Mike, thirty, stared at Lucys question as if shed asked him to pour tea into a boot.
What pot? he asked, genuinely baffled.
Lucy, arms crossed, replied, The household pot rent, groceries, laundry, cleaning. How much are you planning to chip in each month?
His bewildered gaze said, Nothing at all!
All the misery that used to hover around Lucy was always from the outside world: wayward husbands cheating on their wives, wives on their husbands, mischievous kids causing havoc, and motherinlaws who loved to nitpick. In Lucys snug little world none of that existed not even a hint of it. Even her motherinlaw was tolerable.
The rest, of course, were to blame for their own woes. A husband should be kept on a short leash, children need firm guidance, and a polite distance from the motherinlaw is advisable.
That held true until the day Lucy caught her husband, Oliver, in the act with his friends sister, right where and when they shouldnt have been. Turns out a house can become the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was disgusting, sleazy, and downright nasty. The surprise factor neither Lucy nor Oliver saw it coming made it even worse. In one fell swoop Lucy lost everything: a solid marriage, a husband, and a dear friend.
The night before, Lucy had prepared a gorgeous baked mackerel, goldencrusted atop a bed of roasted carrots and onions. Oliver, an architect who often worked from home, had enjoyed it the night before, and a portion was saved for him. Lucys secret recipe was simple yet lethal: marinate the fish for half an hour in a mixture of mustard, mayo, honey and spices, then bake it first wrapped in foil, then finish it off under the grill until it was beautifully crisp. Oliver loved it.
At the dinner table, the friend and her husband were tucking into Lucys mackerel, laughing. He was in his underwear; she was in a shirt, the rest of her outfit a mystery. In the bedroom the bed was stripped, looking like a scene from a lowbudget horror film.
The friend blushed, and the husband muttered something nonsense about Tatty being there and where he was, I dont know. He promised to wait, and Lucy, feeling cheeky, bragged about her culinary skills.
Did you agree to wait without your knickers on? Lucy asked, halfteasing.
Why not? Theyre just panties! Oliver replied, hinting he knew a bit more than he let on.
Lucy stormed into the bedroom, snatched a heap of laundry and flung it at the stillsitting couple, right onto the table, splattering the unfinished fish. She then declared, in a tone famous among British sitcoms, Off you go, you two! and marched to the lounge. A clatter of footsteps and a slammed front door later, Oliver returned, trying to salvage the situation.
Whats this then? I havent even cleared the mess from this morning the projects due! he exclaimed.
Come on, its scorching in here! And anyway, you showed up yourself! Lucy shot back.
Lucys mother, a spry lady who loved to remind her daughter about grandchildren, kept calling, When are the grandkids coming? Lucy, now thirtyfour, sighed. Shed only been married for two years before the split; children never even entered the picture.
Time softened the edges. A new beau, Dave, a year younger, entered the scene. Their romance blossomed in Lucys flat; he even spent a couple of nights there. Eventually Dave suggested moving in permanently. We love each other, love, lets wake up together, ok? he cooed.
Lucy, however, wasnt ready. A happy marriage, shed heard, is one where one partner snores and the other pretends not to hear. Unfortunately, Lucy heard everything. Daves snoring was like a chainsaw, and he somehow managed to fling his legs onto her side of the bed, as if performing a pirouette.
Two nights of such bliss left Lucy exhausted. When he asked to stay for good, she balked. If you cant sleep, the problem will just follow you, she warned. Dave left, backpack in hand, muttering about permanent residences.
Six months later, Mike returned, a decent lad at the bedroom front but hopeless with chores his mother had raised him to avoid dishes. The sink filled with his unwashed cups. Hed ask Lucy to wash the undies and socks, yet he couldnt operate a washing machine. He lived off a modest £40 a week in rent from his parents spare room, spending it on gadgets and the occasional takeaway. He wanted to move in with Lucy.
Lucy, ever the pragmatist, asked, How much will you contribute to the household pot each month?
Mike blinked. Which pot? he asked.
I mean utilities, food, laundry, cleaning, she repeated.
His puzzled stare said, Zero. Lucy shrugged. The flats in my name, so Ill cover it. Just toss your laundry in with mine the detergents already there!
Mike, bewildered, asked, So you dont want to get married?
Lucy retorted, Are you proposing?
Mike stammered, Well if were… together?
The word if hung in the air, and neither of them moved.
Soon after, Slav, a charismatic but drinkingprone fellow, appeared. He was tidy, washed windows, vacuumed, hung laundry neatly Lucy thought, Finally, a decent bloke! Then he vanished before they could even register for marriage. He left before the paperwork, Lucy sighed, so at least we didnt spend a fortune on a wedding.
Her mother kept pestering about grandchildren. Lucy joked that there were no suitable suitors left. She even adopted a stray cat, Misty, who became her confidante, offering silent, purring counsel.
One day, Lucy fell head over heels for the dashing pharmacist, Victor. He owned several chemist shops, was wealthy, and completely childfree. With Victor, Lucy felt like a timeless beauty, finally tasting sweet, bitter love.
Victor lived in a plush twobed flat near the city centre. Lucy invited him over for dinner; he promised to move her belongings into his place the next day. Everything went smoothly at first light conversation, flirty glances, jokes about gifting a star.
Then, as Victor stepped out to the loo, he gave Misty a needless kick. The cat wasnt harmed, but the act was cruel. Lucy froze, horrified. Victor shrugged, Shes just a cat, no big deal. He laughed as if kicking an animal were a normal pastime.
The evening collapsed. All because of a cat? Victor scoffed, Our relationship is now a cattail? He left, muttering, Never thought youd be such a nightmare. Return my gifts!
Lucy shut the door, tossed his fauxfur coat onto the hallway stair, and threw his rings into the bin. Her grandmother, ever blunt, said, Youve ruined your life, love. Have a child, not a cat, you old crone! Lucy, now thirtyfive, shrugged. Kids can be had until retirement, she replied, quoting a halfremembered proverb, If you like cherries, learn to spit out the pits.
She resumed her search for a suitable husband and father for future children. Some whispered that she was just chasing romance like a soapopera star. Lucy, however, stayed true to her feelings, much like a beloved actress known for swooning.
Eventually she set her sights on Nicholas, a fortyyearold divorced gentleman, decentlooking, not penniless, and handy around the house. He helped with rubbish, shopped without being asked, and didnt overindulge in vices. He wasnt perfect the bathroom sometimes sported a mysterious puddle but he wasnt a nightmare either. He got along with Misty instantly, which was a big plus.
The pregnancy test later showed two lines. Lucy, stepping into the bathroom after Nicholas, slipped over his little waterspot, laughed, and shouted, Ill be back soon! Dont miss me and dont forget to look after Misty!
