Trapped in an abusive marriage, Erin longs for escape. When beauty consultant Julia Tofana arrives on Erin’s doorstep one day, Erin’s world is about to be turned upside down. Based on a chilling true story, Aqua Tofana is a slick darkly comic tale.


TW: Domestic Abuse Mentions


The witching hour in the suburbs is 10am. 
     You can pick any American town in any American state and find this to be so.
     It is especially bewitching here on Lavender Street, in Hazelwood, Missouri. At 10am, something supernatural covers the street. It’s almost as though a spell has enveloped the noisy neighbourhood. Sprinklers seem to hiss out magic as their droplets cling to freshly mowed blades of green grass. Spell-binding sunlight creeps across the lawns, casting shadows upon the uniformed houses and manicured gardens. A faint smell of fresh, sweet cooking begins to waft across the morning though the maker remains invisible; hidden behind patterned, yet occasionally twitching, curtains.
     In this suburban serenity, Erin sits quietly in her stationary car. Her left hand is frozen on the steering wheel. Her right clings to the keys in the ignition. She is frozen in time, staring straight ahead at an unknown horizon. There is no noise but her mind has filled with a rush of bitter and unruly thoughts.
    She thinks about the hours before 10am. The usual bedlam. The streets are a chorus of chaos as children are corralled into cars. Adults and adolescents yell obscenities at one another in the morning sun. It is all so loud, boisterous, and overwhelming. Every weekday seems to be an attack on the senses. Each sound, smell, and sight jostle for dominance.
     Then that calm happens. 10am. The time when scarcely anybody is there. All are gone save for the retired few and stay-at-home spouses who look after children too young for school.
     Let’s be honest, those spouses are mostly women. This rabid, expectant society waits impatiently for those wild twenty-something girls to settle into a life of domesticity, keeping the house clean and the husband’s appetite, both in the kitchen and in the bed, fed. Those poor women regale themselves to scrubbing the house raw, so no speck of dust is visible lest the neighbourhood watch condemns them, tarring them with gossip instead of feathers. Women who have so much power that society has to break them down and bend them into a shape so they can just pop out sprogs merrily, and without complaint.
     So, every day when 10am rolls around, these streets become all but vacant in a bewitching and beguiling way. These mothers, and now occasionally fathers, do chores behind their doors and wait for lunch. That’s when they can gossip, booze, or stroll. That’s the only magic they get. That is all that is gifted to them by this world. That is all they have.
     “Not me,” Erin whispers to no one at all. 
     It’s 10am now on an insignificant Wednesday. These thoughts race through her mind as she tries to muster up the strength to turn the engine on. Such a simple act to turn those keys, start that engine and drive so far away from Lavender Street. Yet the task feels Goliathan. A dragon-sized weight sits on her chest, breathing fire into her lungs, and burning up her energy. Erin abandons her plans to escape.
     This has been Erin’s routine every day for two months now. That 10am alarm sounds and Erin attempts to leave for good. This routine developed in stages. The first stage was getting dressed and packed. The second stage was heading out the door. The third stage was getting in the car. The fourth and final stage Erin had yet to do. 
     At 10am, Erin would start her routine.
     By 11am, Erin always finds herself back home.

     It’s Friday morning. He attempts to kiss Erin goodbye.  
     She sits at the glossy, wooden kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee with both hands. Occasionally, Erin tucks her dirty blonde hair behind an ear. It is almost as though she is trying to brush him away. She can feel him staring. For a moment, she catches herself worrying; Am I dressed too plain? Is there a blotch in my make-up? Do I have a stain on my jeans? 
     All those little flaws and faults that no one else would notice; if he didn’t address them now, he certainly would later.
     Erin can feel him scanning her. His figure looms in the peripheries, causing an extra beat to slip into her usual rhythm. As those eyes bore into her temple, she focuses ahead. The coffee cup, however, is gripped tighter. A bead of sweat appears upon her lower back.
