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Regina
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He leant lazily on the kitchen island, shoulders nonchalantly slumped, one Laboutin boot crossed casually in front of the other. A single, thick, wiry brow arched like a challenge and Regina marvelled at how she’d love to wipe that smug, punchable, fuck-off look off of her husband’s face. His tight knit black rollerneck sweater hugged that toned physique, so much so that she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Anthony Blackstone showed no signs of being flustered. His eyes remained level, calm. His lips tugged slightly into the hint of a smirk and Regina folded her arms across her chest. If anything, she was pinning her hands beneath her biceps to prevent them from flying across his idiot face. But Regina didn’t break. Her steely eyes remained locked on his like a target, he was in her crosshairs.
“Is that utterly ridiculous smile on your face truly necessary?” she quipped, a frustrated exhale quickly exited her nasal cavities.
Regina blinked. Anthony said nothing. He simply stood there, as if posing for a headshot, staring back at her entirely unphased. In fact, from across the kitchen, Regina could see that infuriating glint in his eye. The one that promised he would exit this conflict unscathed. The one she loathed but loved so deeply. Their arguments often ended exactly like this one. Copy, paste. Copy, paste. She’d begin with a passive-aggressive accusation. He’d bait her. She’d bite. He’d bite back. Then, once he’d successfully ruffled her feathers, Anthony Blackstone would allow his wife to unravel whilst he stood by, chillingly calm, then walk away as if nothing happened.
But this time? He did something differently. Instead, he quickly crossed the kitchen in a few easy steps. Closing the distance between them, Anthony stood nose to nose with her, ignoring her flinch of disdain.
“Ginny,” he purred, the smell of cognac on his breath, “You keep scowling like that and you’ll undo all that expensive botox I paid for.”
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It was a grey, misty early evening at Blackstone Manor. Regina had asked the staff to put together a firm favourite; Marry-Me Chicken with a Crème Brûlée for dessert. She and Anthony had enjoyed a bottle of Macon-Villages, a 1995 Sauternes and a glass of bourbon in front of the open fire as a finale. She’d adorned a silk Gucci shirt that billowed at the sleeves but hugged her hips. Candlelight warmed her clavicles. Jazz soul seeped from the overhead speakers. Regina sat in her allocated seat at the banquet-sized dining table, distanced by a few chairs between her and Anthony, who commandeered the opposing chair at the head of the table. She enjoyed him like this. From a distance. She eyed him, scrutinising him as he drained the remnants of bourbon from the glass. Ice clinking in protest, Anthony placed his whisky glass on the table with a finality that said he was heading to bed. Regina scrunched her nose.
“Would you please use a coaster? This wood isn’t made to be watermarked.”
That earned an eye roll. But Anthony relented, placing the glass on a coaster with the drama of a theatre student. She sighed, a strained smile tugging at her blood-red lips.
“I’m gonna head up, Ginny…” he said, leaving his dishes for the staff to clear later.
The candles flickered. A breeze whistled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Blackstone Manor’s dining room. Regina loved this room. She’d carefully curated it herself, choosing extravagantly but tastefully. Her eyes scanned the paintings, lingering on her favourite pieces, until her eyes finally landed back on her husband. She watched him leave, staring into his back as he made his way upstairs to the bedroom. Again, Regina was alone.
Rising gracefully from her seat, she lifted her whiskey glass to her lips, lashes fluttering shut as she felt the last of the bourbon grace her palette. Regina swallowed. Returned the glass to the coaster. Then, she breezed over to the drinks cabinet and clicked the key. The wood squeaked in resistance as she opened the cabinet doors and her hand found the bottle of bourbon with the eagerness of someone who had a hard night ahead of them. The bottle glugged hungrily as it emptied its contents into Regina’s glass. The ice clattered as it rose, swimming in the generous serve of bourbon. Cradling it in her palm, Regina headed over to the fire that roared in the drawing room. Surrounded by shelves filled with books she’d never read, photos of her children dotted across the mantle, Regina sunk into the leather chesterfield armchair that was positioned demonstratively in front of the fireplace.
Folding her legs, she watched the flames lick seductively at the firewood. They danced for her, twisting and turning behind those wrought iron grates. Hypnotised, Regina watched. She sighed. She decided she wouldn’t be joining her husband in their marital bed that night. No. In fact, she never would again. Instead, she sat across from the inferno that burned just for her and listened to the sound of the staff clearing away their final meal. The silence, save for the occasional crackle of burning wood submitting to flame, was the last thing she remembered.
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A shrill, piercing scream reverberated through Blackstone Manor. It was the scream of a banshee. The kind you hear from the mouths of women in horror movies. It was that scream that awoke Regina. She jolted in the chesterfield armchair, ash in the fireplace and melted ice in her glass. The amber red glow of sunrise cut through the drawing room windows, the room awash in that rising sun hue. Regina’s head thumped, a reminder of the last of the bourbon entering passing her lips. She rose from the armchair, heart rattling against her ribcage. Her stomach turned. A feeling of impending doom coursed through her veins, pushing her unsteady steps forward through the house.
“MRS BLACKSTONE! MRS BLACKSTONE COME QUICKLY!”
Lola? The housekeeper? Regina’s eyebrows knitted together and her steps became hurried. She attacked the staircase, her bare feet slapping against the freshly waxed wood. Her steps echoed through the house, Lola’s cries frantic and urgent. Regina’s sleepy feet couldn’t keep up with her intended pace and her hand flew for the elegant bannister as she struggled up the staircase. It seemed to go on forever. Another step. Another step. A trip. Another step. She jogged to their master bedroom suite, where Lola’s cries still erupted from. The house became a blur around her, eyes blinking fiercely in an attempt to focus. The thump of her heart filled her ears, the sound of rushing blood filled her mind. Regina had reached the entryway to the bedroom and the first thing she saw was Lola, hunched over the bed, body convulsing with ragged breaths.
“L-lola” the hoarse croak that left Regina’s chapped lips was not her own. “Wh-What is all this? What are you-“
He looked so peaceful. Still. His naked body laid up in that bed, uncovered. So vulnerable. Asleep. Regina took slow, methodic steps forward. Knees shaking. Chest constricting like a boa had wrapped itself around her heart. Closer. She was at the foot of the bed now and her vision was clearing. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even stirred. Lola’s frantic breaths, ramblings about calling an ambulance, they didn’t disturb him. Still, he slept. Dreaming, surely. She reached out a hand and ever-so-gently touched his exposed foot atop the duck down duvet. Ice. Stone cold. Then, a noise left Regina’s soul like a spirit entering the underworld. It was foreign, faraway. A wail that tore through her vocal cords and threatened to shatter the mirrors in the grand bedroom. Anthony, her husband - her idiot, greedy, charming, loathsome, lovable husband felt like an inanimate object beneath her fingertips. This was wrong. All wrong. And for what felt like hours, Regina cried. Not movie tears. Ugly, wailing, inconsolable tears.
And she did not stop. Not when the ambulance arrived. Not when reassuring hands clutched at her shoulders. Not when the police flooded the Manor like rats up a drainpipe. Not when Lola the housekeeper retold the frantic discovery story over and over again. Not when they asked her to step away from the body. No, Regina didn’t stop crying for eons. And when she took a breath, when she could manage the semblance of a sentence, she stared wide-eyed at the nearest officer and said vacantly:
“You’ll need to phone the children.”
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