5December 2023
Dear Diary,
Are you really leaving? I heard Mabel say to me just now, the words slicing through the clatter of the kitchen sink. Shes been on a cleaning frenzy all week, trying to bring the flat up to a proper Christmas standard before the holidays arrive, and shes stumbled upon an old USB stick tucked away behind the armchair, in the farright corner next to the radiators. At first glance it was practically invisible, like a secret mission hidden in plain sight.
By the time Im crawling around on my knees, dusting every nook and cranny, I finally spot the little black device. The timing could not have been better the eve of Christmas was just around the corner, and the house was humming with festive anticipation. As the old carol goes, many idle days ahead, a tree full of lights, bubbles of champagne in flutes, a dim lamp casting a warm glow, and a host of unexpected delights.
The tree itself still sat bare; Mabel simply didnt have the time to decorate it. And me? I was about as useful as a chocolate teapot when it came to stringing up fairy lights.
You know, love, I told her, Im hopeless at untangling these garlands!
She rolled her eyes at my excuse and tried to explain, Look, the trunk will be the centre, the branches on each side. Hang the ornaments symmetrically, fill any gaps its not rocket science.
Of course, I couldnt see the axis she spoke of. On one side I piled ornaments into a haphazard heap, leaving the other side empty. It was a classic case of what I call creative chaos. I snapped, If you dont like it, do it yourself! which, in hindsight, was a very convenient way to avoid any responsibility. The mantra of the day seemed to be: If you dont like it, do it yourself, cook it yourself, clean it yourself. And so I watched Mabel take charge of everything, which, honestly, saved us from having to redo the whole thing a hundred times later.
I wasnt exactly raised with a mother who could teach a man the art of decorating, but that didnt matter much. Mabels generosity was boundless; all she wanted was a loving partner by her side, and everything else could be sorted out with a bit of good humour or a sturdy umbrella, as the poets would say.
Mabel works at a boutique estate agency in Mayfair, dealing in highend rentals and sales. The market today is all about penthouses and multistorey flats everyone wants a slice of luxury, whether theyre sipping soup from a tin or polishing pearls. She spends her days hustling to earn enough for a loaf of bread with butter, some oranges, and the odd fancy fish that she calls my darling little thing, love.
As for me, Ive always struggled with steady employment; my parents never taught me the value of a ninetofive. We have no children yet, so weve both adopted the motto lets live for ourselves. Im a tall, sturdy bloke, the sort of fellow who could have been a country squire in another life, but Ive never been much for work.
Three years ago, right after our wedding, I was let down a rung at my first job. Youve been demoted, love, my boss announced. I was taken aback. Demoted, not humiliated, Mabel reminded me. Its just a business decision at least you still have something to do. So I took the lowerpaid role, figuring wed lose only a few pounds a month. Then, in a fit of rebellion, I quit altogether, only to find myself out of work again in a flash.
My fatherinlaw tried to set me up with a friends firm, but the commute was a miserable fortyminute bus ride, and I didnt have a car Mabel was the one who drove to work. After a couple of days of grueling effort, I slipped back onto the couch, and my motherinlaws aunt even asked, Back on the sofa again? Two more job offers fell through: one interview was disastrous, the other boss turned out to be a complete nutter.
Ive always felt I was meant for something grander, perhaps a lordship or a manor, but the reality is Im more of a decorative piece than a working one existing merely to make a woman like Mabel smile. Even my own mother seems to think Im a general of the couch troops. Shed say, All he does is lie about the house.
Are you mad? Id retort, defending myself while acknowledging that shes not entirely wrong. He isnt even at home!
Anyway, the USB stick was tossed into an ashtray after all, we own several houses, and who knows where the data might belong. I never even looked for it, so it was clearly mine. I kept it hidden for a couple of weeks, then, as my motherinlaw liked to say, something got a tickle. I finally decided to see what it contained, just in case there was something useful.
Mabel went for a walk to clear her head, and the video that started playing was a bizarre mashup of tango, Thai massage, and some very questionable latenight tutorial. I laughed, What a load of rubbish! The star of the show? My dear Len, of course, paired with some synchronized dancer. It was all filmed in my flat, which seemed odd because the décor was unlike anything we own. It felt like a secret training session for some unknown purpose.
