Laura was putting the kettle on for dinner. Pete had mentioned he fancied seafood pasta, so after work she popped into the supermarket, grabbed everything she needed and cooked it all herself. He was a bit late, but when he finally walked in he was holding a bunch of roses and shouted, Laura, heres your tired husband! I just laughed, took the flowers and stuck them in a vase.
After we ate we talked about the days hassles, then curled up on the sofa and watched a film. Weve been married just over ten years now the early passion has settled into a comfortable warmth. We run a small joint business: I handle the suppliers, Pete does the sales and looks after the finances. Weve got a nice flat, a good life. No kids yet were not in a rush, maybe when we hit forty.
A few weeks ago I rescued a scruffy little grey kitten from the street. Pete wasnt thrilled. Why did you bring home that mutt? Take it to a shelter. If you want a cat, get a pedigree Bengals in fashion, or even a hairless one. This ragtag thing is useless. Id already fallen for the tiny thing, and the striped grey cat became my little sidekick. Pete never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. He might give the cat a nudge, and the cat would end up sprawled on his trousers, shedding fur and clawing at his sweater.
One night Pete snapped, Im getting rid of that cat hes ruined my clothes. I told him, Dont toss things around, put them away properly. Milo doesnt like the mess. He grumbled, Milo? Thats a childish name. The cat glared back with those mysterious green eyes of his.
That war went on for about a year. Lately Pete got even more irritated whenever Milo was around, shouting, Whats he doing here? Hell cause trouble. I tried to keep the peace: Pete, calm down. Hes just doing cat things, not causing any harm. He complained, Laura, hes driving me mad. Maybe we should give him away? I answered, No, hes mine. By the end of the year Milo had grown into a huge, handsome, fluffy cat.
One Saturday I was doing a deep clean. Pete was off on a Thursday business trip to Manchester, not due back until Sunday, so I had the whole flat to myself. I was dusting, vacuuming and Milo started pawing at a cabinet. What are you fiddling with? I asked him, pulling out a folder. Inside were piles of receipts: hotel bookings, short stays, pricey jewellery, airline tickets, and a carsale contract. The buyer was listed as a Natalie, but the payments were all in Petes name.
I went through the papers, spotting Petes little notes on many of them. He liked to keep receipts and later run them through the company to pull money out. This time hed hidden them away. I felt a cold knot in my stomach, wanted to tear the documents up, scream, call Pete, but I held back. Milo circled, jumped onto the folder and purred, his green eyes softening. You saw this and showed me, I whispered to him. He curled up, humming his soothing cat song, and I felt a bit steadier.
I photocopied every receipt and document. That evening I searched social media for the cars owner and found a young woman posing with a shiny red car, captioned gift from love. No bloke in the shot, just her back and hands I recognised Petes hands from the photo. Turns out Pete had a mistress and was splashing our joint money on her.
Pete came back Sunday night, all cheerful with more flowers, shouting, Why arent you meeting your husband? My eyes were red from a cold, and I said, Ive caught a chill, my head hurts. He ate, I slipped into the spare bedroom. Should we call a doctor? he asked. No, Ill just rest. Ive already taken the meds, I replied. He fell asleep and left his phone on the kitchen counter. Out of habit I picked it up, glanced at his messages texts, chats and everything confirmed my fears. That night he sent his lover a text: Missing you, see you Tuesday.
On Monday I sent Pete off to work, saying I was ill and staying at the cottage. I gathered the papers and went to a solicitor. He drafted a divorce petition and a split of the assets. Without telling Pete, I said, Im really unwell, Ill stay at the cottage for a while. I still travelled to the city once a week for work, doing my job from there.
When Pete got the papers it hit him like a bolt. He rushed over, What are you doing? Weve been together for years. Ive done everything for you. I simply said, Ive fallen out of love, Pete. Well see each other in court. I didnt mention the mistress. In court, when the receipts and expenses were laid out, Pete froze. The judge asked, Did you really spend that money on a lover? Did you buy her a car? Pete, flustered, admitted, Yes, I did.
My solicitor secured a full split of the assets, compensation for half the business, and even reclaimed half of the mistresss expenses because they were family funds. Pete didnt argue. He kept the flat; I got the country cottage and a decent sum of money. The cars stayed where they were each kept our own.
Before the divorce I had already moved some suppliers to a new company and launched my own venture, taking on both sales and finance this time. Milo and I are doing just fine, the business is thriving. Petes angry his exwife is now a competitor, and his cash flow has shrunk. His new fling isnt filling the gap; he goes on dates, comes back to an empty flat, and it just feels like a hollow routine.
