Youre leaving! she announced to her husband.
Emma Smith was deepcleaning the flat for New Years and stumbled upon a USB stick.
It lay behind the armchair, tucked in the far corner to the right of the radiatorpractically invisible, like a secret mission hidden in plain sight. Emma, crawling on her hands and knees, wiping every nook, finally uncovered the little device.
The atmosphere was festive, the night before New Years, full of twinkling lights, a glittering fir, bubbles of champagne in crystal flutes, a soft glow from the floor lamp, and a sense that anything unexpected might turn out delightful.
The tree was still bare; Emma had no time to dress it. Her husband, James, was hopeless with decorations.
You know, love, I cant even untangle the tinsel! he muttered.
And I never get the ornaments to line up symmetrically, he added.
Why not? Look, the trunk is the axisbranches on the left and right, Emma said, trying to convince him. Hang one on the left, then one on the right, and fill any gaps you see. Simple, isnt it?
James saw only chaos: a pile of toys on one side, an empty space on the other. He called it a bout of stupidity.
If you dont like it, do it yourself! he snapped, which, oddly enough, suited him perfectly. The mantra around the room became: if you dont like it, do it yourself; if you dont want to cook, cook yourself; the nonsense spread in all directions.
Emma took matters into her own hands, saving herself from endless redoing. James was hardly a handyman; his mother never taught him. Still, Emma, like most happy people, was generous. All she needed for contentment was a loving partner; the rest could be sorted with a metaphorical umbrellacheers to the witty songwriters of our imagination.
Emmas life was simple. She worked at a luxury property firm in London that rented and sold highend apartments. Penthouses and multilevel flats were in demand; some clients wanted emptiness, others tiny pearls of space. Money was earned by the principle you get what you work for. Emma toiled all day to bring home buttered bread, oranges, and a bright red fishI adore you, love! shed say.
James, however, was chronically unemployed; his parents never pushed him to work. The couple had no children yet. Well live for ourselves, James declared, and began to act on it.
James was tall, wellbuiltwhat the English might call a proper chapbut hed quit his job three years ago, right after they married.
Can you believe it? They demoted me! he exclaimed.
And then? Emma asked.
Whats the point? he replied, bewildered.
Emma explained calmly, They lowered your grade, not humiliated you. Its a production need. At least you have a job! She urged him to keep earning, even if the pay was reduced. Well lose a little, but Im still working, so theres no need to worry.
James tried to pick up odd jobs, even daring to curse his own fate. His fatherinlaw arranged a gig with a friend, but the commute was a full forty minutes by bus; Emmas car was needed for her own work, so she shooed him away, Sorry, move along!
After two days of frantic work, James quit again.
Back on the couch, then? Emmas grandmother asked, knowing his track record. Two more offers fell throughone interview went badly, the other boss turned out to be a nightmare.
James was meant to be a gentleman, a sort of modern squire, but his bearing suggested he was made for leisure, not labour. He existed to charm a lonely womanEmmajust as his mother had imagined.
Emma loved James despite the old ladys insults, calling him General of the Sofa Army.
Is that all you are, love? Emma defended, aware the grandmothers words held a grain of truth. Hes not lounging at my place!
The state is offended, the grandmother huffed. A pretty, smart girl burdened with a lowgrade lad!
James left for the bath with his mates, leaving Emma alone with the preNewYear cleaning. Youll manage, love, she muttered, Im not good at this. The flash drive was shoved into an ashtray; James never looked for it, so it belonged to Emma, who often stored property listings on such sticks. It stayed hidden for a couple of weeks.
Then, as the grandmother put it, something pricked Emma, and she finally opened the USB, hoping for something useful. James stepped out for a walkfresh air, a healthy habit. What played on the screen was a bizarre mix: hot tango, Thai massage, Morning to Evening lessons, and something rather indecent. The star of the show was James, accompanied by a synchronized dancer, all set in a strange interior that Emma didnt recognize. It felt like a day of intense training; Exercise builds everything, the grandmothers voice seemed to echo.
Ah, Pushkin, what a lad! Emma thought, pausing the video after a few seconds. So thats what he does while Im at work.
The clip hinted at a blackmail plot involving a wellknown prosecutor caught nude at the scene. The prosecutor was a threat, but who was behind the threat? James was no secretkeeper; his bank account was nearly empty. Yet somehow, even a harmlesslooking man could be useful.
Emma took a day off, grabbed the USB, and drove to her clever friend Lucy, who was as sharp as the fictional Detective Fima Sobak.
Do you think hes a secret agent? Emma asked, hopeful. Theyll blackmail him and demand ransom.
