My dear, Im leaving so you can fully appreciate what youll be losing! Try managing a week alone, howling at the moon in an empty flat without a man. Maybe then youll finally value my care! Jonathan proclaimed theatrically, flinging a bundle of socks into his sports holdall and narrowly missing my favourite vase.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching this Oscar-worthy performance in stony silence, a storm of indignation and wild laughter gurgling inside me. My husband, a thirty-year-old boy if ever there was one, stood in the middle of myyes, my, the one I bought pre-marriage thank you very muchone-bedroom flat, threatening me with his own absence, as if the walls might cave in or Id wilt like a neglected spider plant without his exquisite company.
It all kicked off, as it always did, after a Sunday roast at his darling mothers. Margaret was unique, a woman who could give a compliment that felt like a slap and dispense advice with all the subtlety of a sergeant-major lecturing recruits with muddy boots.
Jonathan returned from his mums fully loaded. It was obvious from the off: pursed lips, eyes scanning the surroundings as if expecting to find dust bunnies rioting in the corners, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound.
Anne, why are the towels in the bathroom still not colour-coordinated? he demanded from the threshold, not even bothering to remove his shoes. Mum says it creates visual noise and upsets the harmony of the chi.
I took a slow, very deep breath.
Jon, your mums seen more feng shui in daytime TV than in real life, and I hang the towels so I can reach them, not for interior tabloids, I replied calmly, giving my stew an enthusiastic stir.
Jon scowled, stomped into the kitchen and pointed at the lid of the pot.
Chunky vegetables again? Mum says a proper wife should blitz it all into puree. Easier on the mans system. Youre just being lazy.
Jonathan, I set the spoon aside and fixed him with a look, your mum is all about mash because she spent the new settee money on a full dinner service and now has no teeth left. You, on the other hand, have a perfectly serviceable set. Sochew.
He flushed a fetching shade of plum, chest puffing up, clearly winding up to hurl another truth bomb from Camp Margaret, but he faltered.
You… youre just ungrateful! he managed, deflated. Mums practically a domestic science PhD, you know!
Jon, your mum was a caretaker at a school hostel her whole career, and she calls herself a domestic science candidate because it sounds jazzy, I shot back, mouth icy.
He gawped at me, clearly unable to produce a comeback. He blinked, ground his teeth, and waved his hand as if shooing away a persistent bluebottle.
If youve never seen a man try to look imposing while resembling a disgruntled penguin, let me tell you: its a sight.
Thats apparently when he decided I needed teaching a lesson.
Enough! I cant stand this disrespect a moment longer! he bellowed, zipping his bag. Im off to Mums. For a week. While you reflect on your behaviour. When I return, I expect orderand apologies. In writing!
The front door slammed and blessed silence descended.
I feltoddly hollow. And… unexpectedly relieved. So my punishment was to be left in peace and quiet, in my own flat? What a tactical genius.
Except fate had an even sharper plot twist up its sleeve than any of Jonathans hissy fits.
Monday morning, my boss called me in.
Anne Graham, bit of a fire at the Leeds office, she said, eyes grave. Need someone to head over first thing tomorrow for three months. Travel and living costs doubled, and a bonus big enough to buy yourself a decent car. Youd be a lifesaver.
I could practically feel wings sprouting from my back as I agreed. Three months! No Jonathan. No Margarets meddling phone calls. A riverside apartment (even if its the River Aire and not Cape Town). A salary boost to boot.
But my flat would stand empty all that time, and bills these days are nothing to sniff at. Just then, I got a call from my friend, Linda.
Anne, help! My sisters landed in London with her brood, their house is ripped apart for renovations, hotels are a fortune. Shes got a husband and three kids, lively bunch, but they pay handsomely and up front!
A little devilish spark flickered in my brain. It all fit perfectly.
Sure, Linda, let them move in. Ill drop the keys with the concierge. Just one rule: if some man shows up throwing a strop over the place, tell him to do one.
That evening, I packed my suitcases, hid valuables in a box at Mums, and made the flat spotless for my soon-to-be tenants. Jonathan, busy with his lesson, ignored my calls. Oh well, let him stew.
The next morning I jetted off, and into my flat moved the cheery OMalleys: Dad, Simon; Mum, Susie; their three wildlings, and their enormous, slobbering, but utterly friendly golden retriever, Lord Barkington.
A week passed.
Jonathan braved his mums for all of seven days. Turns out Margarets motherly care is twice as suffocating with proximity.
Jonnie, dont slurp your tea.
Jonathan, are you trying to bankrupt me, flushing the toilet twice?
Son, sit up or youll end up hunched like Uncle Nigel.