     There is a hesitation in him. As he approaches Erin, he is almost apologetic. Childlike remorse as he shuffles towards her. For a moment, Erin wonders if he would disappear into shame – that aching guilt of the morning after.
     Tentatively, he leans over to kiss her; so slowly that Erin feels the air brush upon her cheek first. Chills cascade down her spine and all the blood rushes to her face. The tender spots upon her face bruise once more. Without a thought, she turns her face away. 
     He sighs heavily, fumbling at the keys already in his hand. Wavering on the spot, he goes to say something but cannot think of the words. Instead, he flees, slamming the door as he leaves.
     It’s 8.46am. The clock begins to tick. Erin watches the big round clock as she always does, using the seconds to steady her breathing. As she waits for that precious time, Erin can do nothing but analyse a sound. It rattles, panickily, in her skull.
     That sigh.
     Was it truly of shame? Remorse that’ll weigh heavily on him throughout the day. A pile of apologies that’ll sit upon his tongue until he is home. That he’ll return in tears with a soothing mouth.
     Or was it one of frustration? An irritation that’ll sit within him like a papercut. A small insignificant moment that he’ll pick at until it was a gaping wound. That he’ll return with a snarling mouth. 
     Either way, Erin thinks to herself, enough is enough.
     The coffee in her hands has now turned cold yet Erin takes sips. She dare not move until the clock nears her special witching hour. If she starts too early, then the spell would be broken.
     So, she sips until her coffee is gone. She listens until the neighbourhood is barely a whisper. She sits until her backside aches. She watches the clock until its designation nears.  9.43. 9.47. 9.54. 9.57…
     The clock strikes 10am. The coffee cup clanks against the table. The chair scrapes across the grey glossy kitchen tiles. The bag rustles as it is removed from its hiding place. The keys jingle as they are picked up from the bowl.
     The door knock, knock, knocks. 
     Erin freezes.
     The door knock, knock, knocks. 
     Erin flinches. 
     The door knock, knock, knocks. 
     Erin’s eyes dart over to the clock on the wall. Only a handful of minutes have gone by. So, what had she done to disrupt the routine? She frantically goes over her actions. She moved like clockwork. Yet still…
     The door knock, knock, knocks. 
     Dropping the bag, Erin quietly heads over to the front door, mithering over whether to answer it or not. Her mind flashes with the faces of people she knows, scrutinising their last conversations. Had she absent-mindedly planned something? Impossible. It’s been so long since she had seen anyone at all.
      Deep in thought, Erin forgets that the curtains are all open. Sunlight pours in and so does the silhouette of a figure. Their shadow falls upon the wooden living floor, right in front of Erin. The sudden appearance startles the worried woman who looks immediately to the big, bay window, by her front door. In the blazing light, she can only see the flapping of a hand in her direction. Erin has yet to recognise the person who has disturbed her routine.  
     In a terrifying instant, Erin fears this may be a test. This stranger could’ve been sent by her husband; a watchdog ready to sniff out any lies or secrets that Erin has been keeping.
     With the force of that panic, Erin rushes forward and opens the door.
      “Well, hi there, sugar,” comes this sickly-sweet Southern tone.
     The figure climbs back from the window, through the neatly trimmed plants, to the porch. Erin is bemused at the sight. A brightly coloured woman climbs daintily through the wisteria and lavender. There’s a faint clack as one of her stiletto heels finds the pavement and then another follows. The woman stands beside a bright pink suitcase and towers over the petite and bewildered Erin, who takes a step back so she can see the full spectacle of this woman. 
     This strange and unusual person before Erin looks like a mad science experiment; but instead of producing a monstrous ghoul, these mad doctors have brought to life a six-foot-tall barbie doll. The woman, who Erin deduces as a salesperson due to the bright pink suitcase, is immaculately dressed. She shimmers in shades of pink. Both the skin-tight strapless dress and the bolero blazer are bubble-gum. The beaded necklace, matching bracelet, and three types of plastic earrings are more of a pastel tone.
