Oh, Magdelene! (or, Maggie Can Sing): Vintage & Vinyl & Bad Behaviour

Maggie had a plan. She couldn't speak. Not just yet. But damn could she sing.

She'd dragged Fynn along, all the way, until they came to it. Once her favourite place in the whole wide world. Sophie's Choice. An epic vintage and vinyl store rolled into one. They'd first gone to hers to collect from her own personal stash just in case of a 'rainy day'.

She didn't want the purchase flagged by her husband's ever watchful eye with their joint account.

To work it had to be a surprise.

"Tramp! You don't wear continental clothes or stetsonhats.... You just a tramp, Otis!"

A promising sign if ever there was one, Otis Redding and company blasting from the store.

Fynn followed as Maggie took the lead.

Though Maggie had been allowed very little in what could loosely be called ‘their’ home, her husband had conceded on her dearly departed grandfather's vinyl player with pristine Kenwood speakers and amp. They'd made the grade. Or perhaps he'd just known better than to fight on this one thing, for all she had loved her grandfather, her papa, like no other. The greatest love of her life.

But they never used it. Not for the svelte lounge compilations smooth as velvet that dominated his own playlist with surround speakers. Him and all of his expensive gadgets. But oh boy, were things about to change!

She knew exactly what she wanted.

She made her selection. Dummy by Portishead. Overpowered by Roisin Murphy. Bjork's debut. When the Pawn... by Fiona Apple. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Bachelor No.2, or the LastRemains of the Dodo by Aimee Mann. 99.9 Fahrenheit Degrees by Suzanne Vega. Kaleidoscope by Kelis. A live recording of Nina Simone. And finally, the Chess Records re-release of The Best of Etta James.

Next stop, the local SPCA charity shop.

Fynn watched on, a wide smile plastered to his face.

She was a woman on a mission.

She coveted a small cement sculpted grinning gargoyle, a little wonky donkey, and a merry band of miniature wire musicians with marbles for heads. Again she handed over the cash from the wads stashed in an old Quality Street Chocolates tin. The nursery was the last stop. There they left with a flourishing Christmas cactus, one that come summer would bloom in bright pink blossoms.

At hers, Fynn helped her with her parcels to her front gate.

She turned the key and laid hers down gently, taking the vinyl and the Christmas cactus from him, these to put to rest with the others in the entrance way. He wasn't quite sure what she was up to....But she was up to something. Her eyes had lost their sorrowful sadness and in its place, a mirth, a youthful mischievous glee.

Hands free, she wrapped her arms around him, reaching on tippy toes to nestle in the nape of his neck, rubbing her little nose in the salt of him. Then she stepped back and holding his hands all the while, she winked.

"See-line woman.... Dressed in green.... Wears silk stockings.... With golden seams... See-line woman!"

And with that she placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, reaching as high as she could, then waved him away.

Not even a single missed called from her husband. Just a text: Wr R U?

No concern. She smiled to herself and unsheathed Roisin Murphy.

This album had defined an endless summer with her roommate, Eintjie, while they were at varsity, Eintjie a little the younger. She still knew each and every song by heart. First things first, singing and bopping along to the tunes blasting from her grandfather's stereo....

Cheese! Forget a plate!

She took the cheese from its holy resting place in the side drawer of the door of the fridge and savoured the sharp cheddar, the whole chunk of it, bite by glorious bite.

Next, the liquor cabinet

It was so predictable. She knew he always hid the key under the white orchid and just like that... Abracadabra and access! Labrador no more. She'd been struck by lightning and lived to tell the tale and if anything, now she was one badly behaved mutt.

Stocked and fully loaded for every whim and wish and desire...

A red snapper to begin with, she decided, adding tomato cocktail mixer to a hefty glug of only the finest of his gins and a splash of tabasco. That went down a treat! Then another! Why not...? And another... Roisin Murphy only spurring her on as she danced like she was back in that hole in the wall club where she first met Fynn, her regular haunt with Eintjie back then...

And there'd be no stopping her now.

She regarded the art of his.

Those flawless ivory skinned and flawless naked casts of women stood akimbo irritating in their perfection. Joyless. Just perfect. Such bland art. Expensive, sure. Impressive to visitors, sure again. But so very joyless. She thought to herself grinning all the while with a wickedness there'd be no quenching now, no, never again.

