I could no longer endure my motherinlaws whims at the New Years table, so I slipped away to my friends flat.
Two Sisters… Once Upon a Time There Were Two Sisters: The Older, Val, a Beautiful, Successful, and Wealthy Woman; the Younger, Zoe, a Broken-Down Drunk Whose 32-Year-Old Face Looked Ancient from Hard Living. Despite Countless Rehab Clinics, Folk Remedies, and a Cozy Flat Bought in Her Own Name to Protect Her Sister from Squandering Everything for Drink, Val Fails to Save Zoe—Until, Before Moving Abroad for Good, She Takes Her to Their Reclusive Aunt Olga in the Tiny English Village of Teapotton. There, Through Homemade Herbal Teas, Goat’s Milk from Martha the Goat, Loving Care, and Old-Fashioned Country Wisdom, Aunt Olga Nurses Zoe Back to Health, Teaching Her to Crochet Stunning Shawls That Transform Her Life. Three Years Later, Zoe Whisks Her Aunt Away to a Sunny Seaside Town, Where Together—With Goats, Flowers, and Newfound Purpose—They Discover That Sometimes Family, Simple Kindness, and a Second Chance Are All You Really Need… and the Most Remarkable Thing? Every Word of It Is True. TWO SISTERS Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The elder, Hannah, was beautiful, successful, and wealthy.
I once called out from the window, Mum, why are you up so early? Youll catch your death from the cold!
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE Mr. Robinson, have you got a moment? Poking her fair-haired head around the
On the day of my motherinlaws golden jubilee she suddenly demanded that I hand back the gold earrings
TWO SISTERS Once upon a not-so-fair time, there were two sisters. The elder, Vanessa, had seemingly won
I was standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a stack of plates, when Oliver walked in. Just before he
My son has always had a remarkable memory. Back when he was at nursery, he would memorise all the lines
How could she do such a thing?! She didnt even ask! Didnt consult with me! The nerve of her: waltzing
In Search of a Mistress — “Vera, what’s going on?” blurted out Roman as his wife handed him gym shorts and a T-shirt.
“Nothing. But while you’re lazing around, all the mistresses will be snatched up!” Vera yanked off the duvet, sending goosebumps marching across poor Roman’s unsuspecting skin.
“What are you on about?”
“After what you said last night—that it’s only a matter of time before you get yourself a mistress—I’ve made a decision. The hour has come, Roman. It’s half past five: time to get up and head to the frontlines of philandering.”
“I was joking, honestly! We argued, remember? I’m sorry, I was wrong.”
“No, no, you were right. I’m the one at fault. I let the fire of passion in our marriage die out. Burnt up all the petrol on myself! Now there’s only ashes—not enough for a spark, not even to bake a potato. I’m fixing it. Up you get.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“I’m sending you out! You’ll start working out every day till you shake off that belly. Mistresses don’t put up with Michelin mascot husbands lying around. Up now!”
Realising his wife wouldn’t let up, Roman obediently rolled out of bed and struggled into his shorts to atone for his sins with righteous exercise.
“Remind me to buy you proper trunks. In parachutes like these you’ll get swept off the lover’s bed by a breeze.”
After ten minutes of running laps around the house under the sharp eye of his “coach,” a half-dead Roman staggered indoors, collapsed, and began dragging himself toward the bed by his teeth.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his wife asked sharply.
“I want to die in my sleep.”
“No dying allowed—we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower! You’ll need to use it twice a day at minimum. You never spared me from your natural aromas, but at least spare your future companion. And now twice-daily brushing!” came the command from outside the door. “Wash your hair properly, we’re off to the photo studio today.”
“What for?”
“To get a proper photo for your dating profile. I can’t take a decent picture, because I know you too well—I’ll only see the scaffolder, the beer king, and the connoisseur of fried macaroni and butter rather than a real alpha male. We need a stud!”
“Vera, isn’t this enough already?”
“Save your vocabulary for a new ear! Let’s pick your candidates.”
Roman brightened: he’d always enjoyed innocent window shopping on dating sites, but now for the first time he could do it without guilt. He started pointing at photos.
