Killing a Unicorn Read Free

lighted glass cube.
    The decor Mark chose is minimalist, hi-tech, with transparent tables, cool, neutral colours, tubular furniture. Some of Fran’s own brilliant-hued wall hangings provide the only splash of colour. And, on a table, a pile of oranges heaped in the huge black basalt bowl she’d once guiltily splurged a fortune on. She frowns.
    They look gorgeous, a black and orange composition on the smoked glass table, but she doesn’t remember putting
them there, she prefers oranges cold from the fridge, juicy and almost lemon sharp. She cannot abide eating their flesh when it’s warm. But there’s no denying the evidence of her own eyes, she must have put them there and forgotten. She pauses, then shrugs. Well, yes, perhaps. She’s found herself, regrettably, doing this sort of thing before. Subconsciously copying that habit of Mark’s, that clever way he has of meticulously arranging groups of objets trouvés. Perhaps hoping to please him. Forgetting his habit of sometimes removing her vases of flowers because they don’t fit in with his overall perception of what the house should look like. Annoyed with herself, ignoring the thought of what construction Claire would put on such a lapse, she puts the fruit back in the fridge. She’s teaching herself to live with perfection, artistic perfection, but it isn’t always easy.
    She sighs. Most women would give their eye teeth for a husband who never leaves his dirty socks under the bed, who wipes the washbasin, and puts the cap back on the toothpaste, without even a conscious effort. Picks her things up, too, as well as his own, and not in any spirit of criticism — he’s relaxed and easy, just never thinks about it, it’s how he’s made. Either that or his training has made him so. She reminds herself that architects need to be meticulous. Mind you, he isn’t above letting her change the vacuum cleaner bag, or iron his shirts or struggle to put the fresh cover on the duvet. Wifely things he never thinks of doing.
    It cuts both ways, though, doesn’t it? He keeps an eye on her car and stops her from forgetting to make out her tax forms. He’s wonderful when she has flu. And he’s more fun to be with than anyone else she’s ever known.
    Kicking off her shoes to protect the floor, she pads around. No red, blinking light flashing from the answering machine, but loads of post. More bills than she wants to see, half a rain forest in junk mail, a folded slip of paper that turns out to be a note from Bibi: ‘Sorry darling, couldn’t make it tonight after all. I’ll ring you and we’ll fix
another time.’ Typewritten, but at least she’s signed it in her distinctive violet ink, and with her full name, too: Bianca, in rounded, schoolgirl handwriting, and with the tail of the final ‘a’ curling backwards and round to encircle the whole signature with a great stylish flourish.
    Fran goes into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of iced water and drinks it down in one, not entirely sorry Bibi won’t be here tonight. It might be her ankle that’s bothering her: she broke it a few weeks ago, and though she says it isn’t actually painful now, it’s still irksome. She’s obliged to hobble, even with the aid of a stick. She must have persuaded the boy who works for Alyssa in the gardens to deliver the note on his way home. She isn’t able to drive yet and being dependent on others to get about irritates her. She doesn’t like everyone to know her business — where she’s going and who she’s been with. In her own way, she’s a very independent person. Stubborn and secretive, more like, according to Mark. Mulish, at times. Yet, when she’d rung Fran that afternoon to say she’d be dropping in, she’d sounded … well, almost pleading. She’d insisted it was urgent that they should talk. Perhaps she’s been casting her own