Emma Clarke was bustling about the kitchen, preparing dinner. Her husband, James Turner, had said he wanted a seafood pasta. After work she darted into the corner shop on the high street, bought everything, and cooked alone. James lingered a little longer at the office, but finally came in clutching a bunch of roses.
Emma, welcome home, tired husband! he shouted cheerfully as he crossed the doorway.
Emma laughed, took the flowers and set them in a vase. After the meal, having talked through the days little troubles, they sank into the sofa, turned on a film, and let the night wrap around them. They had been married for more than ten years; the early fire had settled into a comfortable warmth. Together they ran a modest family businessEmma dealt with suppliers, James handled sales and the accounts. Their flat in Camden was tidy, their life a full cup. Children? Not yet on the agenda; perhaps when they neared forty.
One rainy afternoon Emma found a stray kitten on the pavement, a scruffy grey thing with a torn ear. James frowned at the sight.
Whats this mudball youve brought home? Take it to a rescue centre. If you want a cat, get a pedigreemaybe a MaineCoon, theyre all the rage. Not this scrawny thing.
But Emma had already fallen for the little creature and named him Whiskers. The cat became her tail, curling around her ankles. James never liked him; the antipathy was mutual. Quietly James might nudge the cat away, and in retaliation Whiskers would sprawl across his trousers, shedding fur, or claw at his jumper.
Ill get rid of that cat. Hes ruined my shirt, James growled.
Emma pleaded, Dont fling things about. Put them away. Whiskers doesnt like the mess.
His name sounds like a nursery rhymeWhiskers, James muttered.
Whiskers glimmered back with his mysterious green eyes.
For a whole year a silent war raged between husband and feline. Lately, James grew more irritable whenever Whiskers slipped into the room, shouting, Whats he doing here? Hell cause trouble.
Emma, ever the peacemaker, said, James, calm down. Hes just minding his own cat business. Hes not a menace.
Hes driving me mad. Could you give him away? James asked.
I wont. Hes mine, Emma replied.
Over the months Whiskers grew huge, sleek, and almost regal.
On a Saturday Emma set about a deep clean. James had vanished on Thursday for a work trip to Birmingham, promising to be back by Sunday. She washed the flat, dusted every surface, and noticed Whiskers pawing at a loose board in the wardrobe. What are you up to, you little rascal? she whispered, pulling the board aside. A thin folder fell out, its edges frayed.
Inside were receipts for hotel stays, shortbreak holiday vouchers, expensive jewellery, airline ticketsnone of which Emma recognized. There was also a sales contract for a car, signed by a woman called Natalie Hawke, yet the payment had been made in Jamess name.
Emma flipped through the papers; some bore Jamess cramped notes. He had a habit of keeping receipts, later channeling them through the company to skim cash. This was just another hidden ledger. A cold knot tightened in her stomach. She wanted to crumple the pages, shout, call James at once, but held herself back. Whiskers circled, then leapt onto the folder.
You showed me this, didnt you? Emma said softly, tears glistening. The cat pressed against her, purring a low, soothing tune that seemed to steady her shaking thoughts.
Yes, Whiskers, youre right. Think first, then act, she murmured, copying every receipt and document.
That night she logged onto the internet, searching the cars registration. A young womans profile appeared, posing beside a bright red hatchback with the caption gift from my love. No picture of a partner, only her hands and the back of a mans torsofamiliar enough for Emma to recognise Jamess broad shoulders. James had a mistress, and he was spending their joint money on her.
James returned on Sunday evening, cheeks flushed, bouquet in hand.
Why dont you greet your husband? he shouted jovially from the doorway.
Emmas eyes were rimmed red. Ive caught a cold, my head hurts, she croaked.
James ate, then Emma withdrew to the spare bedroom.
Should we call a doctor? James asked.
No, Ill just rest. Ive already taken the tablets, she replied.
James dozed on the couch, his phone abandoned on the kitchen counter. Emma, absentmindedly, turned it over. She had never once looked through Jamess messages, trusting him completely. Now she saw text after text, chat logs, the proof of his affair. That evening he sent a sweetsounding message to his lover: Missing you already. Lets meet Tuesday.
On Monday Emma sent James off to work, telling him she would stay home to recover. She gathered the papers and walked to a solicitors office.
The divorce petition and asset split were filed that same day. Emma told James, without a hint of the truth, I think Im ill, Ill spend some time at the country house. She still commuted to work once a week, the journey from London to her new cottage manageable.
When the court papers arrived, James stared at the documents in stunned silence. He had not expected the receipts, the car purchase, the holiday splurges. The judge asked, Did you really spend these sums on a lover? Did you buy her a car?
Yes I did, James admitted, voice trembling.
Emmas solicitor secured a full division of the couples assets, compensation for half the businesss value, and reclaimed half of the illicit spending, arguing it had been family money. James accepted without protest.
The flat stayed with James; Emma took the cottage and a substantial cash settlement. The cars remained as they wereeach kept by its owner. Before the divorce, Emma had already moved some suppliers to a new company, and now she ran the entire operation herself, handling both finance and sales. It was safer, and she and Whiskers managed just fine. The new venture thrived.
James fumed; his exwife was now a competitor, a successful one at that. His finances dwindled, and his new mistress proved more trouble than romance. He spent evenings on dates, then trudged back to an empty flat, the echo of his own footsteps the only company.
