You’re leaving! I shouted at her.
Emily Hart was doing a thorough spring clean before the New Year when she stumbled across a little USB stick. It was tucked away behind the armchair, in the corner to the right of the radiators. At first glance it was easy to miss, like a hidden hazard in a cramped office.
Emily was crawling on the floor, wiping every nook and cranny, so the device finally turned up. The timing couldn’t have been worse it was the eve of New Years, the whole house buzzing with festive spirit. As the old rhyme goes, many days off work, a tree full of lights, bubbles of champagne in a flute, a dim lamp on the sideboard, and a host of pleasant surprises.
The Christmas tree was still bare; Emily simply hadn’t found the time to decorate. My own abilities with tinsel were, frankly, a disaster.
Darling, you know I cant manage the lights, I told her, halfjoking. I always get the ornaments crooked.
Why not, Tom? she asked, eyebrows raised. Just think of the tree as a spine: the trunk is the centre, the branches spread left and right. Hang one side, then the other, and fill any gaps. Its simple.
But I, bless my heart, saw only a lopsided heap of baubles on one side and a barren stretch on the other. I called it a case of complete daftness.
Fine, do it yourself! I snapped, which, admittedly, felt rather convenient. The rule of the day was simple: if you dont like it, do it yourself, and clean up after yourself too. I wasnt exactly a handyman; my mother never taught me the basics. Still, I was generous enough to keep the peace, because what mattered most to Emily was having a kind man by her side. The rest could be sorted with a bit of humour, as the poets say.
Emilys life was straightforward. She wasnt some fairytale heroine; she was a sharp, capable woman working for a prestigious propertyleasing firm in London. These days, penthouses and multistorey flats are in high demand some folks crave empty soup bowls, others glittering trinkets. Money flows in a spend as you earn fashion, and Emily bustles all day to bring home the bacon, oranges, and a tin of smoked sardines for us.
My own career, however, has always been a muddle. I never learned the value of hard work, and my parents didnt set a good example either. We dont have children yet Lets live for ourselves, Tom once declared, and Ive been following that mantra ever since.
Im a sturdy, wellbuilt bloke, the sort of fellow who might have been a country squire in another era a true gentleman of the manor, if you will. I quit my first job straight after we married three years ago.
Can you believe they demoted me? I confessed one night.
What then? Emily asked.
Its a downgrade, not a humiliation. Its just business, I tried to rationalise. At least we still have some work.
So I kept a lowerpaid position, thinking wed lose only a few pounds a week. But then I was sacked the sort of thing you do when youre fed up with the system. My fatherinlaw tried to set me up with a friend, but the commute was a miserable fortyminute bus ride, whereas I needed a car for my work trips. In short, move aside, please.
After two days of frantic jobhunting, I gave up.
Back on the sofa again? my motherinlaw teased, having heard about my latest woes.
Two more offers fell through one interviewer just didnt click, the other turned out to be a dreadful boss. I suppose I was meant to be a gentleman of leisure, not a working man. My mother always said Id end up as a general of the sofa army.
Emily defended me, insisting she loved me despite my grandmothers snide remarks. He isnt lying around in your house! she declared.
My dear, Im just annoyed that a pretty, clever girl like you is left to shoulder a drudge, my grandmother retorted. You deserve better than a bloke who cant keep a job.
So I slipped off to the local sauna with my mates, leaving Emily to finish the preNewYear tidy alone. Youll have to manage yourself, love, I told her. Im hopeless with household chores.
There was no time to investigate the USB; we own several houses, just in case we have a property in Brazil (as my aunt used to say). I tossed the stick into an ashtray and never looked for it again. It was my wifes device she often saved property listings on it and it stayed there for a couple of weeks.
Then, out of the blue, Emily felt a sudden urge to check what was on the drive. She thought, Maybe theres something useful. I went for a walk, enjoying the fresh air.
What she saw on the screen was a bizarre mix of tango music, a Thai massage tutorial, and some very questionable content. Well, thats something, she muttered, pressing stop after a few seconds. Its easier than dealing with a prosecutor.
Speaking of prosecutors, there was a shady figure in the video, apparently blackmail material. The man in the clip seemed harmless, but the idea of being blackmailed made Emily uneasy. She grabbed a day off, took the USB, and headed to her clever friend Lucy a sharp woman who reminded me of the famous author F. Scott.
Do you think hes a secret agent? Emily asked, eyes wide.
Are you seeing things? Lucy replied, laughing. Your husbands a lazy sailor, not a spy. The only thing hes good at is lying on the couch.
Lucy sipped her tea and said, You need a proper woman in your life. She then suggested we should post the video online.
Whats the point? Emily asked.
Everyone uploads everything these days. Look at what that footballer did, Lucy said.
