This was it. The time had come. I was dreading it to the very core of my soul, but it had to be done. Everyone was ready, waiting for me, expecting great things of me. I wanted to turn on my heels and run, hide, escape. I didn't want to do it. I wasn't sure I could do it. I was so nervous I thought I was going to faint.
'We're ready,' someone said.
Ignoring the butterflies doing battle in my stomach, I reached down deep inside myself for the strength and the courage that I needed. Everyone was depending on me. I couldn't let them down. Bracing myself, I stared straight ahead, at the coffin standing in front of the alter.
Inside the coffin lay Max. Max; the perfect male specimen from the tips of his toes to the top of his handsome, impeccably coiffured head. Max; who oozed sex appeal from every pore of his tanned, well-muscled body and drove women wild. They clamoured after him, worshipped him, loved him.
Almost as much as he loved himself.
And I was supposed to love him too. But I knew what he was really like. Beneath all that smooth charm and fake sophistication was an egotistical, selfish, male-chauvinist slob. To feel anything for him except repulsion seemed an impossible task, but I tried.
Boy, did I try!
I had no choice.
To the outside world I was the devoted wife who cherished the very ground his big flat feet walked upon, and I wasn't allowed to shatter anyone's illusions. Nobody must ever know that when he held me tightly in his arms - so tight I feared for the safety of my ribs - I wanted to smash his face in. When he planted his wet lips upon mine, I wanted to sink a large knife into his back.
But I mustn't think of those things now. I mustn't think of the million and one things about Max that had annoyed me beyond endurance. I had to concentrate. People were waiting for me, watching me. Now wasn't the time to think of the stench of his breath or the vile way his hair curled over his shirt collar. I mustn't imagine my nails raking down his face, I had to think of love ... love ... love.
It was hard when we'd argued only hours before. He had called me an Incompetent Imbecile and I told him he was an Overbearing Pig. He threatened to strangle me at the earliest opportunity, and I promised to kill him very slowly and very painfully.
Ironic words, under the circumstances.
A voice irately repeated that they were ready, and panic washed over me like a tidal wave. Love, I told myself, over and over again. Think love; undying, desperate, inconsolable love.
For Max?
Never.
It was no good. I couldn't do it. Everyone would realise that we hated each other, loathed the very sight of each other, and everything would be ruined. How could I carry on pretending I loved him when I was glad he was lying in that coffin, still and silent in the small, crowded chapel? There were no tears in my eyes. I felt no sadness. I couldn't go through with it.
The people standing around me began to look anxious and impatient. I gave a weak smile, forced tears to roll down my cheeks, and tried to look suitably devastated.
Max was dead. Think of him as dead, I told myself, but that was the wrong emotion - I was supposed to be sad not happy. We were supposed to be madly in love. Only we weren't. And everyone was watching me. There were always people watching; making sure I behaved the way they wanted me to behave and closely inspecting my every reaction.
'Can we please hurry this up!' a voice snapped.
I made myself move. One foot in front of the other. Mourners began shuffling along the pews and taking handkerchiefs out of pockets to dab at tears. The organ was playing something dreary, and everyone waited for me to pay my last respects to the man I secretly despised.
I walked down the aisle, getting closer to the coffin. I hesitated, unable to look at his conceited face. My feet stopped. I panicked. I forgot how to breathe. My worst nightmare had come true; I was standing, totally paralysed, in front of a multitude of expectant faces.
Why was I doing this? Why was I allowing myself to be tortured in this way?
It wasn't fair. It was too much to ask.
'Get a move on,' a voice snarled.
Startled into action, I found myself going through the motions, doing my bit for the memory of Max the Moron; running down the aisle, falling to my knees by the coffin, reaching desperately towards those smug-looking features.
'How could you leave me?' I sobbed, tears cascading down my anguished face. 'How could you do this to me when I loved you so much?'
The tears were endless. I couldn't stop them. Great waterfalls dripped off the end of my quivering chin. Wracked with grief, I stood up and threw myself across his motionless body. My cries echoed around the small chapel.
I was a woman out of control, torn apart and destroyed by the death of the man she adored. I cried. I wailed. I was a desolate mass of misery.
I was brilliant.
Hands gently gripped my shoulders and pulled me away. I glanced over my shoulder as I was led back down the aisle, and gave one last emotional sob.
A voice called out, and the silence was filled with noise as the mourners filed out of the chapel. Some clutched my trembling hands as they passed me, smiling sympathetically and nodding their heads with deep understanding.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Nobody suspected the truth. The world could sleep peacefully in their beds knowing that I loved Max, would always love Max.
I hadn't let anyone down.
Sitting on a bench in the middle of the small graveyard, I tried to regain control of my searing emotions. The desolation stayed wrapped around me like a heavy blanket I couldn't shrug off. I felt drained as I wiped away the last of my tears.
It was over, all over. I had done it, and done it well. I felt incredibly pleased with myself ... no, more than that, I was proud.
My euphoria, however, was short lived. I was never allowed to feel good, not with him around.
He exploded out of the chapel doors and came storming across to me, screaming, 'Did you have to collapse on top of me like a ton of bricks, you fat cow?'
'I was hoping to break a few bones,' I yelled back.
'The only thing you could break is the sound barrier with that gob of yours.'
'Drop dead!'
'I did, and you still raked your bloody nails down my face. I'll be scarred for life.'
'Good! It can only improve your plasticated looks.'
A voice cut through our vitriol, silencing us immediately.
'We'll skip Max's resurrection from the dead, and move straight on to the bedroom scene,' the director bellowed to the cast of Holme and Array.
Max threw me a furious scowl and stormed off to the dressing room to get changed. I chased after him.
'Chew one clove of garlic,' I shrieked, 'And I'll kill you.'
