A Message from the Missus
Love, could you pick me up from work? Jessica rang her husband, hoping to avoid a forty-minute rattle home on the Number 38 bus after an exhaustingly long day.
Im busy, came Marks curt reply. But clear as day, the television blared in the background. So Mark was at home, halfway through another episode of Antiques Roadshow, bless him.
Jessica was so miffed she could have cried. Their marriage was wobbling dangerously, and only six months ago, Mark had been carrying her over puddles and waxing lyrical about her Yorkshire puds. What had gone so utterly pear-shaped in such a short space of time? She hadnt the foggiest.
She kept herself in tip-top shapehours at the gym and a self-imposed ban on doughnuts (well, mostly). Her culinary skills were so good the head chef at the popular bistro actually let her use his proper knives. She never asked Mark for a penny, didnt throw tantrums, and bent over backwards to please.
Men get bored quickly if you give them the world on a silver platter, her mum tutted, swapping the phone to the other ear as Jessica unloaded. You cant just indulge them at every turn, Jess.
I just love him, Mum. And he loves me too, Jessica mustered a wobbly smile down the line, feeling slightly tragic.
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Hes bored of me. Im yesterdays bakewell tart, Jessica muttered, clutching her iPhone as she scrolled through Marks internet history. Turns out he spent his free time on dating sites, juggling conversations with an alarming number of women called Tiffany, Gemma, and Cheryl. Why not just sit me down and talk? Id understand and let him go. Whats the point in this tiptoe-around-each-other misery?
Well. Divorce it is, then. Jessica could handle itshe was tougher than a steak at Toby Carvery. But Mark didnt deserve to skate away unscathed. A little taste of her own brand of poetic justice was in order.
That evening, Jessica created a profile on the same dating site, pinched a dazzling photo from the internet, photoshopped herself into someone even Kate Middleton would envy, and waited. Mark took the bait like a seagull at Brighton Pier.
Their online banter was fierce. Mark regaled his new internet goddess with claims of singlehood, utter readiness for kids, and a personality smoother than custard. Jessica nearly wet herself laughing. She knew his stubborn streak could outlast Brexit negotiations.
Lets meet, Jessica typed, breathless with anticipation.
Id love to, came Marks speedy reply. But my sisters staying with me at the mo, cramming for uni exams, so maybe neutral ground? Then we could hit a hotel later
Seriously? Jessica snorted so hard she choked on her tea. Why are you so sure Id race to a hotel with you? Any sensible woman would run a mile! Mind you, this is all working in my favour
How about my place? Ive got a cottage outside town, all to myself. No one will bother us Jessica typed, wondering if hed bite.
Brilliant idea! Mark practically typed back in ALL CAPS. Saving money, no doubt, tickled him pink. Send your address and time. Ill arrive riding a white horse (metaphorically, itll probably be my Golf).
Maple Lane, number 10, at ten p.m. That suit?
Perfect! See you there.
At about eight, Mark pretended hed got a late call from work, pacing about in his socks claiming his car keys had vanished. He eyed Jessica, Have you seen my keys?
Last I saw, they were on the sideboard, replied Jessica, the portrait of innocence, while she curled her hand around the keys in her pocket. Maybe the cat knocked them under the sofa?
Right guess Ill get a taxi. Dont wait up.
Jessica didnt intend to. Why hang about? She packed her suitcase insteadat least she had her own flat, thanks to Nana leaving it to her in her will. The one thing she left for Mark? Divorce papers, impossibly obvious in the middle of the kitchen table.
Mark trudged home the next morning, fuming. Not only had it taken him an hour to get to Maple Lane, but his new date, Angela, was nowhere to be seen.
The address was real. The cottage stood proud. Unfortunately, the woman answering the door was less ‘catwalk chic, more rugby front rowand her semi-transparent dressing gown did nothing to improve Marks mood. Frankly, hed have given his last tenner just to erase the sight from his mind.
To make matters worse, shed been oddly keen for company, and Mark had to basically sprint for a taxi. The driver took a truly scenic, questionable route, leaving Mark thoroughly chilled in his blazer and seriously reconsidering all of his life choices.
Finally landing home, Mark found a letter smack in the middle of the table. Divorce papers. And then he spotted the scrawl in lipstick next to them:
This delicious revengeMark stared at the papers as reality hit him harder than the ice bath hed braved after five-a-side football. There, in Jessicas unmistakable swirling ink, sat his entire undoing. The note beside it read, Next time, try honesty. P.S. Your keys are in the bread bin. Dough for dough, right?
Unable to muster a decent excuse for himself, Mark slumped at the table, head in hands, while the television, inevitably, switched to yet another rerun of Antiques Roadshow. Wrong era, wrong man.
Meanwhile, Jessica took a moment to stand on the stoop of her nans old flat, the air sweet with the promise of summer. Shed spent too long shrinking herself for a man who preferred fiction to fact. No more. Her phone pingeda message from her mum: Proud of you, love. Now, go live.
Jessica smiled, tossing her phone aside and unzipping her suitcase. The world outside was electric, filled with stories still to be writtenher stories, no subplots or second billing.
Down the hall, the neighbours radio fluttered through a raucous old pop song. Jessica laughed and began to dance for nobody and everyone, barefoot and free.
Back on Maple Lane, the woman in the questionable dressing gown sipped her tea and re-read the message left for her on Angelas profile: Trust your instincts, and always answer your own door.
Jessica had trusted hers. And finally, she was home.
