The champagne cork cracks like a firework. Covering her ears, she shrinks away from the hotel bar, trying to remember why she’s there. A reception, yes a wedding reception; she went to the ladies’.
‘There you are! You disappeared. They’re taking the photographs now. Are you coming outside?’
She puts down the glass and turns. It’s him, it’s the husband she loves far too much. His jacket is missing, his aftershave’s strong.
Holding her breath, she listens. Pitter patter, pitter patter. ‘But it’s raining.’
Staring as though he knows, his eyebrows knit. ‘It stopped ages ago. Everyone else is outside. Are you coming?’
His tone is too loud, his waistcoat too bright.
He’s lying, he’s lying, she knows when he’s lying.
And the voice is still there; she can hear it quite clearly.
Pitter patter, pitter patter, listen to the rain!
Pitter patter, pitter patter, on the windowpane.
God, she hasn’t heard that rhyme for years. Not her mum, surely? Yes her mum, before she grew bad: holding her close, singing softly and stroking her hair. ‘My perfect little poppet. Such a very good girl!’
‘Hey dreamer, are you—’
She jerks at the sound. It’s her husband, still gazing, his eyes telling lies. She just needs a