Oops! As she knocked a figurine, sent smashing, to the spotless floor. Oops! as she knocked over yet another. And oh dear... As the last of them dove to the depths of their demise. Each one now knocked off their polished pedestal. And in each of their places, the wide grinned gargoyle, the wonky donkey, and the little merry wire band. Meanwhile the fruit bowl that constantly affronted her became her next victim, contents emptied into the fridge while the bowl itself was left hanging on one of his perfectly groomed acacia out front as if it were an an installation art piece, she had to smile. In its place on the table inside the Christmas cactus.

Mustard stain, chilli sauce drippings on the floor, and a marble counter covered in crumbs, and she cared not.

In fact, quite frankly, she gave zero fucks. Not. One. Single. Fuck. Zilch.

Instead, she seasoned one of his prized T-bone steaks to grill on the cast iron griddle pan.

And it was about time to uncork an expensive bottle of red and kick back to a little bit of Bjork.

Surveying the reds, she knew the ones he prized. Usually entirely for himself, or to show off and impress a potential client he was having around, her playing dutiful hostess and never saying a word out of turn. Momentarily, she felt a hesitation. Was she going too far? Then she remembered the kettle ordeal.

Their last kettle had been a limited edition that matched their limited edition toaster. In a specific limited edition just-off-white. But soon the kettle had started to leak when pouring. She returned to swap it but sadly, there wasn't another single one left in the entire country. And so it had begun. A total of seven kettles had been brought home, each one selected by her according to his likes and dislikes, but each one an abomination in his eyes when he got home from work and she showed him, feeling proud, like she'd finally found The One. Nope. Rejection. By the eighth and last kettle she'd finally given up, whether he'd liked it or not. And of course, he hadn't liked it.

Those blasted kettles she thought to herself as grabbed a bottle of the organic Springfield Merlot, his most prized red, and pop went the cork without a shred of remorse.

Sizzle sizzle and flip! The steak was ready... Lunchtime! And she tucked in ravenous and yet again like the badly behaved mutt that she'd become...

She hadn't had a T-bone in years. Not since he constantly took it upon himself to order for her in restaurants. Not since he constantly insisted on her keeping her figure, and for no other reason that she could think of other than to impress clients when he needed her to...

Oh what a shame, she thought, finishing off his chilli sauce with her juicy steak. But not really! And she kicked the heels of her gumboots together and took a generous swig of the robust red, swooning, and soaking in every moment of the life he had so dastardly denied her for all these years. Her blog back in the day hadn't been called 'Wanton' for nothing....

Yet another joy in her life she'd sacrificed for him. Still, she hadn't let the domain hostage slide. She'd never been able to completely close that chapter of her life and was she ever feeling wanton now? Perhaps it would be time to write again one of these days....

She let Bjork wash over her and poured another glass of red wine.

Time for dessert, she mused.

She got up and made for the far recesses of the fridge where he kept his slabs of dark chocolate. Swiss dark chocolate. Mmm... Sea salted dark chocolate, her favourite. Snap! How she'd missed that sound. That first snap of a slab of glossy dark chocolate ready to melt in your mouth. Sometimes he'd afforded her a piece or two – her figure! – but he certainly wasn't here now and she was just as certain she'd scoff the entire slab, all the more moreish with red wine, only richer and more robust now that it had mellowed and had time to breathe.

Wine and chocolate consumed with sheer and utter pleasure, she decided upon a long and piping hot shower. Emerging she dressed in her favourite wraparound dress of pale orange with blue blossoms and the Vivienne Westwoods she'd bought for herself at a vintage shop abroad – oblivious as he was to her wants and desires. Next she went online.

She ordered Dynamsiante by Clarins and a novel she'd been meaning to re-read for years in Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter and finally an Olivettti typerwriter in pristine nick. Sea foam green. And on their joint bank account. Brazen, probably.

But brazen mutt, now she felt positively wanton indeed and made for one last turn in the kitchen, grabbing a small bowl of fresh red cherries from the fridge and then from his decadent snacks in the cupboard, an entire brown bag of pistachio nuts and back to the sofa for her third glass of red.

