28December
I spent the afternoon doing the big springclean for the New Year and, while pulling the rug from under the armchair, I discovered a USB stick tucked away behind the heater, in the farright corner of the lounge. It was almost invisible, like a hidden file in a cluttered inbox. Im usually crawling around the floor, wiping every nook, so it finally came to light.
The house was humming with festive spirit the tree still bare, the lights not yet strung, a bottle of bubbles on the table, the lamp casting a soft glow. There was a feeling that something wonderful, unexpected, was about to happen. My husband, Liam Harris, wasnt much help with decoration.
Love, you know Im hopeless with tinsel, hed said, laughing, I cant even untangle a strand without making a mess.
I tried to persuade him, Just take the pole as the centre, then the branches on either side. Hang one ornament on the left, then one on the right, and fill any gaps. He stared at the pole as if it were a foreign object, and the ornaments piled up on one side while the other stayed barren. I could have called it a case of sheer clumsiness, but I chose not to.
When he snapped, Fine, do it yourself, I felt a strange relief. It was easier to take matters into my own hands than to spend hours redoing someone elses halffinished work. Liam never learned these things from his mother, and that was all right Id always been generous with my patience. All I truly needed for happiness was a kind partner, and the rest could be sorted with a bit of humour, like a welltimed umbrella on a rainy day.
My life is simple. Im Emma Whitaker, a propertysales and lettings consultant in a firm that specialises in highend apartments and penthouses. Nowadays everyone seems to want a loft with a view or a terraced house with a garden, whether theyre saving for a rainy day or dreaming of a splash of luxury. Money flows in and out in the same rhythm, and I spend most of my days hustling to earn enough for bread, butter, oranges and a nice bottle of red the little comforts that keep us afloat.
Liam, on the other hand, has always struggled with work. His parents never pushed him into a trade, and hes never quite found his footing. We have no children yet, so we keep telling ourselves, Lets enjoy this while we can. Liams a solid lad, tall and sturdy, the sort of fellow who could have been a squire in another era. He quit his job three years ago, right after we married, and the first thing he said was, Can you believe they demoted me?
I replied, They didnt humiliate you, they just placed you lower. Its just a business decision, thank heavens theres still a job! I told him to keep working, even if it meant a modest salary, because a little income is better than none. He took that to heart, though his attempts at a new job ended in a spectacularly bad interview and a boss who seemed to have lost his mind. Eventually his fatherinlaw helped him find a position with a friend, but the commute was forty minutes by bus far longer than the fifteenminute drive Emma needed for her own work. Id often say, Move along, love, theres no time to waste.
After a couple of gruelling days, Liam gave up again. My mother, ever the nosy one, asked, Back on the sofa again? and laughed. Two more offers fell through: one rejected by the interviewer, another because the manager turned out to be a complete prick. Liam, with his grand air, seemed destined for a manor house or a lords estate, not a cramped office. Yet he was a gentleman, meant more for charming a lady than for crunching numbers.
My own mother used to call Liam a general of the couch troops, and my grandmother even muttered, He just lies about us! I defended him, He isnt even staying at my place! The old woman retorted, Its a disgrace that a pretty, clever girl ends up with a wobbly sort of fellow!
When Liam left for the bath with his mates, he left me to finish the preNewYear tidy alone. There was no time to fiddle with the USB; our house had so many spare rooms just in case the family in Brazil drops by, I joked. So I shoved the stick into the ashtray and forgot about it. Liam never looked for a USB, so I assumed it was my own little stash of property listings.
Weeks slipped by, and then, as my grandmother would say, something touched me. I finally decided to see what was on the drive maybe there was a contract or a clients details. Liam went for a walk; fresh air always does him good. The video that started playing was a bizarre mashup of tango, Thai massage, earlymorning yoga and something rather indecent. I stopped it after a few seconds, thinking, What on earth is this? The main star was, of course, Liam, flanked by an oddly synchronized partner. The setting was unfamiliar, as if someone had set up a film studio in my living room.
My friend Lucy, ever sharp, invited me over for tea. I brought the USB, still halfwatched, and asked, Do you think hes a secret agent? Maybe theyll blackmail him for ransom.
Lucy laughed, What, you think your husbands a spy? Hes more likely to be a seal all he does is lounge! She sipped her tea, You need a proper woman in your life, love.
She advised, If youre going to post this nonsense online, be ready for the world to see it. I asked, Why would I do that? She said, People post everything these days. Look at what Dzhuba posted. I replied, How would I know why Dzhuba posted? She shrugged, Were not here to argue about Dzhubas motives.
Lucy suggested a few options: ignore it, expose him, forgive and move on, or keep tormenting him with guilt. Which shore will you dock at? she asked, a hint of her sailoruncles lingo slipping through. Shall we watch the rest of it? she offered. We did, and the ending was anything but ordinary no closing credits, just a female voice saying, If you want to talk, call this number. A scrap of paper with a phone number appeared.
AmericaEurope, Lucy said, Thats where the dogs buried.
I dialed the number straight away. A café was arranged, and Lucy volunteered to be my lawyer, promising to keep me from any rash decisions. I agreed, already planning to give Liam a proper kick and send his belongings to his mothers place, where she could keep him busy polishing her garden shed.
At the café, the drama unfolded in classic melodrama. A young woman, looking like me, pleaded, We love each other, please let him go! I asked, Why would you think Im holding him? She replied, Because Liam said you took all his money and wont divorce!
I looked at Lucy, who gave me a knowing glance. Youve been misinformed, dear, I said coldly. Take him, I dont mind. The other woman gasped, Can we just take him now? Lucy nudged, If you want to take him, go ahead. I added, Come tomorrow evening with his stuff.
The socalled lover left stunned; the rest of us laughed at the absurdity. Liam was snoring in the kitchen after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes and a pot of jam. I gathered his things and placed his duffel in the hallway. When he finally woke, I told him, Youre leaving!
He protested, You know I cant shop for groceries! I sent him off, Then go yourself! The room was warm, the modestly decorated tree glimmered, and the TV was playing a classic film the usual postNewYear routine. The weather outside was turning frosty, the thermometer sliding down as we approached Candlemas.
Later, I caught Liam trying to sneak back, pleading, Im not a thief, I just wanted a biscuit! I replied, Im sending you to your mothers, and he muttered, To mum? I snapped, To your mothers, you wretched fool! He stared, baffled, as if the whole scene were a set from a cheap sitcom. I pulled out the USB, tucked it in the back of my laptop, and said, Take this bonus from the firm, show it to your mother, tell her youre a Stallone!
He left, destination unknown, and I didnt bother to chase him. The tree twinkled, the TV droned on, the old sofa sat empty. Thats the end, I thought, as the night settled in. A call from my motherinlaw, pleading for mercy, rang out, but I blocked her number. The story closed with me filing for divorce a true the end.
All I wanted now is a plate of pancakes with jam, not a tangled mess of family drama.
