The Peacock’s Mask Fell
That morning, Patricia Hutchinson called her daughter at work. Her voice was hoarse, strained:
“Emily… I feel awful—I nearly fainted on the street…”
“Mum, where are you? I’ll leave right now! Did you call Dad?”
“He’s gone fishing with his mates. No signal. I’m just near your place… but I can’t make it on my own.”
Fifteen minutes later, Emily was guiding her mother up the steps to the flat, her throat tight with worry—Mum’s heart hadn’t been right lately, and every call like this set off alarm bells. At the door, she slid the key into the lock—and froze.
From the bedroom came unmistakable, scandalous noises. She threw the door open—and there was her husband, Daniel, the so-called “brilliant artist,” scrambling out from under the sheets while a young woman hurried to gather her things.
“You?!” Emily’s voice shook. “How could you? You said you’d be in the studio all night! And you called Mum paranoid!”
“Bloody hell, don’t overreact,” Daniel whined, clutching the duvet. “These things happen. We’re artists—spur of the moment, inspiration—”
“Inspiration?!” she shrieked. “Pack your things and get out! Go to your mum’s or that freezing studio of yours—paint your *masterpieces* there!”
There’d always been a quiet war between mother-in-law and son-in-law. Patricia Hutchinson saw him as a pretentious fraud, all style and no substance—purple-tipped hair, that ridiculous feather-trimmed beard, shiny trousers, endless waffle about “breaking boundaries.” The sight of him made her grit her teeth.
“When are you getting a proper job, Danny?” she’d mutter. “This scribbling isn’t paying bills. You sell a painting twice a year—what then?”
“Patricia,” he’d drawl, “you just don’t *get* it. Emily’s lucky to have a man like me. I’m one of a kind. And you? A right nag.”
He’d insulted her efforts from the very start. After she’d roasted a joint and baked a blackberry pie for their first meeting, he’d sniffed,
“I don’t do meat. Tables suffocate my soul.”
Yet a week later, she’d spotted him outside a burger joint, devouring a double cheeseburger. That’s when the first doubt crept in: what else was he lying about?
Emily brushed it off:
“Mum, maybe it wasn’t him—”
“Who else wears neon jackets like a peacock in a zoo?”
Then came the parties—raucous gatherings in the flat Emily inherited from Gran, half-naked “life models,” furious neighbours. Once, after fielding complaints, Patricia turned up unannounced, unlocked the door, and found a full-blown bacchanal: girls with hookahs, lads clinking bottles, and Daniel at the centre, wineglass in hand.
“What in God’s name—?! Out, now!”
“We’re launching my art project!” he protested. “People would kill for an invite!”
“Then let them keep dreaming!” she barked. “Grab a mop—clean this mess! No more bohemian nonsense!”
His tactic was simple: grin and bear it. He even invited her to his exhibition. But as she lingered by the window, she overheard:
“When can I see you?” A girl giggled.
“Once Emily’s on shift, I’ll text.”
“Sent you pics… Miss you. Ditch the wife!”
“We’ll see,” Daniel murmured.
Patricia stepped from the shadows. He didn’t flinch:
“Running to your daughter? Go on. She won’t believe you. To her, you’re just a sour old woman. I’m the one she loves. So pipe down, Granny.”
But she didn’t stay quiet. Though Emily dismissed it—”Stay out of my marriage!”—Patricia took action. She befriended a neighbour who agreed to watch. Then, that evening, the call:
“He’s brought a girl home. Overnight bag. Lights off—they’re staying.”
Her heart pounded. Emily was on night shift. Patricia pulled on her coat, stepped outside, and dialled her daughter, voice frail:
“Emily, I’m ill. My heart… I’m near your flat…”
Emily arrived in fifteen minutes. They went up. Opened the door. And then—it unfolded exactly as it should’ve. Shouting, evictions, tears. The girl fled. Daniel, half-dressed, spluttered excuses, but Emily wasn’t listening.
By morning, the locks were changed, keys confiscated. Divorce papers filed within the week. A month later, Emily finally spoke:
“Mum… did you make it up that night? Were you really unwell?”
Patricia met her daughter’s gaze. Breathed.
“Of course I was. How could I know who he’d bring?”
Emily nodded—and hugged her for the first time in years.
Patricia said nothing. No need to admit that for her daughter, she’d do anything. Even a small, very *useful* lie.