12December
Ive been deepcleaning the flat for the holidays and, while wiping the baseboards in the kitchen, I knocked a tiny USB drive out from behind the armchair. It lay there in the corner, right next to the radiator, almost invisiblelike a piece of paperwork you never expect to need.
The house feels festive already; the tree is still bare, the lights are boxed up, and theres a faint glow from the floor lamp. I havent even got the tinsel up yettheres never enough time. My husband, Leonard, is as useless with decorations as he is with the garden hose.
You know I cant untangle the fairy lights, love, he says, chuckling, and I never manage to hang the ornaments evenly.
I try to show him a simple plan: Just think of the trunk as the central axis. The branches go left and righthang a few on each side, then step back and fill any gaps.
He just stares, bewildered, and ends up piling ornaments on one side while leaving the other empty. I tell him, halfjoking, If you dont like it, do it yourself, and it feels easier than arguing.
I end up doing everything on my own, which, honestly, saves me from redoing the whole thing later. Leonard hasnt learned much about homemaking; his mother never taught him, and its not a great losshes generous in his own way, and thats what matters when you have someone you love by your side.
My job at Prestige Properties keeps me busy. We rent and sell highend flats in Mayfair and Canary Wharf, and lately everyone seems to want a penthouse or a splitlevel apartment. The commissions come in pounds, and I hustle all day to bring home a decent loaf of bread, a packet of oranges, and a tin of smoked salmon for us.
Leonard, however, has always struggled with work. After we married three years ago he was demotedIts just a restructuring, I told him, not a disgrace. He kept at it, even taking a temporary gig that meant a fortyminute bus ride from our flat. My sister, Lucy, offered to drive me, but I was already stretched thin.
Two weeks later, after a string of rejected job offersone interviewer was rude, another boss was outright obnoxiousLeonard decided to take a break. My motherinlaw, ever the meddler, called me a general of the sofa army, which made me roll my eyes.
Im not lying around in your house, Mum, I defended him, its just a bit of a slump. My own mother, a sharptongued widow, replied, Hes a burden on the state of affairswhy should you keep him?
When Leonard left for a sauna with his mates, he left me to finish the cleaning alone. I shoved the USB into an ashtray, thinking Id get to it later. I usually use those drives to store property listings and client photos, so I wasnt in a hurry.
A few days later, curiosity got the better of me. I dusted off the drive and slipped it into my laptop. The first few seconds showed a bizarre mashup: a tangostyle dance, a Thai massage tutorial, and something that could only be described as a very odd comedy sketch. It was baffling, but I laughed anywaymaybe Leonard had been watching something weird while he was away.
The clip ended with a womans voice saying, If you want to talk about this, call the number on the card. The number was American, which made no sense. I called, and a woman named Claire answered, offering to meet at a café. She said she could be my legal adviser for whatever mess I was getting into.
Leonard, meanwhile, was still snoring on the sofa after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a pot of stewed apples. I packed his things into a bag and placed it by the hallway. When he finally awoke, I told him plainly, Youre leaving.
You know I cant even shop for groceries without making a mess, he protested, so go yourself!
The flat was warm, the tiny tree finally dressed in lights, and the television flickered with a New Years specialour usual postholiday routine. Outside, the wind was picking up and the thermometer dropped below zero.
I told Leonard, Im sending you somewhere you can show what you do best. He asked, Where?
Back to your mothers, I said, halflaughing, or to the one who keeps you on his toes. He looked confused; both his grandmothers are already in the great beyond.
He tried to defend himself, claiming a prosecutor was after him for blackmail, but I knew better. Hed never been involved in anything illegal; he barely had a penny to his name. Still, the idea of a dramatic showdown seemed to amuse me.
I went to Lucys flat, took the USB, and we watched the rest of the video together. It turned out to be a spoof of a courtroom dramacomplete with a fake prosecutor demanding a ransom. Lucy, ever the sailors daughter, joked, Maybe hes an undercover agent.
Dont you think you need a proper woman in your life? she teased, sipping her tea. Thats the only way to keep a spy in check.
I laughed, then thought about what I truly wanted. I could either send Leonard on his way with a polite goodbye, or I could keep him trapped in this farcical situation forever. I chose the former.
At the café, I told the lawyer that Leonard and I loved each other, pleading for his release. She raised an eyebrow. Youre keeping his money, arent you? she asked.
I smiled, Take whatever you like, Im not opposed.
She nodded, Then pick up his belongings tonight.
When Leonard finally got up, I handed him the bag and said, Youre leaving, and thats final. He tried to protest, I cant even make a proper shopping list! I replied, Go to where you can prove youre best at nothing.
He muttered something about pancakes, and I couldnt help but chuckle. I pulled the USB from the ashtray, slid it into my laptop, and, for good measure, sent a copy to a friend at the firm as a joke.
Now, as I sit by the glow of the Christmas lights, I feel a strange mix of relief and melancholy. The tree sparkles, the kettle whistles, and outside the frost bites. Ive decided to file for divorce. It feels like the final line of an old balladno more rehearsals, just the curtain falling.
Tomorrow Ill pack the last of Leonards things, hand over the keys, and let the house settle into a new rhythm. Perhaps the next year will bring a quieter, more straightforward Christmas, without the drama of a misplaced USB or a husband who cant quite find his place.
For now, Ill sip my tea, watch the snow drift past the window, and write this down, hoping the page holds more than just the echo of a broken partnership.
