14December
Today I was swamped with the usual preNewYear chores. My wife, Molly Ryebank, was giving the flat a thorough onceover when she spotted a tiny USB stick tucked away behind the armchair, right next to the radiator. It was almost invisible, like a hidden flaw in a wellkept garden, but she was crawling along the floor, wiping every corner, so the little gadget finally turned up.
The atmosphere was festive the tree was still naked, the lights were waiting to be strung, and I was convinced I could never manage the tinsel without turning it into a tangled mess. You know I cant untangle that ribbon, love, Id joke, but the truth was Im hopeless at arranging ornaments symmetrically. Molly tried to explain her plan: Think of the trunk as the axis, the branches left and right. Hang a bauble on one side, then the other, fill any gaps. I just stared at the clump of toys on one side and the empty space on the other and muttered something about bloody nonsense. Eventually I said, If you dont like it, do it yourself, and walked away, feeling oddly relieved to be off the hook.
Molly took charge of everything, which turned out to be smarter than redoing the whole thing a hundred times. Im not much of a handyman my mum never taught me but shes generous enough to forgive my shortcomings, especially when the thought of having a warm, loving partner is enough to keep her smiling.
Molly works for a highend property agency in Manchester, dealing in penthouses and multistorey flats. The market is fierce; everyone seems to need a swanky address, whether theyre chasing soup kitchens or pearlpriced apartments. Money comes in on a earnasyougo basis, and Molly spends long hours hustling to bring home the loaf, the butter, the oranges, and that cheeky little red fish she keeps bragging about.
I, on the other hand, have never quite found my footing in a career. My parents never pushed me to work, and Ive bounced from one lowpaid gig to another. We have no children yet, so I keep saying, Well live for ourselves, and I mean it. Im a solidbuilt bloke, the sort of fellow who could have been a country squire, but Im more at home lounging than laboring.
Three years ago, right after we got married, I was demoted at work. Can you believe it? Molly asked. I was dropped a grade, not humiliated. I tried to rationalise it as a necessary restructuring. Just take the lower pay; well lose a few quid, but were still afloat. Then I quit in a fit of spite, leaving my boss fuming. My fatherinlaw tried to set me up with a friends firm, but the commute was forty minutes by bus, and Molly needed the car for her own client visits. So I shrugged and stayed idle.
Two days later, I was back on the sofa, and my motherinlaw teased, Back to the couch again? I turned down a couple of offers one interview went badly, the other was with a man Id later call a tyrant. It seemed I was destined for a life of leisure, perhaps to keep Molly happy.
Mollys grandmother, a sharptongued old lady, once called me General of the Lazy Brigade. I defended him, saying, He isnt just lying around your house. She replied, Its an insult to the family, putting a pretty, clever girl on a useless blokes shoulders. With that, Molly told me to manage the preholiday cleaning alone, because Im hopeless at this.
She tucked the USB into an ashtray, assuming Id never need it. I never searched for it, so it stayed hidden for a couple of weeks. Then, out of the blue, something tugged at Mollys curiosity. She decided to see what was on the stick. I went for a walk, thinking fresh air might clear my head.
The video turned out to be a bizarre mashup of tango, Thai massage, and some indecent bits I cant even describe. It starred me, of course, and some synchronised female figure. It all unfolded in a strange interior that didnt look like our flat. The clip reminded me of my grandmothers mantra: Everything in life is earned through effort. I laughed and shut it off after a few seconds, thinking it was nonsense.
Later, Molly confided in her friend Lucy, a sharpwitted woman with a sailor uncle, that perhaps the footage was a blackmail scheme an agent trying to extort us. Lucy scoffed, Your secret agent is a sealion? Hes only good at lying down! She suggested I should start looking for a woman, but Molly just wanted to know what to do with the compromising material.
In the end we both watched the whole thing together. The final scene wasnt credits but a womans voice offering a phone number on a scrap of paper. If you want to talk, call me, it said. It seemed to be an American or European number. Molly dialed, and we arranged to meet at a cafe, bringing Lucy along as a lawyer. The lady at the cafe, a pretty teenager, declared, We love each other, let us be together! I asked, Why would you think Im holding him hostage? She blurted out that I was stealing his money, which made Molly grin and say, Take him, Im not opposed. Lucy added, Take him however you like, then come collect your things tonight.
When I finally woke up, I heard Molly say, Youre leaving! I protested, I cant even shop for groceries! She replied, Then go yourself! The room was warm, the modestly decorated tree glowed, and the TV was playing a postNewYear film. Outside, frost was creeping down the thermometer, and the clock was ticking towards the afternoon tea.
Molly packed my things, placed my bag in the hallway, and told me, Youre going! I asked where, and she replied, Where you can show what you do best. To Mums? I suggested. To your mothers! she shouted, and I was left stunned. She pulled a USB from my pocket, a tiny fabric handkerchief tucked inside, and demanded I say something clever, as if I were an actor under hypnosis. She recalled a prosecutor from the video, likening him to a lion, and insisted I was the real macho, alpha male, throwing my legs about like a childs toy.
I sat there silent. I wasnt a fool, but I never intended to leave her. The absurdity of the whole episode the flash drive, the video, the accusations made me realise how far wed both drifted.
At night, after the last pancake with jam, I thought about everything. I finally understood that my stubbornness, my refusal to work, and my cheap jokes had pushed the woman I love to the brink. Ive learned that pride and laziness are cheap taxes on a marriage.
Lesson: if youre not willing to put in the effort, youll lose the person who matters most.