    The woman’s hair is large and blonde, except for rich, dark brown roots. Erin suspects that it has been puffed out like that since the eighties. Erin also has a feeling that this woman’s height is superficial what with the inches of hair and the heels which are tall and, of course, a magenta pink.
     The woman’s white teeth dazzle between glossy, strawberry lips. She smiles wildly as she looks down at Erin. Beaming brightly, this strange woman says; “Is your Daddy home, darling?” 
     Erin hesitates at the woman who is most definitely the same age as her. Before she can react, the woman interrupts Erin.
      “Oh, honey, I am just joshing with you,” the woman says with a wink, fluttering those big lashes as though it were all part of a well-rehearsed performance. The woman extends a surprisingly white-gloved hand and continues; “Hi I’m Julia Tofana of Tofana Cosmetics!”
      “OK?” Erin says curiously, shaking Julia’s hand with none of the enthusiasm that Julia has. A small (pink) handbag slips down Julia’s arm.
      “Oh, have you never heard of me?” Julia laughs loudly, breaking the silent spell on Lavender Street. “Well, I’ve never met no one that hasn’t heard of me. The great Julia Tofana of Tofana Cosmetics?! No? Well, bless my heart, ain’t this a turn-up for the books? Nearly everybody I meet has at least heard of me. First time for everything I suppose and, well, I guess now you have met me.” There’s another burst of laughter. “So now you can’t say that you haven’t no more! May I come in?”
     Julia doesn’t speak, she patters. Musically fast, her sentences bounce through the air like an advert jingle. She holds her hands together in front of her stomach with pageantry and talks with ease. It feels so natural that it takes Erin a few beats to realise that Julia has asked a question. “I’m sorry – what?” 
      “May I come in?” 
      “No.” Erin doesn’t hesitate but there’s a lump in her throat as she replies. There hasn’t been a visitor since she moved in – and certainly not a stranger. Erin finds herself clinging to the door, ready to slam it shut.
     The blunt response doesn’t faze Julia. There’s a slight pause in her demeanour before she breaks into laughter. “Oh, my goodness, where are my manners?” Julia shakes her head, causing her accessories to clunk together as though she were a defunct Christmas elf. “Whatever would my mother say! I just assume y’all know me and that I can just waltz in to do my thing! I bet you’re ready to slam that door in my face and call the police and I wouldn’t blame you, sugar. I wouldn’t blame you.” There goes that clunking once more. Julia reaches into her handbag and pulls out a white card, handing it over to Erin. “Here you go, sweetie.”
     Tentatively, Erin looks at card, hoping that it will reveal more.

Julia Tofana, CEO
TOFANA COSMETICS
Glamourous Products and Relaxing Treatments. 

     Julia still remained a mystery.
     As though she were sensing Erin’s confusion, Julia says loudly; “Honey, did your husband not say anything about me coming today?”
     The mention of him causes Erin’s insides to freeze. She was right all along; this Julia woman was sent by him to spy on her. He must suspect Erin was planning on leaving. This is all just a ruse to keep her busy. Erin’s stomach lurches, realising that there is no real freedom for her.
      “No,” Erin says solemnly, swallowing her bitterness down. “No, he didn’t say anything.” 
      “Well, what a silly goose!” Julia exclaims giggling. “I bet he’s gonna feel right foolish tonight. I’m here to give you a makeover!” 
      “A makeover?”
      “Sure!” Julia cocks her head to the side, “I guess he wanted it to be a surprise, bless his heart.”            
      The confusion gives Erin a headache. Placing a palm on her forehead, Erin hopes to calm the pain radiating. “Are you sure you have the right house?”
      “This is 4925 Rose Blossom Lane, right”
      “Sure but-“
       “And you are Erin Campo?”
