'Chance meeting at the chip shop' by Cheryl Powell

I bumped into Bluebeard outside the fish and chip shop in town. He looked like a rock god in all that black leather.

‘Oh, hi! Long-time no see,’ I gushed, awkward. You know how it is. 

He didn’t recognise me. 

‘It’s Jenny. Bridesmaid, remember? Lavender taffeta.’ 

I hadn’t spoken to Loretta since the wedding. The bitch was too tied up with her tycoon husband and jet-set lifestyle to stay in touch, and I was working my way through a string of lousy husbands. Always messy. 

So here he was, Bluebeard, frighteningly handsome, massive beard oiled, combed and displayed on his chest like a rack of crow feathers. 

Then he remembered. ‘Jenny! Of course. You look wonderful‘ He worked his eyes over me, slowly, then smiled, a flash of gold tooth.

‘And how is Loretta?’ I kept my voice bright, though I couldn’t really care less. 

‘She’s back at the castle.’ He stroked his beard, fingers rimed red beneath his nails, and smiled.

 She would be, I thought, and remembered the Lamborghini's and the stable of Palominos. 

So, anyway, we’re both going in for fish and chips – I chose the cod but, understandably, Bluebeard wanted something finer and ordered Dover sole. We carried on talking in the street, me stabbing at the chips with the wooden fork, he making surgical cuts to the Dover sole with a scalpel taken from his top pocket. 

Finally, he invited me to his castle, and I saw the glitter in his eyes. Result! To be honest, I can’t pack fast enough. But I do need to prepare; grind the boning knives and meat cleavers, sharpen the hooks. Just in case, like all the other times, this relationship doesn’t work out.