“What about her?”
“Are you joking?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Roman, I should be ashamed of myself—not for you—when I see your mistress. Look at her! Your old Fiat looked better before you sold it. There should be a hazard sign on her: ‘Handle with care—façade detachment possible.’”
“Then this one.”
“That? Really? Roman, how am I meant to look my friends in the eye if my husband cheats with a ‘whatever-will-do’? This one! See? Perfect!”
“She’d never answer me in a million years!”
“Heavens, what did I ever see in such a self-doubting Pinocchio? What drew me to you for these fifteen years?”
“My sense of humour?” Roman tried.
“Oh, please! If laughter really extended life, I’d have been widowed right after the honeymoon. Let’s stop tempting fate. We’ll buy you a decent suit and go fish for a mistress in the big pond instead.”
“That’s enough, Vera—let’s just make up.”
“Who said we’re fighting? Having a mistress is a sign of a successful man. And being the wife of a successful man means status! One will never be enough.”
At the shopping centre, Vera whisked her husband to the most expensive shop, where they stripped the mannequins of their best threads.
“Vera, these trousers and jacket cost more than a full set of winter tyres,” protested Roman as she shoved him into a dressing room.
“That’s alright—we’ll buy you ‘rubber’ at the chemist’s, winter or summer, with extra protection! Don’t want any exotic bouquets brought into the house.”
“Vera!”
“What? Safety first! We’re not choosing scooters—we’re picking out the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle. Have you rung your boss yet?”
“About what?” Roman asked, wriggling into the jacket.
“Money, of course. You’ll need a raise—can’t afford two women on your current salary. I can survive on cabbage soup, but a mistress? It’s concrete: one dinner, three glasses of wine, five-star hotel—scrimp and your foundation collapses.”
When Roman finally emerged, tie adjusted, Vera wiped away a tear.
“Handsome—like on our wedding day.”
“It suits you,” agreed the woman in the next changing room.
“Would you like to take him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.”
“No thanks, I’ve got three lovers already,” the woman grinned.
“Don’t pick her,” Vera remarked sternly. “We need loyalty—like a bank card for transferring funds out of sight.”
Perfumed and prepared, Roman was declared fit for the free market—even without the photoshoot.
“You’re ready, Roman—just remember what I’ve taught you: confidence and charm, just like you had when you sold off our old Fiat.”
Vera went home to her soup, and Roman set off on the mistress quest he’d been trained for all day.
An hour later, the intercom buzzed in Vera’s flat.
“Good afternoon, young lady. Is your husband home?” The velvet voice was unfamiliar, molten with desire. Even the crackly speaker made it sound seductive.
“Oh!” Vera gasped, dropping her ladle. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.”
“May I come up? I have a proposition….”
From the suggestive tone, Vera flushed hot then cold; she nearly took some medicine, but instead she buzzed the stranger in. Three minutes later, Roman appeared at the door, hand clutching a lush red bouquet. He gently drew Vera close; the narrow hall was suddenly sizzling.
“Have you been crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes.
“A bit. I thought I’d messed everything up—but now I realise we needed the firewood for the flame.”
“Well, would you care to spend this evening with a charming companion?” There was passion (and a modest dose of brandy) glinting in Roman’s eyes. “I’m taking you out for dinner to tell the true story of your beauty—it may be factual, but I swear you’ll like it.”
“I—I’d love that,” Vera murmured, entering into the game. “Let me just take the soup off the stove and fix my lashes.”
“I’ll book a taxi in the meantime,” Roman nodded.
“Where are we going?” Vera’s silly smile was glued to her face.
“To a five-star restaurant!”
“We don’t have those—just ‘Five Cheeses’ pizza.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go. For my mistress, only the best.”
“Aren’t you worried your wife will be jealous?”
“That’s the goal!” Roman winked.
**In Search of a Mistress: Vera’s Perfectly British Boot Camp for the Married Man Who Threatened to Stray — A Comedy of Spouses, Side-Flings, and Shopping Centre Showdowns** IN SEARCH OF A MISTRESS “Emma, what on earth are you doing?” I stared at my wife as she handed