      “I am but-“
      Quite impossibly from her very, small bag, Julia pulls out a clipboard. She scans it for a moment; “No, I definitely have the right place, sweetness.” 
     Erin grimaces, “I am sorry I am just very confused.”
      “May I just come in and explain what I do?” Julia said with slight concern in her voice. “It won’t take more than a minute of your time.”
     Looking back at the clock and then back at Julia, who had yet to stop smiling, Erin resigns, “Sure.”  
      “Why thank you so much, Erin.” Julia says with a grin, picking up her suitcase and clacking her way into Erin’s home. There’s a waft of fragrance as Julia slithers by Erin. Lavender, Erin notes, how oddly specific.
     Julia barely glances around the living room before exclaiming loudly; “My what a beautiful home you have Erin.” 
     “Thanks, I guess,” Erin grumbles as she closes the door. No one sane would say that about her home. No one has said anything, Erin thinks to herself, knowing that not even her family hasn’t stopped by since she moved to Buque four months ago. Yet Erin knows that her home is far from beautiful. 
     It’s not filthy. He wouldn’t allow that. It was pristine, clean, and shiny as he liked it. It was just…lifeless. There were no quirky decorations or bad souvenirs from the honeymoon and holidays. There was no cliched decal on the wall telling visitors to live, laugh, and love. Nothing as brightly coloured as Julia lived here. The white and beige décor swallowed vibrancy whole and hid it underneath the glossed, wooden floorboards. All personality stripped bare from bleaching and cleaning. The chaos was organised and packed safely away. Even the photo frames on the wall were devoid of soul. At least that’s how Erin looked upon them now. Maybe there once was a spark of spirit in the earlier photos. It’s long gone now.
     There are a lot of things you can say about this house. Clean? Yes. Beautiful? No.
     So Julia’s dubious exclamation made Erin angry. She already felt that Julia was here for duplicitous reasons, and now the crazed Southern lady, out of place with her bland home, was starting to make Erin cross. “So, did my husband really pay for a makeover?”
      “Yes,” Julia says unfazed. “May I sit?”
      “Yes.” Erin crosses her arms. “Can I get you a drink or –“
      “No, I’m fine sugar.”
      “I am still confused as to why.”
      “Why what?”
      “Why would my husband pay for a makeover?”
     Julia now daintily perches on the sofa, with one foot tucked neatly behind the other. She places her hands in her lap, choosing to keep the gloves on. “Why isn’t that a strange question.”
      “Is it?”
     There’s a loud, clattering nod. “Well, there are lots of reasons a husband may want to surprise his wife.”
      “Like what?” Erin says, sitting down in the chair beside Julia. She wraps herself in a big, woolly cardigan that was resting on the chair, and a soft chime made her realise that she was still holding her car keys.
      “Well, there’s all sorts of why my little honeysuckle. Some men are actually thoughtful and want to surprise their wives in a loving way. Others call me in a hurry cos they’ve forgotten anniversaries or birthdays, haha, fools. Some feel guilty cos they have been messin’ around and playin’ with folk they shouldn’t be foolin’ around with if you catch my drift.” There is no joy in what Julia says next; “Some men just like to cover their tracks.”
     Julia’s eyes dart over Erin’s face. A bitter memory wraps his cold arms around Erin. This morning’s mayhem went by so quickly that she had forgotten. The freshly bruised, sore cut on Erin’s cheek hums with pain as Julia stares.
     Erin looks away, curling the cardigan around her for comfort. A gloved hand cups Erin’s chin and Julia turns Erin’s face towards her. Julia carefully caresses Erin as though she were a child and says softly, for the first time; “No shame in it for you, Erin. Not with me, anyhow.”
