By Heidi Silberman

Her four inch heels click clacked rhythmically on the pavement. To ensure she didn’t rush they always did so to the beat of the song in her head – today it was I’m Walking on Sunshine. Passing workers envied her relaxed demeanour, noticed her head held high, and stepped out of the way despite her unhurried gait. Veronica was running late, but no one would ever know.

Dark hair framed her gorgeous face, drawing attention to immaculately made up eyes and lips. Exceedingly long legs kept the rhythmic walk going beneath a professional yet sexy skirt, while her jacket highlighted curves in all the right places. Those nearby caught a hint of Chanel number – which one was that? But before they could work it out she had passed. There was baby spew on the back of Veronica’s blouse, but no one would ever know.

She was this close to partner, and everyone in the firm knew it. One more deal to secure and the empty chair in the boardroom was hers. The one more deal was hanging from her shoulder in her laptop bag. She went over the numbers one more time.

Already this morning she had fed two children breakfast, packed three lunches, phoned one husband (currently overseas), washed three loads of clothes, hung out two, made four last minute changes to her proposal, delivered the kids to family day care, attempted to restart the car seven times and walked six blocks. Veronica had been up since five, but no one would ever know.

Three blocks from the office her phone gave her a gentle reminder that the most significant meeting of her career was to begin in 10 minutes. She quickened her pace, until I’m Walking on Sunshine began to sound like the chipmunks had taken up residence in her mind. Veronica was panicking inside, but no one – Veronica stopped singing. Who was she kidding? She took off her heels, hitched up her skirt and ran.

By Heidi Silberman

Sleep or cry?

Feed or smile?

Banana or avocado?

Hold Daddy’s hand or let it go?

Step or fall?

Play-dough or puzzle?

Skirt or shorts?

BFF or just for today?

Homework or phone call?

Inhale or pretend?

Dance or watch?

Study or travel?

Accounting or music?

One more Bailey’s or just a lemonade?

Big 4 or local firm?

Partner or pleb?

Rob or Tony?

Church or garden?

Career or baby?

Cloth or disposable?

Childcare or stay home?

Cook or take-away?

Wait up for him or sleep alone?

Go again or only child?

Icecream or yoghurt?

Holiday or mortgage?

Just one more or are we done?

Get out of the house or spiral downwards?

Reach out to him or shut him out?

Keep dinner warm or let it go cold?

Grow suspicious or trust implicitly?

Answer his phone or let it ring?

Confront or seethe?

Believe him or push the point?

Hit him or crumple?

Forgive or hate?

Beg him to stay or beg him to leave?

Sleep or cry?

By Heidi Silberman

Fiona hated winter. Winter meant damp. Damp meant mould. Mould meant asthma. Fiona rather enjoyed breathing so she prepared herself for chemical warfare, recruiting gloves, bleach, goggles, mask, gumboots and industrial strength scrubbing brush. Ventolin at the ready she entered the warzone.

From the doorway of the bathroom it appeared as if someone had used black grout when tiling, instead of the more common white. It looked stark. Artistic. Contemporary. Stylish. But she knew better.

She stepped in the shower recess, peering through pink swimming goggles. Tendrils of black had already moved beyond the grout onto the tiles, each one comprising dozens if not hundreds of tiny dots marching their mouldy way across the shower wall. She picked up a 2 litre bottle of Homebrand bleach, removed the lid and the battle began. Splashing and scrubbing the visible enemy, Fiona hoped the open window and Tastic on full blast would remove the invisible spores.

Her overalls bore the stains of war, a spatter painting devoid of colour where she had been the victim of friendly fire. She surveyed the scene: pristine, clean, white tiles, grout almost the colour it should be, shower head sparkling in the light of the heat lamps. Satisfied, she shed her battle gear and showered.

Joe loved winter. Winter meant stews and soups, casseroles and crock pots, pies and potato bake, ragout and risotto. Especially risotto. He had been pouring and stirring for forty five minutes and the creamy concoction had satisfyingly reached perfection. He plated up, grating extra parmesan just as Fiona sat down.

“I’m famished” she said twirling her Splayd on the tablecloth. He placed the dish in front of her. It looked stark. Artistic. Contemporary. Familiar. She held her breath.

“What is it?”

“Risotto.”

“No – risotto is white. Rice is white. What are the black bits?”

“Mushroom. It’s mushroom risotto.”

Fiona stood up. There was a battle to fight. She grabbed her goggles and headed for the kitchen.