“I’m moving out. I’ll leave your flat keys under the mat,” the husband texted.
“Not this again, Marina! How many times? Every penny counts, and here you are demanding a new coat. What’s wrong with your old one? Completely fallen apart, has it?”
“Simon, it hasn’t fallen apart. It’s just old! Seven years old. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at work has refreshed their wardrobe three times over, while Im stuck in something from the last century. Dont I deserve one measly coat?”
“Of course you do, absolutely you do!” Simon threw his hands up, his face twisting into that familiar irritated grimace. “Just not now. You know my projects on fireevery pennys tied up. Once I close this deal, Ill buy you a mink coat if you like. Till then, just hold on.”
“Ive been holding on for twenty years, Simon. My entire life, Ive held on. First, while you finished uni. Then, saving for the first car. Then, for this flatwell, the renovation, since my parents left it to me. Theres always something more important than me.”
Marina surprised herself with her own words. Normally, she swallowed her anger and shuffled to the kitchen to make tea, steadying herself. But today, something snapped. Overflowed. She stared at himonce beloved, familiar, now almost a stranger with his perpetually sour expression and dull eyes.
“Here we go,” he muttered, snatching his jacket from the hook. “The greatest hits. I cant do this. Ive got a meeting.”
“What meeting at nine in the evening?” Marina asked quietly, though she already knew. These “meetings” had become too frequent these past six months.
“A business meeting, Marina! Not all of us get to breathe in dust at the library till six. Some of us actually work so people like you can dream about coats.”
The door slammed so hard the china in the old cabinet rattled. Marina flinched, standing frozen in the hallway. The silence that followed was deafening, thick as treacle. She drifted to the kitchen, mechanically filled the kettle. Her hands tremblednot from anger, but from a hollow, gnawing emptiness inside. She knew he wasnt at a meeting. Knew there was another womanyoung, glamorous, from his office. Shed refused to believe it, pushed the thought away, but it kept returning, persistent as flies.
Her phone buzzed in her dressing gown pocket. Probably an apology. Something like, “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk when Im back.” She pulled it out. A text from Simon. But the words were different.
“Im moving out. Ill leave your flat keys under the mat.”
Eight words. Short, sharp, like axe blows. She read them once, twice, three times. The letters danced, refusing to make sense. It couldnt be. Some cruel joke. He wouldnt do this. Not after twenty years of marriage. Just walk out with a text.
She rushed to the bedroom. Yanked open the wardrobe. His side was nearly empty. The best suits, shirts, jumpersgone. A lone forgotten tie lay on the shelf. His watch and phone charger missing from the bedside table. Hed planned this. The coat argument was just the excuse. A convenient exit.
Her legs gave way. She sank onto the bed, breathless, staring at the emptiness in the wardrobe, unable to comprehend. Twenty years. Her entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married right after graduation. Lived in this very flat, left to her by her parents. Pasted wallpaper together, picked furniture, dreamed of children that never came. She worked at the local library; he built his little business. Life wasnt easy, but it was theirs. And now hed erased it all with a text.
First, she called Sophie, her only close friend.
“Soph hes gone,” Marina whispered into the phone, barely holding back a sob.
“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Marina, whats happened?”
“Simon. Hes left. For good. Texted me hes moving out.”
Silence. Then
“That absolute wanker!” Sophies voice boomed. “I told you those late meetings were dodgy! Right, no panic. Hell be back. Once he gets it out of his system, hell come crawling.”
“No, Soph. He took his things.”
“Everything?”
“Nearly. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”
“Ohhh, the nerve!” Sophie fumed. “Right, stay put. Im coming over. Get wine. Or better yet, vodka. Were fixing your broken heart tonight.”
Sophie arrived forty minutes later, arms full of snacks and a bottle of gin. She stormed into the kitchen, slapped cheese, crisps, and lemon onto the table.
“Right, talk. What set him off?”
Marina, steadier now, explained the coat, his constant irritation, the coldness of recent months.
“Figures,” Sophie nodded, pouring gin. “Found himself some tart and decided hes Don Juan now. You and your coat dont fit his shiny new life. Classic midlife crisis.”
They drank. The gin burned, warmth spreading through Marinas veins.
“What do I do now, Soph? How do I live?”
“You live, Marina. First, change the locks. Tomorrow. No telling what he might pull. Second, file for divorce and half his assets. He had that little business, yeah?”
“Had has. Small window-fitting thing. But its all in his name. The car too.”
“Perfect. Half is legally yours. Let his new floozy enjoy him arriving with just a suitcase.”
They talked till dawn. Sophie ranted about revenge, cursed Simons name, while Marina sat silent, numb. She didnt want revenge. She wanted to rewind time, back to the morning when he was still there, drinking coffee with her like nothing was wrong.
Morning came. Sophie left for work. Marina stayed in the empty flat. The silence pressed down. Every floorboard creak echoed his footsteps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in itstill smelling of himand broke down, sobbing like a child.
The first days blurred together. She called in sick, claiming flu. Lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling. Barely ate, barely slept. Her phone stayed silent. No calls, no texts. As if hed never existed.
On the third day, she forced herself up, called a locksmith. He came fast, huffed at the old lock, and half an hour later handed her new keys. A small relief. Now the flat was truly hers.
Next, she sorted his leftover things. Old T-shirts, socks forgotten in drawers, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, she found a large cardboard box tied with twine. “Documents. Simon” scrawled on top. She remembered him storing it years ago”old contracts, might need them someday.”
Curiosity won. She untied the twine. On top, business papers. Underneath deeds to her flat. Inheritance papers from her parents, the survey, old receipts. Why had he kept these here?
Then she found ita loan agreement. Signed by Simon three years ago. Borrowing a massive sum from a stranger. And the collateral her flat.
Her blood ran cold. How? He couldnt mortgage her flat without her consentshe was the sole owner! She read on. Attached: a copy of her passport and a power of attorney. Giving him full rights over her property. Her signature. But she didnt remember signing this.
She racked her brain. Three years ago, Simon was expanding his business. Said he needed capital. One night, hed brought a stack of papers”tax stuff, sign here.” Trusting him, she had. The power of attorney mustve been buried in there.
Her heart hammered. So for three years, her home had been on the line, and hed said nothing.
She called him. No answer. Texted: “Whats this loan agreement? You mortgaged my flat?!”
A reply came half an hour later. Cold, like the first.
“Not your business. My problem. Ill handle it.”
“Not my business?! Its my flat, Simon! You had no right!”
“I did. Power of attorney. Stay out of it.”
She wouldnt get answers from him. She needed help. Called Sophie.
“Soph, its worse” she stammered, explaining.
“What?!” Sophie shrieked. “Hes not just a wanker, hes a crook! Right, no tears. You need a solicitor. A good one. I know someoneAndrew Phillips. Helped my bosss husband with a messy case. Ill get his number.”
An hour later, Sophie sent it. Marina hesitatedashamed, terrified. She felt like a fool, so easily tricked by her own husband. But the fear of losing her home was stronger.
Andrew Phillips wasnt the grey-haired elder