Emily hesitated, then they both watched the video to the end. The final frame displayed a phone number and a note: If you want to talk, call me. It turned out to be an AmericanEuropean contact.
Seems like weve got a lead, Lucy said, smiling. Emily called the number, arranged to meet at a café, and I was invited as a legal adviser.
At the café the conversation went something like this:
We love each other, please let him go, said a pretty girl of my age.
What makes you think Im holding him? I asked.
The husbands been taking all his money, so he wont divorce! the lawyer replied.
Emily and Lucy exchanged glances, then I said, Youve been misinformed, love. Take him I dont mind.
What? Just take him straight away? the bewildered woman asked.
Take him however you like, Lucy added. Come tonight with his things.
The women left, and the stunned lover stayed seated, wondering if her dreams would ever come true.
Meanwhile, I was snoring on the sofa after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a pot of fruit juice. Emily packed Toms belongings, placed a bag by the hallway, and when he finally woke, she announced, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for groceries! Tom protested, thinking she meant a trip to the supermarket. Do it yourself then!
The room was warm, the little decorated tree glowed in the corner, and the TV played classic films exactly how we do it after New Years. The christening was nearing, the weather turned frosty, and the thermometer fell. It was also time for an afternoon tea with crumpets and jam, so Emily told Tom, Go yourself!
She wasnt sending him to the store. Where to? he asked.
To wherever you can showcase what you do best, she replied.
To Mums? he guessed, knowing his mothers house was his favourite haunt.
To your motherinlaw! I heard her mutter. The one who loves your circus tricks! She flicked on the TV.
Tom was dumbfounded the décor looked like something out of a sitcom. He realised Emily had slipped a USB into his pocket with a handkerchief, because, like any decent gentleman, he preferred a cloth handkerchief over a tissue.
Emily challenged him, Say something clever. Admit youre an actor hired to play you, that youre under hypnosis, or on some drug! She recalled the prosecutor from the video, He fought like a lion, but he was never really himself!
She went on, Youre nothing but a macho alpha male, flapping your legs and wiggling your toes. That prosecutor is a baby compared to you! Tom fell silent he wasnt a fool, and leaving me wasnt part of his plan.
The USB, after all, was a bonus from her firm Take it, show it to your mother, Stallone! she joked, and Tom walked out, heading somewhere unknown. I didnt care.
The rest of the evening passed like a quiet poem: the tree twinkled, the TV crackled, the old sofa sat empty. It was the French way to end a story fin. A number appeared on a scrap of paper: an AmericanEuropean contact. Lucy declared, Theres your explanation! We didnt even need an agency to hire you as an agent.
Emily called the number, set up a meeting at a café, and Lucy offered to act as her solicitor, promising to keep her from rash decisions. Emily agreed, already planning to give me a swift kick and send my things to a new partner, so they can keep practising their craft.
The café scene unfolded in the classic way:
We love each other, please let him go! said a pretty girl, the same age as Emily.
Let go? Why would I hold him? I asked.
Because hes taken all his money, so he wont divorce! the lawyer replied.
Emily looked at Lucy, then said coolly, Youve been misinformed, dear. Take him if you wish.
Lucy added, Take him however you like.
And bring his stuff tonight, Emily finished.
The women left, the shocked lover sat there, wondering if her evening dreams would ever materialise.
Tom slept soundly after his meal of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a jug of compote. Emily gathered his belongings, placed a bag in the hallway, and when he finally awoke, she said, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for food! he protested, thinking she meant a grocery run. Do it yourself then!
The house felt cosy, the tiny tree glimmered, and the television played postNewYear movies. Baptism day loomed, the streets were snowy, and the thermometer slid down. It was also time for a latemorning snack of pancakes with jam, so Emily sent Tom on his own.
She wasnt sending him to the shop. Where to? he asked.
To wherever you can show what youre best at! she replied.
To Mums? he guessed, his mothers house being the only place he enjoyed visiting.
To your motherinlaw! she snapped. The one who enjoys your balancing acts! She turned on the telly.
Tom stared, stunned the interior looked like something from a sitcom. He realised Emily had slipped the USB into his pocket with a handkerchief, because, like any proper gent, he liked a cloth handkerchief.
Emily dared him, Say something clever. Admit youre an actor, that youre under hypnosis, or on some drug! She recalled the prosecutor from the video, He fought like a lion, but he wasnt himself!
She went on, Youre a macho alpha male, flinging your legs, wriggling your toes. That prosecutor is a baby compared to you! Tom fell silent he wasnt a simpleton, and ditching me wasnt part of his plan.
So the story closed as a quiet English winter night: the lights flickered, the old sofa sat empty, and the end was signed with a soft the end.
