Mike has packed a suitcase and moved in with his mum.
What pot are you talking about? Lucy, thirty, asks, genuinely bewildered.
You know, the council tax, groceries, laundry, cleaning how much do you plan to chip in each month? she presses.
From the puzzled look on Mikes face she reads nothing at all.
All the misery that used to swirl around Lucy was always external: cheating husbands, backstabbing wives, rambunctious kids, meddlesome mothersinlaw. In Lucys cosy world none of that existed. Even the motherinlaw was tolerable.
Everyone else was to blame for their own woes: keep the husband on a short leash, raise the children properly, and keep a polite distance from the motherinlaw.
That held true until Lucy caught Mike with his friend Emma in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Turns out a house can be the wrong place if you show up at the wrong hour.
It was vile, cheap and low. The surprise factor kicked in neither Lucy nor Emma expected it. In an instant Lucy lost everything: a solid marriage, a husband and a best friend.
The night before she had prepared baked mackerel a goldencrusted fillet on a bed of roasted carrots and onions. It had been a delicious dinner, with leftovers set aside for Oliver, an architect who often worked from home.
Lucys mackerel was a hit: first the fish was marinated for half an hour in mustard, mayo, honey and spices, then wrapped in foil and baked, finally browned under the grill Oliver adored it.
In the kitchen Emma and her boyfriend were eating Lucys mackerel, laughing. He was in his underwear, she in his shirt what lay beneath was anyones guess.
The bedroom looked like a cheap horror film: the bed was disassembled, sheets everywhere. Emma flushed with embarrassment, while Mike muttered nonsense about Tatiana being here, but youre not!
She agreed to wait, and Lucy bragged, Look how good a housewife I am, offering the mackerel as proof.
Without? Lucy snapped, annoyed.
Why without? Those are just strings! Oliver replied, hinting that Mike knew more than he let on.
Lucy stormed into the bedroom, grabbed a handful of laundry, and flung it at the stillsitting couple right onto the table, over the halfeaten fatty fish.
Then, in a short, fierce burst, she shouted the words shed heard many English sitcoms use: Get out!
She retreated to the living room. After a moment of shuffling at the door, the front door slammed and Mike reentered, trying to salvage the situation.
What are you starting now? I havent even cleared the bed yet he said, juggling a project file.
Youre right, its hot she snapped, And you showed up!
Lucy watched her husbands train of thought derail, his life taking a different track, like my gran always says, its gaining speed.
She could have pretended to accept his games, but the proud Lucy refused. She remembered how, in the morning, shed tucked a pillow under her half of the bed with a separate blanket, while he slept on the other side. Now she walked into the bedroom to find her blanket on the floor.
Consequently, Oliver, after a courteous farewell, left with a suitcase for his mums flat Lucys former flat.
He moved in with a kindly motherinlaw hed always gotten on with.
Soon a twentyeightyearold sweetheart appeared at the doorway, suitcase in hand, as if the whole family had turned into a sitcom.
All these twists did nothing to help the new social unit forming in Lucys life. The shouting started: How could you, you scoundrel?
But the scoundrel didnt care she had been tossed aside already.
Her former motherinlaw was also advised to leave, hand in hand with her son.
After the divorce Lucy couldnt look at men for almost a year; the thought made her gag. She was lucky the couple had only been together two years, so she was only twentyfour when it all ended.
Time softened her. A handsome David, a year younger, entered the picture. Their relationship quickly turned intimate; he even spent a few nights at Lucys flat.
David then voiced his wish to move in permanently.
We love each other, dont we? Lets wake up together, love! he cooed.
Lucy wasnt ready. A happy marriage, shed heard, is one where one partner snores and the other doesnt hear it. Lucy heard everything.
David not only snored like a lumberjack, he also kicked his legs at her in his sleep, flinging his thighs over the blankets despite their separate covers. It was as if a ballerina were doing a stretch in the middle of the night.
Two sleepless nights later Lucy realised she couldnt let him stay for good.
She rejected him, telling him he was welcome to visit but not to overnight. Humiliated, he vanished with his backpack.
Six months later Mike resurfaced. He was decent in bed but hopeless around the house his mother had raised him for a different life. The sink was piled with dirty dishes; he never washed his cup.
He kept asking Lucy to wash his underwear and socks, yet he didnt know how to start the washing machine. He lived off the rent from a spare room he shared with his parents, a modest £400 a month, enough to keep him fed while his parents covered the rest. He also had a teenage daughter, supported by child maintenance.
