Mabel Hartley was stirring a pot in the dim kitchen of their flat in a leafy London suburb. Paul Whitaker had mentioned that he craved a seafood pasta, so after her shift she darted to the corner supermarket, gathering all the ingredients alone. She was the one who cooked, while Paul lingered a little longer at work, finally arriving with a bunch of roses clutched in his hand.
Ellie, welcome home, weary husband! he boomed, halflaughing as he crossed the threshold.
Mabel giggled, took the blossoms, and set them in a vase that seemed to bloom forever.
After dinner, the couple slipped onto the sofa, the evenings worries and the days oddities spilling out between them like steam, then turned on a film and let the shadows of the screen wrap around them. They had been married for over ten years; the early fire had settled into a steady, comforting warmth. Together they ran a modest importexport ventureMabel dealing with suppliers, Paul handling sales and the books. Their apartment was tidy, their life a full cup. Children? Not yet on the agenda; perhaps when they neared forty.
One rainy afternoon Mabel rescued a scruffy little kitten from a back alley. It was a gaunt, mottled grey thing with toobig ears, and Paul frowned at the sight of it.
What on earth have you brought home? Take it to the shelter, he snapped. If you want a cat, get a pedigreemaybe a Maine Coon, theyre all the rage. Not this tumbleweed.
But Mabel had already named the kitten Whiskers and felt a sudden knot of affection. Whiskers became her tailthe soft, silent companion that curled around her feet. Paul, however, grew to dislike the feline. Their antipathy was mutual; Paul would nudge the cat gently, and Whiskers would settle on his trousers, shedding fur, clawing at his sweater as if to say, Im here.
Im going to get rid of that cat, Paul muttered one night.
Dont toss things around, Mabel replied. Put it away if you dont like it. Whiskers isnt your problem.
What a plebeian nameWhiskers, Paul grumbled, and the cats green eyes flashed a cryptic glow.
Thus began a yearlong, dreamlike stalemate between husband and cat. Whenever Whiskers prowled the living room, Paul would raise his voice, Whats that youre doing there? Youll ruin something!
Mabel, ever the peacemaker, said softly, Paul, why are you shouting? Hes just doing cat things. He isnt a menace.
He irritates me. Give him away.
I wont. Hes mine.
Over the months Whiskers grew plump, sleek, and regal.
One Saturday Mabel set about a deep clean. Paul had left for a Thursday business trip to Manchester, saying he wouldnt be back until Sunday. She scrubbed every surface, dusted, and when she reached for a stray piece of paper hidden behind the wardrobe, a small folder slipped out.
What are you fiddling with, cat? she whispered, kneeling.
Inside the folder were receipts in crisp pounds: hotel bookings, shortbreak holiday vouchers, pricey jewellery purchases, airline ticketsnone of which belonged to Mabel. There was also a contract for a car sale signed by a woman named Natalie, yet the payments were recorded under Pauls name.
Mabel flipped through the pages; many bore Pauls handwritten notes. He habitually kept receipts, later channeling some through the firm to skim a little extra cash. This pile was a hidden ledger of his side dealings.
Her heart hammered. She wanted to tear the papers, to scream, to call Paul at once, but she held herself back. Whiskers, sensing the tension, circled the folder, leapt onto it, and brushed against her hand.
You saw this, you showed me, Mabel murmured, her voice trembling. The cat pressed against her, purring a low, soothing melody, as if to steady the dream that was her life.
Yes, Whiskers, youre right. Think before you act.
She copied every receipt, every contract. That evening she scoured social media for the cars owner and found a young woman posing beside a bright red hatchback, captioned gift from my love. No picture of a partner, just a back view that Mabel recognized all too wellPauls broad shoulders. The implication was clear: Paul had a lover and was siphoning their joint funds to finance her.
Paul returned Sunday night, flowers in hand, as cheerful as ever.
Why dont you greet your husband? he shouted from the doorway, his voice echoing oddly.
Im feeling feverish, my head hurts, Mabel whispered, eyes bloodred.
He ate dinner, then retreated to the spare bedroom, leaving Mabel alone in the hallway.
Should we call a doctor? she asked.
No, Ill rest. Ive taken my medicine, Paul replied, drifting off.
The phone lay on the kitchen counter, blinking. Mabel, who had never pried into Pauls messages, now turned it over. The screen revealed a string of texts, messenger chats, and a lingering message to sunshine: Miss you already. See you Tuesday.
The pieces fell together. The next Monday she sent Paul off to work, claiming she was ill, and then, clutching the copied documents, walked to a solicitors office.
She filed for divorce and for a division of assets. Without informing Paul, she told neighbours, I think Ive caught something Ill be staying at the cottage for a while. She continued to commute to her supplier meetings once a week, working remotely from the countryside.
When the legal papers arrived, Paul read them like a bolt of lightning on a clear day. He rushed to Mabels flat, breathless.
What have you done? Weve been together for years. Ive done everything for you.
Ive fallen out of love, Mabel said simply. Well see each other in court.
She kept the affair silent. In court, the solicitor presented the receipts and the car purchase. Paul stammered, Yes I spent that money.
The judge asked, Did you really use joint funds for a lovers car?
Yes, Paul admitted, defeat colouring his voice.
Mabels lawyer secured half of the businesss value, a financial settlement, and reclaimed the sum Paul had spent on the lover, deeming it marital money. Paul kept the flat; Mabel took the cottage and a tidy lump sum. The cars remained, each owner keeping theirs.
Before the divorce was final, Mabel had already transferred some of her supplier contacts to a new company, taking both sales and finance under her own wing. She and Whiskers now ran a lean, thriving enterprise.
Paul, bitter that his exwife had become a competitor, watched his own finances shrink. His new romance was fleeting, an affair of evenings out, never a home. He would return to an empty flat, the echo of his own footsteps the only company. The dream, once vivid with roses and receipts, settled into a new, quieter rhythm.
