‘I am overjoyed for you,’ Maggie said with a smile.
She was forcing it, she knew. Her tone of voice was wooden, the smile stiff and toothy. Milton didn’t seem to have noticed though. He was busy preening. Pushing his hair back from his forehead. Smoothing his hands over his tight-fitting shirt. Chest out. Shoulders back.
A sense of nostalgia crushed Maggie, like a huge wave on the ocean. She looked past his pride, his control, his ever-watching eye, his notebooks documenting everything, and remembered the good times. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the memories.
‘Yeah, thanks, Magz,’ he responded. His voice snapped her back.
Stupid girl. There were no good times. She was lucky to be rid of him, although slightly confused to how he’d found time to cheat on her, with all the close control. Maggie felt concern for the girl, pregnant, trapped to him forever. At least she’d never fallen pregnant to Milton.
‘Pack your things. By the weekend please. That should be ample time,’ Milton continued, business-like.
‘Yeah, plenty of time.’ Maggie didn’t have many possessions. Everything in the house was him. His taste, style, art, design. Even her clothes were selected by him.
‘Leave the key on the kitchen bench when you’re done. I’ll be away for the week.’
‘Right. Bye, then,’ Maggie whispered. Men like Milton never let go. She was getting off easy. But a thought niggled deep: why? Why was he letting her go. There must be more to it than a pregnant mistress. She watched him leave, decided for now, it didn’t matter.
She threw some toiletries in her bag, clothes in a suitcase and slammed the door behind her.