“You’re leaving!” Pippa Ryebrook announced to her husband, as she swept the house for the New Year and stumbled upon a flash drive.
It was tucked behind the armchair, in the farright corner beside the radiator practically invisible, like a covert mission. Pippa was crawling on the carpet, dusting every nook, when the little gadget finally gave itself up.
It was the night before New Years Eve, the whole house humming with festive anticipation. As the rhyme goes, many idle days ahead, a tree full of twinkling lights, bubbles in a glass, a lamps soft glow, and a surplus of unexpected delights.
The Christmas tree was still naked; Pippa hadnt found the time to dress it. Her husband, who was about as handy with decorations as a cat with a ball of yarn, protested:
“Love, you know I cant untangle or hang the garlands!”
“And why not, Len?” she replied, pointing at the empty socket. “Just think of the pole as the axis, the branches on either side. Hang one side, then the other, fill any gaps. Simple, isnt it?”
But handsome Len, who seemed unable to see any axis at all, left one side a tangled mess of baubles and the other completely bare. Thats a bit of a daft idea, Pippa muttered.
“Then do it yourself!” Len snapped, indulging in his favourite pastime of sulking.
The only sensible option, according to Pippa, was to take matters into her own hands better than redoing the whole thing a hundred times later. Len wasnt much of a DIY sort; his mother never taught him, and that was fine. Pippa, ever magnanimous, thought the main ingredient for happiness was a loving partner; everything else could be sorted with a bit of British stiffupperlip.
Pippa worked as a housing consultant for a boutique firm that leased and sold highend flats. In the current market, everyone seemed to need a penthouse or a splitlevel apartment some chased empty soup bowls, others chased tiny pearls. Money was earned on the principle you get what you put in. Pippa toiled all day to bring home the bacon, the butter, a few oranges, and a redcapped fish for my dear, love.
Len, on the other hand, had a chronic knack for avoiding work his parents never pushed him. They had no children yet, having decided lets live for ourselves first, a mantra Len repeated while lounging on the sofa.
Len was a sturdy, goodlooking bloke, the sort of lad who might have been a country squire in another era. Hed been made redundant three years ago, right after their wedding.
Can you believe it? They demoted me! hed said.
Demoted, not humiliated, Pippa corrected, thats just business, thank God we still have a job at all. She urged him to take a lowerpaid role rather than quit altogether.
But when Len actually quit, claiming Ill freeze my ears off for you, love, his fatherinlaw tried to set him up with a friend. The commute was a fortyminute bus ride, while Pippa drove her own car for work, so Len shrugged and vanished.
After two days of hard labour, Len drifted back to the couch. Back on the sofa again? Pippas grandmother teased, having heard of his latest exploits.
Two more job offers were politely declined one because the interviewer was a bore, the other because the boss was a proper twit. In Lens mind, he should have been born a lord, perhaps a squire or even a sultan.
It was clear he was made for leisurely pursuits, not for earning a wage. Pippa loved him despite the old ladys jab that he was a general of the sofa army, good for nothing but lying around.
Are you alright, love? Pippa defended him, aware the grandmother had a point: he certainly wasnt lying in their own home.
Exactly! Hes not at my place! the grandmother huffed, complaining about the state of the empire.
Eventually Len headed off to the sauna with his mates, leaving Pippa alone with the preNewYear cleaning. Youll have to manage on your own, love, because Im hopeless with this, he said.
There was no time to examine the flash drive; the Ryebrook family owned several houses just in case there were any Pedros in Brazil. The drive was safely stashed in an ashtray. Len never searched for flash drives, so it was clearly Pippas. She often used them to store property listings, and the drive remained untouched for a couple of weeks.
Then, as her grandmother would say, something knocked me on the head, and Pippa finally clicked it open, hoping for something useful. Len had gone for a walk fresh air, good for the soul.
What played on the screen was an odd mix of tango, Thai massage, and a morningtonight tutorial, with a dash of something rather naughty. The star? Len, of course, accompanied by a mysterious synchronised partner they seemed to be in perfect harmony, all taking place in a setting Pippa didnt recognise. It felt like a workout video, a reminder that exercise makes perfect, as the wise old gran often said.
Ah, Pippa, youve just stumbled upon some sort of scandal? she thought, pausing the video after a few seconds.
The plot involved a wellknown prosecutor caught nude at the crime scene classic blackmail material. Who was behind the blackmail? The husband was no secretkeeper, penniless, and apparently not much use to anyone yet someone needed him.
Pippa decided to take a day off, grab the flash drive, and visit her clever friend Lucy, who was as sharp as the famous Fima Sobak.