By weeks end, Jonathan was cracking. Convinced I was a chastened, penitent wreck pining for his return, he decided it was time for his heros homecoming.
He bought three anemic carnations (cheap, symbolic, tragic) and headed home.
Approaching the flat, images of my tearful reunion danced in his head. The key didnt fit. He frowned, jiggled it. Nothing. He rang the bell.
A thunder of feethonestly, more stampede than footstepsrumbled behind the door, followed by a bark loud enough to frighten the foxes down the street.
Whos that? boomed a deep male voice with a distinct Cockney lilt.
Jonathan stepped back.
Um Im Jonathan. The husband. Open up!
The door swung wide to reveal Simon, a man shaped like a chest freezer, in a football vest wielding a BBQ fork (theyd just discovered the joy of an indoor grill). Lord Barkington loomed, tongue lolling.
Husband, you say? Susie, love, any Jonathans on the books? Annes off up north. Were here now. Lease and everything. Who are you, mate?
I Im the owner! Well, my wifes We live here!
Right, pal, said Simon, clapping Jonathan on the back with his greasy fork, leaving a streak on his shirt. Anne said: no husband around. Husband lives with his mummy. Flats free. Off you pop. Susie, fetch the ketchup!
And the door shut in Jonathans astonished face.
My phone started vibrating off the table a minute later. I was dining in a pretty Leeds riverside bistro, feasting on scallops and nursing a glass of Chardonnay.
Yes? I answered, far too pleasantly.
What on earth have you done?! Jonathan howled so loudly the bread knife nearly leapt off my plate. Who are these people in OUR home? They wont let me in! What is going on?! Its like a circus!
Jonathan, dont yell, I cut in coolly. You stormed out. Remember? Told me to experience life without you. I did. Its expensive to live solo. I took in tenants. Three months lease.
Three months?! Where am I supposed to go?!
Well, youre with your mum, arent you? Everythings colour-matched, soup blended to perfection. Enjoy! Im at work. Wont be home for ages.
Ill call a solicitor! The police! The Queen! Jonathan spluttered.
By all means. Flats mine, tenancy is legal, and taxes paid. Youre not even on the paperwork. Just a guest who outstayed his welcome.
I rang off.
Ten minutes later, I got a call from Margaret. I only picked up for the entertainment value.
Anne! How could you? You left my boy on the street! This is unthinkable! Marital law says a wife must keep the home fires burning for her man!
Margaret, I purred, loving every second, marital laws also quite clear about equal rights, and the title deed says only my name. Your sons experiment in teaching me a lesson clearly worked: the pupil surpassed the master.
You ungrateful, gold-digging wretch! she screeched. A man needs his space! Youve destroyed the family! Ill report you to the union!
Write to Points of View for all I care! I laughed. Oh, and Margaretyou always said Jonathan was a real treasure. Please, dont lose him again. Remember to mash his soup so he doesnt choke.
She tried to launch into a curse, then seemed to swallow her own tongue and ended the call with a noise that could have come from a jammed fax machine.
Three months sped by in a whoosh. I returned with a new haircut, a plumper bank account, and absolute clarity: never again.
The flat sparkledSimon and Susie had not only left it immaculate, but theyd even fixed the leaky tap that Jonathan swore was a winter project for a year.
Two hours later, Jonathan appeared, looking like a shadow: thinner, rumpled, and distinctly aged by three months of too-close motherly love.
Anne, he started, eyes on the doormat, come on, lets not sulk. I realise things now. Mum well, shes a bit much. Lets start over? Ive even brought my stuff round.
He tried to step inside.
I blocked the hall with my suitcase.
Jon, theres nothing to re-start. You wanted me to value a man in the house? I learned plenty. Simon fixed that tap in half an hour. You moaned about it for a year.
But Im your husband! he gasped, panic flickering in his eyes like a toddler being ejected from the playpen.
Was husband, now excess baggage, I said brightly. Your things are with the concierge. Hand over the keys, please.
You cant do this! Ill sue for half the improvements!
Jon, my dad did the decorating, receipts and all. You just contributed wallpaper pastevia whining. I beamed. Game over, darling. Intermissions gone on long enough.
He just stood there, blinking, as the moment his grand plan of teaching the missus a lesson spectacularly combusted.
I shut the door. The click of the lock sounded just like the starting gun for my new life.
Rumour has it Jons still dwelling with his mum. Word is, Margaret now controls not just meals, but his bedtime and who he talks to. He shuffles about stoop-shouldered, silent, forever wary of triggering a landmine in his mothers changeable moodfor some lessons take longer to learn than others.