Lucy laughed, You think a seal could be an agent? His best skill is lying down! Agents move, you know.
Look, you need a woman, Lucy advised, sipping a glass of dry gin. Start the hunt, then.
Emma retorted, Who needs your stuffed turkey? Not a brainless witch, mind you. Hell never get a job!
Lucy suggested, Post that mess online.
Why would I? Emma asked.
Because everyone posts everything. Look at Zubairhe posted everything! Lucy replied.
Emmas mind whirred with choices: send him away, compromise him, forgive, forget, or keep gnawing at his conscience. Which shore will you land on? Lucy asked, the imagined sailor uncle whispering from the deep.
Shall we watch to the end? Lucy proposed. The protagonist finally reveals a different side. They watched, and the ending was unexpectedno credits, just a female voice: If you want to talk about this, call me. My number is on the slip of paper.
A note appeared with a US numberAmericaEurope the handwriting read.
Fine, that explains it, Lucy said, satisfied. Well pretend Im your lawyer and keep you from rash decisions.
Emma called the number, arranging a meeting at a café, with Lucy tagging along as your advocate.
At the café, a polished young woman declared, We love each other, please let him go! You saw how much we care.
Emma, eyebrow raised, asked, Why would you think Im holding him?
The woman, confused, replied, James said youre taking his money, so you wont divorce.
Emma chuckled coldly, Youve been misinformed, dear. Take him, I dont mind.
The woman, startled, asked, Can we just take him?
Lucy whispered, If you want, take him crookedly.
Emma added, Come tonight with his things.
The trio left; the bewildered lover stayed seated, hoping her evening fantasy would materialise.
James slept, snoring after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a pot of compotedelicious. Emma packed his belongings into a suitcase and placed it by the hallway. When James finally awoke, she said, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for groceries! James protested, thinking she was sending him to the supermarket. Go yourself!
The room was warm, the corner held a modestly decorated fir, and the TV played classic filmspostNewYear ritual. Baptism day approached; outside, snow fell and the thermometer dipped.
Its time for tea and pancakes with jam! Emma declared, No excuses.
James tried to ask, Where am I going?
To where you can showcase your greatest skill, Emma replied.
To Mums? he guessed, knowing his mothers house was his favorite refuge.
To thewellyour mothers! Emma shouted, mixing affection with irritation.
James froze, Which mother? Both are in heaven now.
The one who keeps performing miracles! Emma said, turning the TV on.
James, baffled, wondered how the interior could look like an Alistair Cooke documentary. Emma slipped a USB into his pocket, hidden beneath a handkerchiefJames preferred fabric nosetissues.
Whats the point of a smart line? Emma teased. Maybe you were hired as an actor, under hypnosis or some drug!
She recalled the prosecutor scene, He fought like a lion, but he wasnt me, nor was his horse mine!
Youre a real macho, an alpha male! she continued, Look at those legs, those ankles! The prosecutor was a baby compared to James.
James stayed silent; he wasnt a simple fool, and leaving Emma wasnt on his agenda, especially not back to that cramped council flat.
For entertainment, the night suited her; for other things, not so much. How could she have been so frantic? Even the camera seemed to love her. Did anyone truly love a man like that?
James, unwilling to divorce, lied about Emmas obstacles and claimed she drained his finances. He boasted about his imposing heightover six feet.
Lucys sailor uncles wisdom resurfaced: Youre not very bright, love. Emma recalled and said, Seven feet under the keel, sail away! The channels clear!
Will you forgive me? James begged.
No! Emma snapped.
What about pancakes? James blurted out.
Emma, astonished, thought, If he deserves pancakes, theyre cowflavored.
Row without pancakes, Captain Cook, its hard to row a full belly! she declared, pulling the USB from the computer. Bonus from the firm! Show it to MumStallone!
James left, direction unknown, irrelevant to Emma.
The scene shifted like a different rhyme: the fir blinked, the TV crackled, the old sofa sat empty. Fin, the French whispered. The final name surfaced, and everything fell into place.
Her motherinlaw called, pleading for sympathy, demanding the boy back. James hadnt moved into the council flat; he was not mad, after all. He returned to his mothers oneroom flat. Feeding a healthy, idle elk of a man with a huge appetite was problematic. Will you take him back, Emma? his mother asked.
My dear, youve blocked all numbers, Emma thought, remembering the grandmothers adviceher husbands mother never liked her soninlaw.
Thus Emma filed for divorce. It was truly the end. The surprise hit James and his mother. He had been craving pancakes with jam, not the mothers. The story concluded, surreal as a dream, and the nights echo lingered.
