relationship status: Divorced.

Soon we were sharing memories and inside jokes. I could almost hear his booming laugh in his words. For the first time in years, I felt alive. 

I quit my job in London and jumped on a plane to drive the five and a half hours to my hometown. 

It may have come to something if I hadn’t stopped at the National Park’s rest area to reapply my make-up, and discovered I had a flat tyre and no spare. 

So I’m stranded in torrential rain, 50km from town on an old disused highway, with no mobile reception.

This is what I get for chasing fairytales.

Then a car pulls up and a gorgeous woman in her mid-20s leaps out of the passenger seat and races to the toilet block. She stops in front of me and tilts her head. ‘You all right?’

‘Flat tyre. No spare.’

‘Maybe ours will fit.’ She runs back to speak to a man silhouetted in the driver’s seat. 

‘He reckons it will fit,’ she says on return, ‘which is good because it looks like you’ve got something special planned,’ she indicates my dress.

‘Not anymore.’

‘Huh?’

‘Have you seen me?’

‘Come on.’ She drags me to the mirror and in a flash, she has fixed my make-up and angled the hand-dryer to dry my hair and dress. When she’s finished I look halfway passable. 

‘All done,’ the man shouts. I go to the doorway and find my knight in dripping armour, grinning under a flickering fluorescent light.

‘Dad. You’re soaked,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to change if you want to impress that lady you were talking about.’

I smile back at the man and meet his steady gaze. ‘Any woman who needs you to change should have her head read.’

His booming laugh carries over the rain. ‘As should the man who let that woman go in the first place.’

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Photo by SHVETS production from Pexels

‘It’s over.’  

It felt good saying it out loud and finally putting an end to the torture. At the same time I know it probably comes as a shock to you.  

‘Don’t get me wrong, we had a great run.’ It wasn’t a lie. We have shared so much together. We travelled the world. We had some serious adventures.  

‘Do you remember that night in Times Square?’ I’m blushing just thinking about it. ‘And damn, we looked hot together.’ 

‘I’ll treasure our time together…forever,’ the words catch in my throat. 

What about you? I wonder how you’re feeling. I barely resist the urge to reach out and touch you. I can’t tell from your lack of response whether you’re hurting as much as I am. I want to fill the void. I have to explain but I need to look away as I speak. 

‘Can I tell you a secret?’ I don’t wait for an answer. ‘I never believed in true love or soulmates…until I met you.’ The whispered words are only for you. Words etched with longing and treasured memories. ‘We met exactly when we needed to. We transformed each other. Call it serendipity, destiny, fate…’ my voice trails off, the nostalgic moment evaporates as I return to the harsh reality of saying goodbye to you and my old life.  

I force myself to look at you again and steady my nerves. I remind myself of all the pain you caused me. Back then it didn’t seem to hurt as much, we were so young, but our time together now is agonising. I ache for weeks on end. It’s not worth it anymore. I have run out of tears. 

You remain unresponsive, so I ramble on, intent on justifying my position.  

‘We’re just no good for each other…at least not anymore. After two kids, I’m different. Even if I wanted to go clubbing like we used to, I couldn’t make it past 10pm.’ I switch to humour. ‘These days my idea of a great night is binge-watching old Veronica Mars episodes.’ My laugh sounds strained and hollow.  

You’ve never been one for words but your silence now is maddening. ‘Have you got anything to say?’ It seems you don’t. You just stand there looking as gorgeous as the day we met. My heart lurches. Am I ready to throw it all away? I take three deep breaths. Three…I can do this…two…I have to stay strong…one. 

‘There’s no longer a place for you in my life. And it’s selfish for me to hold onto you. 

It’s really over.’  

I’m torn between relief and heartbreak. I wonder what the appropriate way is to say goodbye for the last time. I extend my arms awkwardly and offer a hug. You don’t object.   

I take you in my arms for one final embrace and realise that I can never let you go.  

My Jimmy Choo four and a half inch heels and I were made for each other. 

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We all have one. You know, a frenemy. Mine was Natasha or Na-taaar-sha. The middle syllable is an elongated ‘ta’, as in ‘ta, ta, dahling,’ air kiss, air kiss. It’s not to be confused with the sound, ‘tash’, like ‘pash’, and you are to never call her just ‘Tash’.

I called her that once in fourth grade and she ghosted me for two weeks. A sucky punishment considering there were a total of 11 kids in the grade and we were the only two girls.

Natasha invites me and my husband, Tom, a couple of times a year to her sprawling, architecturally-designed house with city views, just to remind us how amazingly successful and rich she is. 

Natasha greets us at the door in a full-length, green silk gown. I’m blinded momentarily by her Swarovski swan crystal earrings.

I feel dowdy in my jeans and T-shirt. I should have known casual BBQ meant a fully-catered, four-course teppanyaki dinner. Natasha’s husband, Greg, shakes my hand formally, his grip as stiff as his starched dinner-suit collar. 

Over dinner Natasha bemoans the difficult decision of whether to spend Christmas at Aspen or Whistler. Even Greg stifles a yawn, prompting Tom to keep both their glasses of single malt whisky topped up.

After dinner Natasha suggests a game of charades. I suppress a groan remembering the last time we played. Like everything else, Natasha and Greg are ridiculously good at charades. In one round, Greg merely indicates zipping up his lips and Natasha immediately guesses – correctly – ‘The Secret of My Success’. 

Not so for us. I mime ‘Edward Scissorhands’ by making scissor-like motions with my hands. ‘Alien?’ Tom suggests. I gesticulate big hair and cutting.

‘Hairspray?’

I then produce a real pair of scissors, to which Tom offers ‘The Dressmaker’.

We run out of time.

Sensing my frustration Natasha suggests we switch up the teams, ‘Boys against girls.’ 

Tom is first up. He points at Natasha.

‘Pretty Woman?’ Greg says enthusiastically though his words are a little slurred.

Tom points again at Natasha and indicates ‘smaller’ with his thumb and forefinger.

‘Little Women?’

Tom shakes his head and makes a series of wild gestures, pointing at Natasha, then the night sky and moon out the window, then his ears and back to Natasha. He is truly terrible at charades.

Greg rattles off movie titles in quick succession.

‘The Stepford Wives. Clueless. Mean Girls.’

‘Greg,’ Natasha squawks.

‘Lighten up, Tash,’ Greg says. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish but Greg is undeterred. ‘The Witches of Eastwick. Fatal Attraction.’

‘Greg!’ Natasha’s shrill voice slices through the air.

We make our goodbyes, with me smothering a smile, and get out of there faster than Greg’s Maserati GranTurismo. In the Uber home, I ask Tom, ‘So what was your movie?’

‘The Dark Crystal. Didn’t you see me pointing to her earrings?’ he sighs. ‘I was pretty bad, wasn’t I? It would be good just to win once.’

‘But this time, hon, you did win. We well and truly won.’

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