My husband left, suitcase in hand, for his mothers house.
Which pot are you talking about? the thirtyyearold Mike asked, bewildered.
Your share of the council tax, food, laundry, cleaninghow much do you intend to fork out each month? Gwen pressed.
From his puzzled stare she gathered that he meant none at all.
All the misery that had once surrounded Gwen lived only beyond her doorstep: errant husbands cheating on their wives, wives turning on their husbands, mischievous children running amok, and mothersinlaw pestering their daughtersinlaw with endless nagging.
In Gwens snug little world none of those ills existed. Even the motherinlaw was tolerable.
The rest, she thought, were the architects of their own woe. A husband must be kept on a short leash, children need firm guidance, and a polite distance must be kept from the motherinlaw.
All was well until she caught her husband in the act with a friend, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It turned out that a house could become the wrong place if you arrived at the wrong hour.
The scene was revolting, sordid and beneath contempt. The surprise factor struck both of them, for neither had anticipated it.
In an instant she lost everything: a steadfast marriage, a husband, and her closest friend.
The night before, she had prepared baked mackerelgoldencrusted, laid on a bed of roasted carrots and onions. They had dined heartily, and a portion was set aside for John, the architect who often worked from home.
Her mackerel was a revelation: first the fillet was marinated for half an hour in a mixture of mustard, mayonnaise, honey and spices, then wrapped in foil and baked, finally browned under the grillexactly Johns favourite.
In the kitchen John and his companion ate the fish and laughed. He wore nothing but his trousers; she was in his shirt, the rest of her attire a mystery.
The bedroom was in disarray, like a cheap melodrama. The friend blushed, while John muttered something nonsensical about Tatiana had dropped by, but you werent there!
She agreed to wait, and he boasted of his domestic prowess, offering the fish as proof.
Without Gwen asked sharply.
Without what? The John stammered. Theunderwear! He finally admitted he knew the friends secret.
Gwen stormed into the bedroom, scooped up a heap of laundry and flung it at the stillsitting couple, right onto the table, atop the unfinished fish.
Then, with a short, fierce phrase beloved by the English, she declared, Off you go!
She retreated to the sittingroom. A clatter echoed from the hall, then the front door slammed, and John reentered, trying to mend the situation.
What are you starting now? I havent even cleared the bedjust got back from a project! he protested.
Fair enough. Its getting hot in here, and you showed up! Gwen snapped. And you came of your own accord!
Her mother, ever a source of chatter, kept asking when grandchildren would appear, as if the very walls were humming with expectation.
Gwen could not forgive herself for the small crueltiesshe remembered the night shed tucked a blanket over her pillow, how they each kept their own covers, how Mike still slept when she left for work. Now the blanket lay on the floor.
At last, John, after a brief, wellmeaning pep talk, packed his suitcase and moved in with his mother; the flat was Gwens. The motherinlaw, once a source of tension, now lived nearby, their relationship kept at a comfortable distance.
Soon a twentyeightyearold lover, the little sparrow, appeared at the door, suitcase in hand. Their mother, still spry, insisted on offering carrots and sweet nothings. The whole affair did nothing to ease the fledgling new social order that was taking shape. Cries of How could you, you wretched thing? rang out, but the wretched one no longer cared.
After the divorce Gwen could not stand the sight of men for nearly a year; even the thought of a girl made her turn away. She was fortunate that no children had been bornshe and Mike had lived together only two years, and she was twentyfour when it ended.
Time softened the sting. A charming David, a year younger, entered her life. Their liaison quickly turned intimate; he often stayed overnight in Gwens flat. He soon suggested moving in for goodWe love each other, lets wake up together, my dear!
It sounded natural, but Gwen was not ready. A happy marriage, she had learned, was one where one partner snored and the other pretended not to hear. Davids snores were like a lumberjacks axe, and he would fling his legs over her, even with separate blankets, as if performing a ballerinas pirouette. Those nights left her sleepless.