An appetite had been awakened in her and she was positively ravenous.

But there was one final craving to save for later.

Wine finished, along with the cherries and pistachios, shells and pits just left in a bowl on that hateful black leather sofa, she headed for the pantry door and reached all the back to the furthest recesses for a jar of anchovies. He hated anchovies for she loved them and kept at least one jar at hand, even though she never had the occasion much, if ever, to use them. But did she have a surprise for him tonight....

From the freezer she took out the pizza bases then swiftly got to work on the passata and salt and brown sugar and herbs for her basting sauce. And she simply couldn't wait... Oh, so, so very badly behaved!

Bjork had come to a halt on the vinyl player and she found herself in the mood for the brooding sounds of Portishead.

No sooner had she unsheathed Dummy for the vinyl player when he walked in the door, reeking of after work drinks with his buddies.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect.

She left the kitchen and marched up to him in her fierce Westwood heels and blasted him.

"Give me a reason to love you.... Give me reason to be a woman!"

Leaving him absolutely stymied she turned on her heels, heels he'd been to cheap to buy for her himself, shoes that had barely cost a dime, they swivelled now in a victory dance and marched back into the kitchen to put the anchovy pizzas in the oven.

Sure, he was breathtakingly pretty as he'd ever been, blonde and blue-eyed and just that little bit lanky, and so, so very pretty. The kind of pretty you'd imagine inspired the likes of Oscar Wilde when he wrote A Picture of Dorian Grey. Just that goddamn pretty so easy to steal a heart.

And once she'd been lovestruck too. By his genius. By his ambition.

But a bolt of lightning seemed to do things to a gal and she was lovestruck no more.

And he was no longer this charming man.

No matter how pretty.

Pizzas ready, she sliced them up, each on a warmed plate, and returned to the lounge where he still stood a little inebriated and completely gobsmacked. She handed a plate of anchovy laden pizza to him and then curled up cosily on that hateful sofa to munch on hers, making sure first to pop the cork on a second bottle of his favourite wine and top up her glass.

"Maggie, what is all this?" He took in the crime scene of shattered statues and his own filth left untouched the gargoyle and the wonky donkey and the merry wire band of figures and the Christmas cactus and an empty bottle of wine and a steak bone on an empty plate and a chocolate wrapper and the empty brown bag that once carried pistachio nuts.

She simply swirled her fresh new glass of red and took a sip, then a bite of her favourite pizza, anchovies! Of all that was holy, how she'd missed anchovy pizza!

"Uh, Maggie?"

But she continued to revel in slice after slice as if he wasn't even in the room, standing there baffled and boozed. Brazen mutt.

"Maggie, you know I hate anchovies..."he whined. Trying for pity.

And she looked up at him, shrugged, and took another swig of wine, baffling him all the more. This was not the Maggie he knew. Or maybe he'd forgotten the Maggie she once was. Or perhaps he never knew her at all, not really. Or maybe he'd just never cared.

"Maggie!" He raised his tone. As if to admonish her. As if that would help.

Silly rabbit. Maggie smiled to herself.

Barely moving a muscle, Maggie simply locked eyes with his, but challenging, furious for all the years of being made to feel invisible.

"Give me a reason to love you.,.. Give me a reason to be a woman!"

And with that she simply sat back with that set of lungs that had utterly shocked him into silence. Her fury palpable. And with that she went into the kitchen, her fury hanging heavy in the air, whereupon she dug deep into the deep freeze. Returning, she dumped a frozen pork belly at his feet. Up close now, her breath hot upon him, she took hold of the plate of anchovy pizza and stared him down as she sang one final time, her anthem for the night.

This time slowly. A whisper. But a threat all the same.

"Give me a reason to love you. Give me a reason to be a woman..."

But really, they both knew it was too late. They both knew all along she'd deserved better.

He hadn't a reason to give. He knew it. And she knew it.

And with that, she curled up on the sofa, that hateful sofa of black suede, and scoffed the rest of her pizza. Followed by another swig of red wine.

The best red. Check. Anchovy pizza. Check. One dumbfounded husband. Check.

Now let the games begin...

Bjork Debut Album Photoshoot