A woman thinks she is insane and kills herself when she slowly starts to lose her identity following her husband's return from America. Will the mystery be solved on her husband's second trip to America a year after his wife's funeral?
It was a night in early November. The full moon cast a faint silverly light through the white net curtain, which illuminated the sitting room. On the light green coffee table was sitting the DVD of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo which Mrs Beechcroft had just finished watching. It was her favourite film and she needed something to while away the time until her husband returned home. Putting one leg over the other she leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the table and looking expectantly at the cuckoo clock over the mantlepiece.
Sometimes she turned her head and looked wistfully out through the net curtain. At one point she felt cold. Standing up, Mrs Beechcroft took her grey dressing gown off the door handle and put it on. She then closed the door and turned on the gas fire beneath the mantlepiece. Kneeling on the rug, she held out her hands to it but was careful not to put her hands too close. A few minutes passed in this way before the sleepy silence was broken by the cuckoo clock. At the same time a key scraped in the lock. Mrs Beechcroft jumped up and went out into the hall. Mr Beechcroft walked in and hauled his suitcase in after him.
"Sorry darling, my flight was late".
Mrs Beechcroft gave her husband a hug that nearly squashed him flat.
"Wow - hey stop that". He detached her arms from around him. "I'm exhausted. I'll be down in a few minutes and tell you all about America and then we must go to sleep."
Half an hour later they were both sitting by the fire with hot chocolate.
"How was America Clive?"
"It was good." Clive sipped his hot chocolate. "I'm sorry I couldn't take you along but this was work not vacation. Besides I could only afford one ticket."
"I understand, but I did miss you."
Clive paused a fraction of a second. "I missed you too darling. You got my letters didn't you?"
"Yes". Mrs Beechcroft hesitated. "But you seemed reluctant to write. You seemed to write more out of duty than well anything else."
Clive laughed. "Nonsense darling. That's just morbid thinking". He played with her hair. "I wish your hair was a bit longer."
"But I like it like this."
Clive laughed again. "It doesn't really suit you love. I'm sure I could work wonders with it if you'll let me. I am a make up artist after all."
Mrs Beechcroft laughed too. "That's definitely true. I sometimes think that even if the actors fell asleep you could still carry on and they would have an awful shock when they woke up."
"Darling, what a thing to say. Youre so morbid these days. It must be all the crime fiction and thrillers."
"But you love them too".
"That's definitely true. I love watching those kinds of films with you and eating those delicious meals you make me. We get on all right don't we?"
"Yeah we do."
Clive looked at the cuckoo clock. "Five to eleven. Ok I'll wash up these mugs and then we'll sleep. I'll show you the photographs of Charles and myself tomorrow. America was grand but it is nice to return home too."
Fifteen minutes later both were asleep. Clive lay on his side with his back to his wife and his face turned away while Mrs Beechcroft snuggled up to him.