Do you think hes a secret agent? Pippa asked, hopeful.
Did a wave hit you? Lucy replied, noting her uncle was a sailor, so maritime slang peppered the conversation. Your sealagent? The best thing he does is lie down! Agents move, love.
Know what you should do? Find a woman! Lucy declared, sipping a Sukharovich. Come on, start hunting.
Pippa shrugged. Who else needs that oversized turkey youve got? Not a very bright one, mind you. Sorry, love, youre not on the list. Theyll never hire you again!
The only thing left is to upload this rubbish online, Lucy suggested.
Why would I post it? Pippa protested.
Because everyone does! Remember when Zubair posted everything? Lucy retorted.
Do I know why Zubair posted everything? Are we about to debate his relevance? Pippa asked, bewildered.
Lucy, ever the sage, said: Youre young, beautiful, independent. He should think that. Pick a route: send him away, compromise and send, forgive and forget, or keep tormenting him with guilt.
What shore will you land on? Lucy asked, her sailor uncles voice echoing in the background.
Shall we watch to the end? Lucy proposed. The plot twists in ways we havent seen before.
They did, and the ending was indeed unexpected not a rollcall of actors, but a woman’s voice offering a phone number for anyone who wanted to talk about it. A slip of paper with a number appeared.
Ah, AmericaEurope thats where the dog dug up the story! Lucy exclaimed.
Pippa dialled the number straight away. They agreed to meet at a café, with Lucy tagging along as your lawyer, promising to keep Pippa from any rash decisions.
At the café, the scene unfolded like a classic drama:
We love each other, let him go, please! You saw how much we love! said a pretty young woman, about Pippas age.
Let go? Why would you think Im keeping him? Pippa replied.
Well, Len told me! the lawyer replied.
And what else did he say? Pippa prodded.
Youre taking all his money, so you dont want a divorce! the lawyer blurted.
The friends exchanged glances, the story getting ever more ridiculous.
Youve been misinformed, dear! Pippa retorted coolly. Take him, I dont mind.
Can we just take him now? the bewildered lawyer asked.
Len said the wife is a a mess, she muttered.
Take him however you like, if thats what you want, Lucy advised.
Come evening, bring his belongings! Pippa added.
The friends left, the bewildered lover stayed, wondering if her evening dream would come true.
Len slept soundly, snoring after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a glass of compote a proper British feast.
Pippa packed his stuff and placed his bag in the hallway. When Len finally woke, she announced:
Youre leaving!
But you know I cant even shop for groceries! Len protested, assuming shed sent him to the supermarket.
Then you go yourself! Pippa said, the room warm and cosy, a modest Christmas tree now shining with her careful ornaments, and a TV playing old films the usual postNewYear routine.
The Epiphany was approaching; the weather turned frosty, the thermometer sliding down. It was also pancakeday, with crêpes and fruit jam on the menu. Not you, go yourself! Pippa repeated.
Where am I being sent? Len asked.
To where you can show what youre best at! she replied.
To mums? he guessed, thinking of his mothers house, his favourite haunt.
To the to the Pippa snapped. To the one where your circus tricks happen! She switched the TV on.
Len stared, bewildered the décor looked oddly like an Alistairs flat. What did you slip into my pocket? he wondered, pulling out the flash drive with a silk handkerchief. Len, ever the aesthete, preferred cloth handkerchiefs.
Come on, say something clever, Pippa urged. Like it wasnt you, it was an actor hired to look like you, you were hypnotised, drugged, or something!
Remember the prosecutor? He fought like a lion; Im not me, and that horse isnt mine! Pippa laughed. Youre the real macho, the alpha male, kicking up your heels! That prosecutor is just a baby compared to you!
Len fell silent; he wasnt a dimwit, and leaving Pippa wasnt on his agenda, not even for a flatshare with Alistair.
The flash drive finally revealed a bonus from Pippas firm: Take it, show Mum, be a Stallone! Len left, destination unknown, no longer Pippas concern.
The scene shifted to a familiar Christmas tableau tree lights blinking, TV murmuring, an empty sofa. Fin, as the French would say.
A call from Lens mother pressed for pity, asking why theyd turned down such a good lad. Len hadnt returned to the council flat; he was back in a onebedroom with his mum. Feeding such a lazy, healthy elk with a hearty appetite was a problem: Take him back, Pippa? the mother begged.
Pippa, having blocked all numbers, mused, Thats it, dear, youve had your fun.
And so Pippa filed for divorce. It was, indeed, the end. The surprise? Len had wanted pancakes with jam not the mothers, but the pancakes.