     There is now something so entrancing about the way Julia has positioned herself in Erin’s home. The air of mystery dissipates around the room like Julia’s lavender scent which seems to get stronger every second she is here. Julia’s demeanour is changing somehow. Those tense, taut shoulders loosen. The bright smiley face from before slowly drops as though the expression is being stolen. Julia begins to shed her cheery costume and emerges from the discarded skin in her true form. What that is, Erin doesn’t know, but somehow Erin can sense a quiet storm raging inside Julia. It is a fury matched Erin recognises, one mirrored by her own turbulence deep within.
      “My husband didn’t send you, did he?” Erin whispers but Julia doesn’t answer. Instead, she picks up her suitcase and plonks it on the footstool in front of her.
      “Who sent you?” Erin says
     Julia doesn’t answer her. Instead, she fiddles with the combination.
      “Why are you here?!”
     With a click, the suitcase is open.
     Erin leans over and peers inside the suitcase. There is only one object in there, nestled in protective, black foam.
     Julia lifts the precious cargo from its home. The pink-clad woman holds a small glass between her white-gloved fingers and says in a hushed, revered tone; “Aqua Tofana.”
      “What?” Erin replies in slightly confused, awe.
      “Now this is something I reserve for very special clientele. Aqua Tofana.”
      “A perfume?”
      “Yes, a perfume! Aqua Tofana.”
     Julia hands the little glass vial over to Erin who cradles it in her palm as though it were a young chick. Erin glances over the clear, liquid inside. In the crisp light of the morning, the concoction shimmers and glistens. A true magic potion: It was still the witching hour after all. And there is something so special about the vial. It makes Erin feel powerful even holding it. She says, in a whisper, “Just perfume?”
     Julia chuckles, “Aqua Tofana isn’t just a perfume Erin, it is THE perfume, darling. It is an elixir of life. It is a potion to set in motion your freedom. The perfume that every broken, cheated on, abused wife deserves. Aqua Tofana is the remedy – the cure to all your marital problems. Just two drops will make all the boys stop.”
      “I don’t understand. What do I –“
      “Why don’t you try it tonight? At dinner! Then every night after that. Just two drops. Plonk, plonk. That’s all it takes.” Julia shuts her suitcase and stands up. Erin stands with her, clutching the vial in her hand with extreme caution. “It is sure to knock him dead, honey. Trust me.”
     Julia turns to leave but suddenly stops herself. She tilts her head slightly back but doesn’t turn fully. There’s a brief pause, a moment of questioning that lingers in the air. Most sounds exit the room, escaping through the open door. All that’s left in the room is the ticking of the clock and Erin’s now excited pulse racing. Erin was sure Julia could hear it. Especially when she smiled and said, “Oh Erin, one last thing…”
      “Yes?” 
      “Don’t forget to cry.” 

     The witching hour was broken 10am on Monday.
     The usual silence was perforated by loud groans and guttural sobs. Panicked cries come from 4925 Rose Blossom Lane as Erin carries her husband out of the door. As soon as his face hits the air, he vomits. It’s bright red and he moans in agony. He’d lost count of how many times he had been sick this weekend. Wishing it would stop, he slams his fists into the concrete.  
     Picking him from the ground, Erin soothes and supports him. He stumbles over to her car. As Erin slides him onto the back seat, she can see neighbours emerge from their homes to check on the commotion. Rushing to the driver’s seat, Erin wipes tears and snot from her eyes, frightened she says out loud to no one in particular; “He just won’t – I don’t know – something he ate? He just…Oh god…which is the quickest way to the hospital? No, I’ll drive, I’ll drive, I can’t wait. Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t lose him. I can’t. It’s OK baby – we’ll get you some help.”
     Erin slams the door shut. It’s 10.01am. The car is suspiciously quiet. Erin stops crying. She glances in the mirror to see his body slumped down; his eyes are closed, and his skin is deathly pale. She calls his name. Nothing. She reaches back and shakes his limp limbs to try and jolt him to life. Nothing. She tries to find a pulse. Nothing.
     At 10.02am, Erin turns the ignition.