Nothing's Perfect.

Marta was a pro’ at this - laying tables. She’d spent twelve years working in various restaurants since the age of fourteen, she was thirty-two now, and always paid impeccable attention to detail. She laid down the last knife and took a step back to scan a critical eye over her work. The cutlery was shining, the glassware sparkling, brand new candles sat in brand new holders, and everything was perfectly aligned. She had created a beautifully romantic setting and she allowed herself a smug smile, though it didn’t last long; a familiar sadness was creeping up on her again. 

“Ma, MA!” came a little voice from behind as a four-year-old ran into the room. 

“Stop, Sally!” Marta said as she spun around and knelt to greet the girl; partly out of concern and partly to stop her from coming any further. 

“Be careful! I’ve just made everything perfect in here. What’s the matter?” 

Sally was sniffling and rubbing her face with a scraggly looking stuffed rabbit. Marta had given Sally that rabbit when she was just six months old, and she carried it everywhere. 

“Peter said I - I couldn’t play with the f - fire truck coz, coz, HE was playing with the fire truck and then, and then, he pushed me and I hur - hurt my knee.” Sally stammered. 

“Oh dear,” Marta said distractedly as she began rubbing Sally’s knee, “Which knee? This one?” 

“No, this one!” declared Sally as she pointed to the other. 

“Okay, well let’s go talk to Peter so I can hear his side of the story. Okay?” 

Marta stood and took Sally by the hand, leading her through the house to the children's living-room. Once there, Sally yanked her hand away and stood behind Marta’s legs. Peter, an often sullen, eight-year-old boy, was sitting on a rug, pushing the fire truck back and forth. He looked up. 

“I didn’t touch her. She fell over all by herself. She’s a brat,” he pouted. 

Marta sighed. She was used to this mood of Peter’s, and honestly, she couldn’t blame him. Sally probably did get away with far more than she should. 

“Okay. So, one of you is lying and I don’t know who but Peter, you shouldn’t call people names and Sally, it is his fire truck and it’s up to him whether he wants to share that with you or not. Now, Daddy will be home soon and it’s a very special night for him and Mummy so you two will have to go to bed a little earlier tonight. Understood?” 

Both children nodded. 

“Good. So, play nicely now because you don’t have long.” 

Marta left the children and hurried back to the kitchen to check on her casserole. Everything was coming along perfectly. The salad was ready, the desert was ready, the washing up was done, the house was tidy, the table was set, and the casserole could be served up at a moment's notice. Perfect. She liked that word, perfect. She loved the children of course, but real satisfaction came from preparing the perfect meal and scrubbing the sink until it shone perfectly. It was impossible to raise perfect children. Having completed all her work, Marta simply stood and basked in her achievements of the day. Running a household was so much better than working in a restaurant where you had to rely on other people who didn’t care and who produced sloppy work. She shuddered at the memory of too many unsanitary kitchens.  

Rousing her from her reverie was the familiar sound of a key turning in the front door. Marta’s heart jumped, as it always did, as she turned and caught sight of the handsome Mr Hewitt, Jack, as he entered the room. 

“Marta!” He exclaimed, “That smells lovely! Where are the children? I’ll go say hello whilst you go and get changed.” 

Marta smiled wider. This man! He was always so considerate and so full of boundless energy, always engaging with his children, always kind and generous. 

She replied, “The children are in their living room. Dinner’s ready whenever you are but, there’s no rush – it won’t spoil.” 

“That’s my girl!” Grinned Jack as he went in search of the children. 

Marta took one final look around the kitchen and satisfied with what she saw, removed her apron and headed upstairs. 

She entered the bathroom and removed the clothes that sported grubby fingerprints and food stains. She had a quick shower, avoiding her hair which she’d washed that morning, and then re-dressed in casual evening-ware. 

Next, she entered the main bedroom and sat at the dressing table. She lifted a bottle of scent and inhaled softly before applying a little to her wrists. Looking into the mirror she considered her reflection. It wasn’t too bad, she still looked pretty young and fresh – she never wore much make-up. Perhaps just a little bit of powder? She located the powder compact and brushed away the shiny areas around her t-zone. Better. Perhaps just a little mascara too? Perfect! She scanned the table in front of her until her eyes rested upon a rose-gold bracelet. She held it in her right hand and stroked it gently with her left, her heart full of longing. Eventually she stood and slowly made her way downstairs, stopping to pick up the bag she had left in the hallway. 

Once downstairs, she made her way to the children’s living room and stood in the doorway, watching Jack play with the children who were both smiling now that their Daddy was home. Jack looked up. 

“I’ll just be another ten minutes; do you mind? I missed these rascals! Go and put your feet up, I’ll be right with you,” he said. 

“Sure.” Marta smiled, “I don’t mind.” 

She wandered into the other living room and sat down on the plush red couch. This room was perfectly clean too, which wasn’t difficult, it was rarely used. Marta glanced around the room and her eyes wandered to a framed wedding photograph on the wall. Marta loved that picture; it had been a beautifully sunny day and the bride and groom were gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Today was the Hewitt's 8th wedding anniversary, hence the effort that had gone into setting the table and the plan to get the kids to bed early. Marta let her thoughts wander again to just how perfect of a man Jack was. He really was incredibly handsome – dark curly hair with short sides, sparkling green eyes, a beard which sat perfectly on the precipice of tidy and rugged. He was hard-working and rarely complained, great with children, sang and played guitar... Marta sighed, feeling sad again. If only... she thought. 

Suddenly, she was snapped out of her daydream. The key was turning in the lock again. That would be Mrs Hewitt, home from work. Marta’s working day was over – Jack would take her home now whilst Mrs Hewitt would put her kids to bed. With one last longing look at the wedding photograph, Marta gave a sigh and rose to leave.