Chapter Four
Lucinda
At sixty-three years old, I’ve learned a few things.
Like how to make the fluffiest Portuguese sweet bread – the trick is not overworking it.
That garden design is architecture for the outdoors.
It’s all about staggering plant heights to be visually appealing and so they have adequate room to grow, to sunbathe.
And I’ve learned – in fact I’d say I’ve become an expert on – how to determine if your commitment-challenged husband of forty years is still a cheater of the finest order.
My skills in that arena are honed from overuse. This morning, by the copse of fig trees, I caught husband dearest in flagrante delicto with Ines, our perky housekeeper.
Never fear, there was no stamping of feet.
No clutching of pearls. I didn’t even rail to the Gods.
No, no, I kept my cool, pretending that I hadn’t caught them in a compromising situation.
Pretending instead to noisily trip over a spiky snake plant as I let out a string of expletives.
I tumbled to the ground in a messy heap, accidentally landing on my garden sheers with a yelp of real pain.
I delicately inspected my wound, giving them ample time to flee.
Not because I’m the type of woman to turn a blind eye, but because the time has come to make some radical changes and just what that entails will need careful consideration.
Revenge is a dish best served … methodically. After all, there are endless ways to end a marriage; death, divorce, desertion. All I have to figure out is which route I’ll choose. Back at my desk I find a notepad and pen, and head out into the bright Porto afternoon for a session of plotting.