“Half a million?” Catherine stared at the notification on her phone, blinking three times before the numbers made sense. “You took out a loan for half a million pounds?”
James was sitting on the living room sofa, hunched over his own phone, not even looking up.
“Oh, that Yes, just a little something, for Mums renovations. You know, her pipes keep leaking, the floors warped, the wallpapers peeling”
“Wait a minute.” Catherine collapsed onto the armchair, her knees refusing to hold her. “You got a loan? For half a million? And gave all of it to your mother? Without even telling me?”
James finally lifted his gaze from the screen, squinting at her with genuine confusion, as if shed asked something utterly obvious.
“Cathy, its Mum. She lives alone, pensions next to nothing. Who else will help her?”
“And you couldnt talk to me first?” Catherines voice rose with a fury she could barely contain. “You didnt even ask what I thought? Or warn me?”
“Youd only argue.” James shrugged. “And Mum needed it urgently.”
Four years. Four years shed endured that woman, who called every evening, grilling James about his dinner. Who showed up unannounced and critiqued the flats cleanliness. Who orchestrated every family dinner so Catherine landed at the far end of the table.
“Dont make a mountain out of a molehill,” James continued in that infuriatingly calm tone. “Well cope. Well pay it off quickly; its not such a large amount, really. Family comes first.”
Hot, angry tears streamed down Catherines cheeks; she wiped them away, smearing mascara with the back of her hand.
“Family? And what am I? A footnote? Do you remember when your mother decided it was time to change the car, and you sold ours without asking me? Or when she tossed my things out of the guest room because ‘its uncomfortable sleeping among someone elses clutter’? That birthday when you left with her to shop for her new fridge?”
“Its all little things,” James brushed it off. “Youre over-tired, love. You need a break.”
Catherine stared at the man she once adored tall, gentle-featured, with the dimples she used to find endearing. Now, all she saw was a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the apron strings.
“Well be fine,” he repeated like an incantation. “Love conquers everything.”
Catherine rose silently and went to the bedroom. Two large holdalls lay up in the wardrobe the same ones she’d brought when she first moved in. She dragged them down, flung them on the bed, and began opening cupboards.
James appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, just as the first bag was stuffed full.
“What are you doing, Cathy? This is mad. You cant be serious?”
She didnt answer. Neatly, she folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Lifted down the box of jewellery gifts from her parents and friends. Nothing from him.
“Where are you going? To your mothers? Shes in York!”
Zip. The second bag sealed. She checked her handbag passport, card, keys to her mums flat shed always kept just in case.
“Cathy, say something! You cant leave me. I love you!”
She looked at him, long and steady. Hoisting the bags, she walked out.
The next morning, Catherine stood in a queue at the registrar office, clutching the divorce application. Outside, rain trickled and grey clouds sagged over the rooftops, but inside she felt a strange calm. Her decision was made.
The first call came at half-past two in the morning. Catherine startled awake on Lenas sofa, momentarily confused.
“We need to talk,” James gasped into the phone, frantic. “I understand everything now; Ill change. Give me a chance.”
She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.
“Catherine, I cant live without you. Youre my whole world.”
By morning there were forty-three messages. Tearful confessions, promises, and threats.
“If you dont come back, I dont know what I’ll do.”
“Mum says youre just being childish.”
“Ill wait forever.”
A week later he started appearing at her office. Catherine would emerge for lunch and see him lingering near the sandwich van. Walking to the tube after work, shed catch sight of him across the road.
“Just passing by!” James grinned when she demanded answers. “Wanted to see you.”
One evening, the buzzer sounded in Lena’s flat. Thinking it was the pizza delivery, Catherine opened the door without even checking.
James stood there, holding a bouquet of red roses.
“One chance,” he whispered. “Im not asking for more.”
Catherine shut the door in silence. He stayed outside for two hours, neighbours threatening to call the police.
She learned to live with it like one learns to live with chronic pain. Dont read the messages, dont answer calls from unknown numbers, dont glance over her shoulder on the street. She switched to remote work with a new firm, moved to a quiet suburb, somewhere James could never “accidentally” wander.
