June 25
Tonight I finally put pen to paper, hoping the act of writing will steady the storm inside me.
Id spent the afternoon rummaging through the local Tesco after work, picking up fresh basil, cherry tomatoes, a packet of linguine and some mussels for Pauls favourite seafood pasta. By the time I got home the kettle was whistling, the kitchen was a mess of chopping boards and the scent of garlic filled the flat on Baker Street. I was the only one in the house, so I set the table for two, humming along to the radio.
Paul was late, as usual, but he burst through the door a halfhour later with a bouquet of red roses in his hands, shouting, Laura, welcome home, tired husband here! His grin was as wide as the Thames. I laughed, took the flowers, and set them in a vase on the coffee table.
After dinner we slipped onto the sofa, talked about the days annoyances, and turned on the new Netflix film wed been meaning to watch. Weve been married ten years now; the early fireworks have settled into a warm, comfortable glow. We run a modest family business together I handle supplier negotiations, Paul takes care of sales and the books. Our little twobed flat in Camden feels full, even if we havent thought about children yet. Perhaps when were both approaching forty.
A few weeks ago I found a scrappy, grey kitten wandering outside the back door. He was thin, his fur patched in places, but his eyes were earnest. I brought him in despite Pauls protests. What on earth are you doing with that stray? Take him to the shelter, hed said. If you want a cat, get a proper breedmaybe a Maine Coon, theyre all the rage. Not this ragtag thing.
I named him Morris. Hes become my little tail, my constant companion, and Pauls nemesis. Their rivalry has been a lowkey, daily tugofwar. Whenever Paul tries to shuffle past me, Morris curls up on his trousers, shedding fur, clawing at his sweater. Paul would shout, Im going to get rid of this cat, hes ruining my clothes! Id reply, Dont fling things about, just put them away. Hed mutter, Morris is a silly name, like some commonfolk pet. Morris would meet his gaze with those unsettling green eyes.
For an entire year the two of them have been at odds. Lately, Morriss presence has made Paul visibly tense; hed snap, Whats he doing here? Hell cause trouble. Id try to soothe him, Paul, hes just a cat, not a burglar. Hes not bothering you. Hed answer, Laura, he irritates me. Can you give him away? No, hes mine, Id say. Over months Morris grew larger, sleek, and a little pompous.
On Thursday Paul left on a work trip to Birmingham, saying hed be back by Sunday. I took the opportunity to do a deep clean of the flat. While dusting, I noticed a loose folder behind the wardrobe. Curious, I pulled it out. Inside were receipts for hotel stays, shortterm holiday packages, expensive jewellery, airline ticketsnone of which were for me. There was also a contract for the sale of a car, signed by Natalie as the buyer, yet the payment had come from Pauls account. Some of the receipts bore Pauls familiar scribbles.
Hes always been meticulous about keeping receipts, often processing them through the business to mask personal spending. Seeing these hidden documents made my stomach turn. I felt the urge to tear them up, to scream, to call Paul immediately, but I held back. Morris brushed against my leg, leapt onto the folder, and purred, his rumbling a strangely calming lullaby.
I copied every receipt, every document, and that evening I searched social media for the cars new owner. I found a young woman, brighteyed, posing with a cherryred hatchback that had a caption Gift from my love. The photo showed only her hands from the back, but I recognised the tattoo on her wristit was the same one Paul has. It hit me then: Paul had a lover, and hed been using our joint money to fund her.
He returned on Sunday night, as cheerful as ever, flowers in hand. Why arent you meeting your husband at the door? he joked as he stepped inside. I forced a smile, told him my head was throbbing, that I felt feverish. He sat down to eat, while I retreated to the spare bedroom.
Should I call a doctor? he asked. No, Ill just rest. Ive taken my meds. I lay there, watching him drift off, his phone abandoned on the kitchen counter. The temptation to glance at it was strong; after years of trusting him Id never once looked through his messages. Yet that night I did.
The texts confirmed everything: flirty banter, plans to meet on Tuesday, affectionate nicknames. My heart pounded. The next morning I sent Paul off to work, telling him I was under the weather and would stay at the cottage for a few days. I gathered the paperwork and, with shaking hands, walked into a solicitors office.
Today the divorce petition and a claim for the division of assets were filed. I told Paul I was feeling a bit ill, so Ill be at the country house for a while. He still comes into the office once a week, commuting from the city, but now his visits are purely professional. The notice of the petition hit him like a bolt of lightning on an otherwise bright day. He stormed over, pleading, What are you thinking? Weve been together for so long. Ive done everything for you.
I answered simply, Ive fallen out of love. I said nothing about Natalie. In court, when the receipts and the car purchase were laid out, Paul looked bewildered. The judge asked, Did you really spend such sums on a mistress? Did you buy her a car? He muttered, Yes I did.
My solicitor secured a fair split of the business assets, a halfshare of the companys value, and reclaimed the money Paul had spent on his affair, since it was family money. Paul kept the flat; I received the cottage in Kent and a substantial cash settlement. The cars stayed where they wereeach of us kept the one wed already been using.
Even before the divorce was final, I moved several of the suppliers to a new company under my own name, taking over both sales and finance. It feels safer now, with Morris always at my side.
Paul is furious; my former wife is now his competitor, a successful one at that. His finances have thinned, and his new romance offers him little more than occasional dates. He returns to an empty flat, his evenings as hollow as the promises he once made.
I close this entry feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. The future is uncertain, but for the first time in years I feel Im finally turning the page on a chapter that has weighed me down for far too long.
LauraShe watched Morris chase a sunbeam across the kitchen floor, feeling the promise of a new beginning settle gently around her.