When he asked to become a permanent resident, irritation bubbled in Gwen. She turned him away: Youre welcome to visit, but not to stay. Humiliated, he vanished with his rucksack.
Six months later Mike returned, good at the bedroom but hopeless at chores; his mother had raised him not for domesticity. The sink piled up with his unwashed cups; he never turned on the washing machine, and he could not manage a simple load of laundry. He lived off the rent from the flat he shared with his parents, earning barely forty pounds a week, which barely covered his own whims after child support and alimony.
He asked to move in with Gwen.
How much will you contribute to the household pot? Gwen asked.
What pot? Mike asked, genuinely puzzled.
The council tax, food, laundry, cleaningwhat will you put in each month? she repeated.
His bewildered look told her he would contribute nothing.
The flat belonged to Gwen, after all; she would pay the bills. She could wash his clothes with hers; the detergent was already in the cupboard.
Are you not thinking of marriage? Mike queried.
And you think youre proposing? Gwen retorted.
So, if we press together? he answered.
The key word was if. It was clear they never truly pressed together.
Michael soon disappeared, leaving with a parting hiss, Youre cruel!
Like my first wife, or even worse? Gwen replied, halfamused.
Then came Stephen, a handsome, generous man who turned out to be a chronic drinker. By then they already shared a flat; Stephen earned well and kept the home immaculatecleaned windows, vacuumed floors, hung laundry neatly. Gwen thought her luck had finally turned.
But Stephen vanished before they could formalise anything; he untied himself just before paperwork, sparing her any financial loss.
His mother called, weeping, begging her to take him back. Gwen, now weary of pleading, let the plea drift away.
At thirty she stood alone, proud yet solitary. Her mother called daily, pestering for grandchildren, while friends wondered why such a lovely, clever woman remained single.
Gwen joked that worthy suitors simply did not exist. She adopted a cat, a stray kitten named Misty, who became her confidante, listening without offering foolish advicejust a soft meow, as psychologists recommend.
Then she fell head over heels for the dashing Valery Irving, owner of several pharmacies, wealthy, selfsufficient, and childless. With him she felt truly radiant, a true bombshell.
Valerys tworoom flat was near the city centre. Gwen invited him over for dinner; he promised to move his belongings in the next day. The evening began perfectlylight meals, playful banter, gentle touches, promises of stars.
He truly intended to give her a star, and many other gifts, as the affluent man he was. Yet, in the middle of the evening, Valery kicked Misty as she crossed the hallway. The cat was unharmed, but the act was a vile insult. Gwen froze, the shock cutting deeper than any physical wound.
Valery laughed, shrugging as if kicking a cat were ordinary. So, are you ending everything because of a cat? he asked, offering a truce. Our relationship is just a whiskers width, eh?
He walked away, uttering, Never thought youd turn out such a creature. Return my gifts!
Gwen shut the door, tossed his mink coat and two rings onto the staircase, and declared, Youve ruined your own life, lad. Her grandmother, ever blunt, added, You should have children, not a cat, you old hag!
Gwen, unbothered by the comment, replied, These days you can have kids until retirement; if you manage, why not? She quoted a local proverb, If you love cherries, learn to spit out the pits.
Thus began her new hunt for a husband and a father for the child she still longed for. Some called it a quest, others a folly, but Gwen followed her heart much like a beloved actress of old, swept away by romance.
She eventually chose a fortyyearold named Nicholasdivorced, attractive, and comfortably off. He never smoked, helped around the house without being asked, took out the rubbish, and shopped for groceries. He was as sweet as honey, with just a hint of bitterness, like a tiny dab of tar in an otherwise golden jar.
Nicholas got along with Misty instantly; the cat accepted him with a purr. Their future seemed bright. A pregnancy test later showed two lines, confirming that Gwens mother might soon become a grandmother.
Walking into the bathroom, Gwen stepped over Nicholass small puddle on the tiled floor, wiped it clean, and, spitting out an imaginary pit, called out through the ajar door, Ill be back soondont keep Misty waiting!