Three months later, the divorce came through. Catherine stepped out of the courthouse, official papers clutched, and burst into tears not of grief, but relief.
Freedom was empty at first. Catherine had always checked every decision with someone else even if that someone always decided in the end. Now, she could buy any yogurt at the shop without wondering whether Mrs. Victoria would approve. Watch any film without being told “decent women dont watch that sort of thing.” She could breathe.
She signed up for English classes her old dream, which James had called “a waste of money.” Started yoga at dawn, when London was still half-asleep. Took a weekend trip to Bath alone, strolling streets and nibbling fudge.
Six months on, the calls stopped. The messages, too. She half-expected something to go wrong for another month, then another, then realised she could finally relax. She took a job at a marketing agency lively office, young team, creative projects. Life began again.
She met Andrew at a company party, dragged there by her colleague, Mary.
“Hes our lead developer,” Mary introduced the tall man with wire-framed glasses. “Andrew, this is Catherine from marketing.”
He took her hand firm, but gentle. Smiled, not trying to impress.
“Hiding from karaoke too?” He nodded toward the stage, where the financial director was butchering “Wonderwall.”
“Saving my nerves,” Catherine smiled.
They talked all evening about books, travel, and the strange routes lives take. Andrew listened more than he spoke. He asked questions and waited for answers, never interrupting, never lecturing. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded and changed the subject.
Six months later, they moved in together, choosing a cosy flat in the city centre, windowed and bright with tall ceilings, overlooking a peaceful courtyard.
“Are you sure youre happy with this place?” Catherine asked during the lease signing. “We could look at others.”
“Do you like it?” Andrew turned.
“I do. Very much.”
“Then lets take it.”
It was the little things having her opinion taken seriously that mattered more than grand romantic gestures.
He proposed on their rooftop, sunset painting the sky pink and gold. Pulling out a small box, he opened it diamond ring glinting inside.
“Im not great with speeches,” Andrew confessed, “but I want to wake up next to you every day. If youre willing to put up with my snoring and dreadful taste in coffee.”
Catherine laughed through tears, and nodded.
That May evening began like any other. Andrew was working late looming deadline, urgent bug fix. Catherine made pasta, singing along to the radio, when the doorbell rang sharp, insistent.
She checked the peephole and recoiled.
James stood outside. Pale, eyes sunken, shirt crumpled. Two years. Two years of silence, and now this.
“Catherine, open up!” he banged on the door. “I know youre in there! We need to talk!”
She grabbed her phone, dialled Andrews number. Engaged.
“We love each other!” James shouted through the door. “You cant be with someone else! Its wrong!”
The door quaked as he threw his weight against it. Catherine braced herself, feet planted.
“Go away!” she shouted back. “Ill call the police!”
“Youre my wife!” his voice cracked. “You were, and youll always be! Ive waited two years for you to come to your senses! Two years!”
“Were divorced! Its over!”
“Its never over!” He shoved the door again, Catherine barely holding it shut. “Ive changed! Mum says you simply dont know what makes you happy! Open up, lets talk!”
She saw his face in the peephole twisted, obsessive. Not the man she had once shared a bed with.
Catherine dialled 999.
“James! One more move, and the police will be here. Leave. Now.”
He went still. Silent. Then wheeled round and stomped down the stairs, the front door slamming below.
Catherine sank to the floor, back against the wall. Her ears were ringing. Half an hour later she managed to call Andrew.
The police registered her statement the next day. The neighbourhood officer an older man with a moustache took down the story, nodded.
“Well sort it out. Have a word with him.”
Whatever he said, James never showed up again. No calls, no messages, no surprise meetings.
Their wedding was held in early June at a small countryside restaurant just twenty close friends. No fuss, no grooms relatives dictating tradition.
Catherine stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, her hands squeezed in his. Birch trees whispered outside, floral scents mingling with cut grass.
“Do you, Catherine” began the celebrant.
“I do,” she interrupted, and the guests laughed.
Andrew slipped the ring onto her finger slender gold, engraved inside. Three words: “Always with you.”
Catherine gazed at the man who would be her husband not a mamas boy, not a haunted stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and truly loved her. Ahead lay a life where her opinion mattered.
