**The Peacock’s Mask Fell Off**
That morning, Margaret Winthrop phoned her daughter at work. Her voice sounded ragged, strained:
“Emily… I’m not well, I nearly fainted right on the street…”
“Mum, where are you? I’ll leave now! Did you call Dad?”
“He’s gone fishing with his mates. His phone’s out of signal. I’m just near your flat… but I can’t make it on my own.”
Fifteen minutes later, Emily was guiding her mother up the steps to her building, heart pounding—her mum’s heart had been acting up lately, and every call like this felt like a klaxon. She shoved the key into the lock, pushed open the door… and froze.
From the bedroom came unmistakable, unseemly noises. She flung the door open to find her husband, Daniel—the so-called *visionary artist*—scrambling out from under the duvet, with some unfamiliar young woman hastily gathering her things behind him.
“*You?*” Emily’s voice shook. “How *could* you? You said you were painting all night in the studio! And you called *Mum* paranoid!”
“Now, now, no need to get hysterical,” Daniel whined, clutching the duvet like a shield. “These things happen! We’re artists! Passion, inspiration, spontaneity—”
“*Spontaneity?*” Emily shrieked. “Pack your things and get out! Run back to *your* mummy, or to your freezing studio, where you can ‘create’ your so-called *masterpieces*!”
The silent war between mother-in-law and son-in-law had been simmering for years. Margaret thought him a pretentious fraud, prancing about in the name of *modern art*—violet-dyed hair, a ridiculous little goatee, absurdly shiny trousers, and endless drivel about *breaking boundaries*. It all grated on her nerves.
“When are you getting a *proper* job, Danny?” she’d grumble regularly. “This isn’t art, it’s daubing! Who buys your paintings—once every six months? What then?”
“Margaret,” he’d drawl, “you just don’t *get it*. Emily’s lucky to have someone like me. I’m one of a kind. A *free spirit*. And you? You’re just… tedious.”
He’d even managed to insult her cooking at their first meeting. After she’d roasted a lamb and baked a blackberry pie, he’d sniffed, “I don’t *do* meat. Tables cramp my soul.” Then, days later, she’d spotted him outside a fast-food joint, happily demolishing a double cheeseburger. That’s when the first seed of doubt took root: what *else* was he lying about?
Emily had brushed it off: “Mum, maybe it wasn’t him?”
“Oh, who *else* wears neon-yellow jackets like a peacock in a disco?”
Then came the raucous parties in Emily’s grandmother’s old flat, the half-dressed *muses* dropping by, the furious neighbours. Once, after complaints piled up, Margaret turned up unannounced—only to find a full-blown *artistic gathering* underway: girls with hookahs, blokes swigging lager, and Daniel, centre stage, glass in hand.
“What on *earth* is this? Out, all of you!”
“We’re celebrating my new exhibition!” Daniel protested. “*Thousands* would kill to be here!”
“Let them keep dreaming!” Margaret barked. “And *you*—grab a mop and scrub this place spotless! No more ‘creative evenings’, understood?”
His tactic, clearly, was to grin and bear it. He even invited her to his next show. But when she slipped into a shadowy corner, she overheard a young girl giggling:
“When can I see you?”
“As soon as Emily’s on night shift, I’ll text you.”
“Sent you those photos… Miss you. Dump your wife!”
“Maybe…” Daniel mumbled lazily.
Margaret stepped forward. He didn’t even flinch:
“Going to tattle to Emily? Go on. She won’t believe you. To her, you’re just the nagging mum. I’m the *beloved*. So keep quiet, Granny.”
She didn’t. And though Emily initially dismissed it—“Stay out of my marriage!”—Margaret took matters into her own hands. She befriended a neighbour who agreed to keep watch. Then came the call:
“He’s brought some girl home. Overnight bag. Lights went out—she’s staying.”
Her heart hammered. Emily was on night shift. Margaret threw on her coat, stepped outside, and rang her daughter, whispering:
“Emily, I don’t feel right. My heart… I’m near your flat…”
Emily arrived in minutes. They went up. Opened the door. And then—well, it all went exactly as it *should* have. Screaming, kicking him out, tears. The girl fled. Daniel, half-dressed, babbled excuses, but Emily wasn’t listening.
By morning, the locks were changed. Divorce papers filed within a week. And only a month later did Emily finally ask:
“Mum… did you fake being ill that day? Were you *really* unwell?”
Margaret met her daughter’s gaze. Sighed.
“Of course I was. How could I know *who* he’d bring home?”
Emily nodded and hugged her—first time in years.
Margaret said nothing. No need to admit that, for her daughter’s sake, she’d do anything. Even stage a *small, very useful* performance.