I thought of Byron for a moment, Ah, the poet, what a lad! and turned the video off. The whole thing reminded me of a shady case with a prosecutor who was being blackmailed a typical London backalley schemer. The prosecutor, of course, was a puppet, and the whole racket hinged on extortion. I wondered who the mastermind was.
Mabel, exhausted, took a halfday off, grabbed the USB, and headed to my old university mate Lucys flat. Lucys a sharp one, always spouting nautical slang because her uncle was a sailor. Do you think hes a secret agent? Mabel asked, eyes wide after watching the first few minutes.
Lucy chuckled, What? A sailors son turned spy? The only thing hes good at is lounging! She suggested, Find a woman and youll be set.
Whod want a pompous turkey? Lucy retorted, Youre not even smart enough to be a sidekick! She went on, Just upload the footage online, then see what happens.
Mabel was baffled. Why would I do that? she asked.
Lucy answered, Because everyone uploads everything these days. Remember when Dzuuba posted his you know what.
Mabel sighed, What does he even want with me?
Lucy replied, Pick a response: send him packing, blackmail him, forgive him, or keep nagging him. Which shore will you dock at?
We decided to watch the rest, just out of curiosity. The ending was unexpected no closing credits, just a womans voice offering a phone number on a slip of paper. If you want to talk, call me. It looked like a number from somewhere in Europe.
Mabel called straight away. We arranged to meet at a café, and Lucy offered to come along, claiming shed be my lawyer and keep me from making a rash decision. I agreed, though Id already decided to give Len a good kick in the rear and send him off with his things to his mothers flat, letting her finish the holiday cleaning alone.
At the café, a pretty young woman (about my age) pleaded, We love each other, please let him go! I asked, Why do you think Im holding him? She answered, Because you said hes taken all the money and you want a divorce!
I stared at her, eyes cold. Take him, I dont mind.
She gasped, Can we just take him now? I shrugged, If thats what you want.
Lucy whispered, Take him however you like. I told Len to pack his stuff and wait for me later that evening.
He woke up groggy, still halfasleep after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a pot of tea. I handed him a bag of his belongings and said, Youre leaving.
You know I cant even shop properly! he protested. Then go yourself!
The room was warm, the tiny tree in the corner glittered with the lights Mabel had finally managed to hang, and the TV was playing a classic film the usual postChristmas routine. Outside, the thermometer was dropping, and a snowflake flurry was beginning.
I told him, Im sending you to wherever you can show what youre best at.
Back to mums? he guessed.
No, to the the one whos been pulling off the acrobatics! I laughed, pointing at the TV.
He stared, bewildered, as I slipped the USB into his pocket, hiding it beneath a handkerchief the only accessory a gentleman of his taste would ever wear.
Say something clever, I prompted. Maybe youre an actor, hypnotised, or under the influence of something?
He was silent. He wasnt a fool, after all, and he had no intention of walking out on me for good.
Later, Lucys sailor uncles stories floated back to mind, and I realized perhaps Id been a bit dense. Mabel, ever the pragmatist, finally said, Seven feet under the keel, now! Sail away, my dear!
He begged for forgiveness, I denied it. He tried to change the subject to pancakes. I laughed, Youll get no pancakes from a man who cant even fetch a loaf!
I pulled the USB from his computer, chuckling, A bonus from the firm show it to your mother, youll be a star! And he was gone, sailing off to whoknowswhere.
The flat fell back into silence: the tree twinkling, the telly humming, the old couch empty. It felt like the final line of a French poem the end.
My motherinlaw called, tugging at my conscience, urging me to take responsibility for the good boy Id let slip away.
In the end, I filed for divorce. It was, indeed, the fin of our story. The only thing I was left with were the pancake cravings and a lingering sense that perhaps I should have been more than just a couchpotato.
Lesson learned: a man who refuses to work, who hides behind excuses, and who lets his partner do all the heavy lifting will eventually find himself alone on a cold December night, clutching a USB stick and wondering where it all went wrong.
L. Hartley.