He wanted to move in with Lucy.
I want to wake up and go to sleep with you, Lucy! he pleaded.
Lucy obliged, but only if they agreed on a budget pot: how much he would contribute to the council tax, utilities, groceries, laundry, cleaning.
Mike, now thirty, looked genuinely surprised.
What pot? he asked.
You know, the bills, food, laundry, cleaning how much will you put in each month? Lucy repeated.
His bewildered stare told her hed contribute nothing.
The flat was Lucys, so she would cover it. She could wash his laundry together with hers the detergent was already in the drawer.
All women, she thought, love to tidy and cook. Why shouldnt they?
So, you dont want to marry? Mike asked, surprised.
Are you proposing marriage? Lucy retorted.
Well, yes, if we if we he stammered.
The key word was if. Clearly they hadnt got together.
Mike disappeared again, leaving with a bitter Youre cruel!
Lucy shot back, As cruel as the first wife, or even worse?
Soon Slava appeared a charming, seemingly perfect man who turned out to be a bingedrinker. He and Lucy were already cohabiting; he earned well and was immaculate about household chores: washing windows, vacuuming, hanging freshly laundered sheets. Lucy felt lucky.
Then he vanished just before they filed paperwork he untied himself before any wedding costs could arise.
His motherinlaw called, crying, Take him back, please, by God!
Lucy, fed up, shrugged it off.
At thirty, Lucy stood proudly alone, while her mother called daily, nagging about grandchildren. Friends wondered why such a beautiful, clever woman was still single.
Lucy joked that decent suitors simply didnt exist. She even adopted a cat, Misty, from the street. The cat proved a perfect confidante: no unsolicited advice, just a short meow when Lucy needed to vent, as psychologists recommend.
Then Lucy fell headoverheels for the dashing Valery Ivers, a wealthy pharmacy chain owner, selfsufficient, childless.
She transformed into a strikingly confident beauty, and they seemed the perfect pair.
Her mother sighed, Grandchildren are just around the corner! Friends received invites to the upcoming wedding.
Valery lived in a stylish twobed flat near the city centre. Lucy invited him over for dinner; he promised to move her belongings into his place the next day.
The evening started well: light food, playful banter, gentle touches, promises of a star as a gift. He truly meant it; he was fabulously rich compared to the rest of the crowd. He even gave Lucy a plush fur coat as a present.
But when Valery went to the bathroom, he kicked Misty. The cat didnt injure his shoe, didnt scratch him, didnt leap at his legs she was simply crossing the hallway. He kicked her for no reason.
Lucy froze. The kick wasnt painful, but it was insulting. It tarnished the whole evening.
Valery, noticing the scene, smirked as if kicking cats were normal.
Is this all because of a cat? he asked, offering a ride home. So our whole relationship is just a cats tail?
He laughed at his own joke.
Lucy realised she couldnt prove anything to him. Its useless trying to explain to a fortyfiveyearold that cats shouldnt be kicked.
He left, muttering, I never thought youd be such a nightmare! Return my gifts!
Lucy shut the door, flinging his fur coat and a couple of rings onto the stairwell.
Her grandmother scolded, Youve ruined your life, dear! You should be having children, not a cat like an old woman!
Lucy, however, didnt care about the shame. She knew she could have children until retirement.
Love cherries, learn to spit out the pits! the old saying went. In English wed say, filter out the rubbish.
Lucy began filtering her options: searching for a future husband and a dad for a possible child.
Some would call it reckless romance, but for Lucy it was all feelingdriven, like a famous actress who falls headfirst into love.
If youre feeling a bit off, better stay quiet and dont be jealous!
She finally settled on a fortyyearold named Nicholas: divorced, attractive, comfortably off, not a pennypincher. He didnt overindulge, helped around the house, took out the rubbish without being asked, and shopped for groceries.
He wasnt a perfect saint he left a small puddle in the bathroom after a nights drink but that was all right.
He got along with Misty immediately; the cat approved, which was a solid point in his favour.
Lucys mother was about to become a grandmother; the pregnancy test showed two lines.
When Lucy stepped into the bathroom, eyes met Nicholass cheerful face on the threshold, a tiny puddle on the tiles below. She laughed, wiped it up, spat out a cherry pit, and shouted through the ajar door,
Ill be back soon! Dont miss me and Misty!
Is she right? Only time will tell.
