The first wife was a complete fantasist. I didn’t do that thing she said I did. Henderson didn’t like her either. He raised his hipflask and toasted her departure in ten-year-old single something.
When this second one came, and Lord Quailfalcon opened the car door for her, called her kitten, kissed her on the lips, it spelt trouble. I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen to keep Mrs Henderson company while she roasted and carved that pheasant.
The second wife announced that she is a pescatarian.
The second wife is thin like a stick and one morning she cut all the hairs off her legs and then buttered them. I watched her through a chink in the door. When she caught me looking, she kicked it shut.
The second wife is not a good shot. She has a special outfit for shooting, which smells new and caused lord Q to run his fingers through thinned hair. She wrings her hands as she misses yet another clay, but her disappointment is fake. I watch and wait. Henderson stands behind the trap; he watches too and rubs the front of his trousers. She looks coy while Lord Q puts his arms around her, encouragingly, correcting her posture. He says she will manage splendidly once the season begins, and she makes a lemon-sherbet mouth that he does not see.
The second wife has already rubbed Mrs H up the wrong way. Second wife requests almond milk. Mrs H harrumphs in solidarity with the herd.
The second wife is musical and does not care for my singing.
The second wife has banished me to the dressing room. I hear her attacking Lord Q in the night and although I shout and scratch the door I cannot help him.
The second wife has banished me to the kitchen while the doors are repainted.
Mrs Henderson has banished me to the scullery.
Second wife has her feet under the table. She has started interfering with things. She has moved the portrait of the lovely first wife.
The second wife calls me a bitch.
She says I bit her.