It was a common enough tale—Marina never knew her father. He left her and her mother shortly after she was born. They lived in a small market town in a terraced house, and her mother was far from indulgent. From childhood, Marina learned to light the hearth, weed and water the garden, and fetch groceries from the shop.
She excelled in school, earning top marks, and dreamed of becoming an actress in a big city. After finishing school, she left her little town for Manchester, took the first job she found in the classifieds, and enrolled in university for distance learning.
“Dreams are all well and good, but you need a trade that’ll always put food on the table,” her mother often said. “Acting’s feast or famine, no stability in it.”
Once she graduated and earned more, Marina bought herself a car on finance—not a Rolls-Royce, mind, but a sturdy second-hand Ford Fiesta. She drove it proudly back to visit her mother. These days, she’s got another car, but she’s never forgotten that first one. Just recently, she spotted it in a car park and couldn’t believe it was still running. She’d have kept it forever if not for—well, the usual story. She fell in love. First love, first heartbreak. Almost at once, he suggested moving in together. He rented a small flat, and soon enough, he talked her into selling the car.
“It’s old, it’ll start falling apart any day now. Let’s sell it and get something newer, something that’ll last us years,” he coaxed. “Better to sell while it’s still in decent nick.”
Marina agreed. Why wouldn’t she? A man ought to know these things better than a young woman. She let him handle the sale. To buy a newer car, she took out another loan. He promised to help with the payments. And oh, how she loved that little Vauxhall.
Somehow, it just happened that he wound up driving it most days. He’d drop her at work, then go about his own business. He helped with a couple of payments, then claimed he was skint.
She might’ve put up with it—she loved him, made excuses—until her neighbour stopped her in the courtyard one evening. “You do know your chap’s bringing other girls round, don’t you?” the woman said. “Saw it with my own eyes. They pulled up in your motor, arms round each other, and didn’t leave for hours.”
“Oh, I—I know about that,” Marina lied, too angry and humiliated to think straight. “Sorry, I’m in a rush.” She hurried inside before the neighbour could see her face crumple.
“Kick him out, love, before it’s too late!” the woman called after her.
At home, Marina let the rage and tears come. When he walked in later, she snatched the car keys from him and shoved him out the door.
Now she was alone—just her, the car, and the debt. She took on evening cleaning at the office where she worked, careful none of her colleagues knew. She tutored students in French, scraping every penny. She crawled home exhausted, but the loan was paid off fast. Then came the decision to buy a flat with a mortgage.
On a visit home, her little town seemed smaller, shabbier than ever.
“Why are you still single?” her mother asked. “Youth doesn’t last. You’re pretty, you’ve got your own motor—what’s the hold-up?”
In a moment of weakness, Marina spilled the whole story.
“You’re too trusting,” her mother sighed. “Big cities are full of sharks and scoundrels. You read too many romance novels—life’s not like that. No knights in shining armour left. Just men looking to live off a woman’s hard work. But you’ll meet someone.” She left the room, returning with a small bundle of newspaper. “Here. Saved this for your wedding. It’s not much, but it’ll cover the deposit.”
Marina kissed her, both of them weeping.
Back in Manchester, she bought a tiny one-bed flat. She hardly spent time there anyway, just slept. She kept tutoring evenings and weekends to cover the mortgage, but she quit the cleaning job. Now, tired as she was, she loved coming home to her own little place.
After that first heartbreak, Marina was wary of men. She feared commitment, kept everyone at arm’s length. By twenty-eight, she had her flat, half the mortgage paid, and a car she used for tutoring—all earned through sheer graft. Not every bloke could say as much. No rich relatives, no father to help. Just her own two hands.
But her love life? A desert. No time to meet anyone, no place to look. And when she did, she never let them in. Still, she longed for marriage—someone to cook for, iron shirts for, welcome home. Children, of course.
Then, out of the blue, an old schoolfriend, Lucy, turned up on her doorstep with preserves and pickles from her mother, who’d wheedled Marina’s address from hers.
“You’ve done well, Marina. Right to leave that backwater. Look at you—your own flat, your own car, making good money. I stayed for Tom, remember? Loved him since school. His mum was poorly—I nursed her like my own. Spoon-fed her, emptied her bedpan. Was it worth it? All for love.”
Then the mum died. Sad, of course. But soon after, the new young teacher arrived in town. Lucy didn’t know how they met, only that Tom started chasing after her. She gave them both a scene they’d not forget.
“Cared for his mum, put up with the stink, the mess, and he defends that little mouse? So I left. Ran into your mum—got your address, these treats. All the smart ones got out, like you. Mind if I crash a few days? I’ll find work, get a place.”
“Stay. I’m barely here. Can’t even keep a cat. I’ll buy a camp bed tomorrow—only got the sofa.”
“Oh, don’t fuss. I won’t be long.”
Easy for her to say. Marina was used to solitude. But she couldn’t turf Lucy out.
“Bed’s made. You’re knackered. Go on. I’ve got prep for tomorrow.”
Once Lucy was asleep, Marina washed the glasses, put away the half-drunk wine. She barely touched it—Lucy had downed most. The kitchen was spotless, yet Marina sighed.
Lucy slept with a hand under her cheek. Marina pitied her. She wouldn’t rest well tonight—used to sleeping alone. “Definitely buying that camp bed,” Marina thought, easing in beside her.
She woke with a headache just before the alarm. Switched it off, dozed—then jolted awake to sunlight. The bathroom was occupied. Lucy was singing, taking her time. Marina washed at the kitchen sink. She’d cope.
Lucy emerged, pink-cheeked, a towel twisted round her hair. Marina’s favourite towel.
“Morning! So lovely—hot water, no hauling buckets. And is that coffee?”
Not a chance. Marina drank it alone.
“Lucy, I’m late. New rule: you don’t hog the bathroom mornings. Find a job today—buy the classifieds.” She left, tossing over her shoulder, “Tidy the sofa.”
“Didn’t know! No need to sulk. Wish I had your life. I’m stuck in such a rut.”
Marina eyed her doubtfully—Lucy didn’t seem depressed.
“Keys are here. Lock up. This isn’t the village.”
Futile to stay angry, yet she couldn’t help it.
That evening, cooking dinner, Lucy groaned, “Walked miles—no energy. Some of us don’t have cars.”
Marina ignored the jab.
“Any luck job-hunting?”
“Plenty. Just none for me. No qualifications, apparently.”
“Some jobs don’t need qualifications.”
“As what? A cleaner? Not happening.”
“Expecting a manager’s role? That takes know-how, responsibility—”
“Why the lecture? I’ll look when I’m rested. Or just say you want me gone.” Lucy’s voice cracked. She turned away, weeping.
“Sorry. Truce?”
Lucy nodded.
Weeks passed. No job. One dawn, Lucy stumbled home in Marina’s dress, reeking of booze.
“Where were you? And why my dress?”
“Would you miss it? You never wear it. Suits me better—you’re built like a plank. Too busy working. But it ripped—here, take it.” She yanked it off, seams tearing.
“Enough! Dishes festering, mess everywhere. Came for a holiday, did you? Pack up. Leave.”
“Marina! I’ll tidy. Where would I go? I’ll find work.”
“Too late. Go to whoever you were drinking with. Be gone by tonight. Want a job? We need a cleaner at my office. I did it once.”
“I’ll manage,” Lucy muttered. “Over a fewThe last Marina heard, Lucy had moved in with a bloke from the pub, lost the baby, and was working nights at a corner shop—still blaming everyone but herself for the way things turned out.
