So, I called for a plumber and you wont believe who turned upit was my ex-husband, who walked out on me seven years ago. He took a look around my new flat and, out of nowhere, actually suggested he might stay.
Saturday morning definitely wasnt planning to start with a cuppa. I shot upright at the sinister hissing coming from the bathroom. When I poked my head in, honestly, it looked like disaster: that ridiculously overpriced, luxury Italian tap of mine had decided to launch its own private fountain. This stubborn, thin stream was shooting water everywhere and would not give up.
Cue the panic. I threw down some towels, shut off the mains, and sat on the edge of the bath to regroup. Right, time to get a plumber. Im no shrinking violetgive me a hammer, Ill fix a shelf. Plumbing, though? Total mystery. A place I simply dont venture on my own.
I posted an SOS on a popular handyman app and set up a call-out. The bloke on the phone sounded vaguely familiar, but honestly, when youre ankle-deep in the apocalypse, you dont really stop to analyse every accent and tone.
An hour later, theres a knock. I open the doorand practically freeze in place.
Theres Mark. My ex-husband Mark. You know, the very bloke who, at my age of forty-five, packed his bags, called me dull as dishwater, and ran off with that young and ambitious Laura from accounts.
We hadnt crossed paths since. Nada. No birthday cards, no Merry Christmas. Didnt need his child supportour sons grown. As far as I could tell, I was ancient history to him.
And yet, there he wasin this battered old gilet with a million pockets, holding a toolbox, looking years older and far more knackered. Sallow face, bags under his eyes, and desperately trying to comb over a very obvious bald patch.
Meanwhile I stood in the middle of my brand new two-bed flatsmelling of expensive perfume, feeling suddenly very alertand just stared at him.
Is that you, Claire? he blinked, clearly gobsmacked.
Its me, Mark. Well, youre here nowcome in.
Even I was surprised by how calm I sounded. Inside, I felt twisted up tight, but outside, I might as well have been made of marble.
He stepped in and kicked off his shoes. Even his shoes looked tired.
Right, show me the leak, he muttered, barely making eye contact.
He set to work in the bathroom, hands slightly tremblingnot sure if it was nerves or just age. But he knew what he was doing: within fifteen minutes, the hissing stopped and the water ran smoothly.
Youve had the place done up nice, Claire. Mustve cost a bit.
How much do I owe you?
He scratched his head, looking a little awkward.
Oh, dont worry. Favour for an old friend. Maybe I could have a cuppa? After all, I am your ex-husband.
And you know, I suddenly found myself curiousitchingly so. What would happen next? So I nodded.
Lets go to the kitchen then.
When he stepped into my open-plan kitchen, I swear he looked winded. Proper spacioustwenty-five square metres, huge window, loads of light.
Seven years ago, right before he left, we were cramped up in a poky old flatmums carpets on the wall, everything stinking of fried potatoes. A real throwback.
He sat down and ran his hand across the new countertop.
Living well, arent you? he said, not quite hiding the envy. I remember you always saying you were broke.
That was you, not me, Mark. I got on with it.
So, how are you? he asked, sipping his tea. Remarried?
Nope. Im enjoying myself. Works good, I travel. Our son is in IT now. You?
The mention of Laura looked like it hit him straight in the teeth.
Oh, Laura lasted a year. Then she wanted a whole new wardrobe, holidays in the Maldives. What am I, a millionaire? She kicked me out in the end. Been sofa-surfing, now living with Mum again. Picking up odd jobs wherever I can.
He moaned on and on, really laying it all outevery little setback.
Then, silence. He checked the place out again, wandered over to the living room area, where Ive got my absurdly comfy sofa and a big flatscreen on the wall.
Looks great, Claire. Proper homely. Youre clearly in charge here, he said as he sat back down.
And then I caught a funny little glimmer in his eye. Bit predatory, if Im honest. He straightened his shoulders and sucked in his gut.
So, Claire, he began, soft and almost sweet. This must be fate, right?
Is that so? I raised an eyebrow.
Come on! Were no kids. Both on our own. You rattling around in here, me stuck at Mums. Its not right, is it?
He moved a bit closer.
I was thinking maybe its time we let bygones be bygones? We were young and daft. I realise now Laura was a mistake. But youyouve really made something of yourself. Solid. Sorted.
I just waited in silence, curious where this was all heading.
And then came this absolute gem, straight out of the Hall of Dad Energy.
He swept his hand across my flatmy sanctuary, built with sleepless nights and hard graftand said:
You know, Claire, maybe we should both forgive and forget. How about I move in? Lets face it, you could use a man about the house. Someone to look after you. Fix your taps, keep you company. I wont take up much spacejust give me a corner and a hearty stew.
I pushed my chair back and stood up.
So youre doing me the grand favour of forgiveness too? I asked quietly.
He grinned, full of himself. Well, yeah, you werent exactly perfectalways having a go, always wanting more. But Im not bitter; its in the past. Ive moved on.
Those last seven years flashed through my head. Everything Id built, bit by bit. And this hero, this self-declared man of the house, waltzes in expecting to plonk himself on MY sofa, help himself to MY fridgeand all with the royal grace of lets just forgive each other.
Mark, I said, my voice cold and certain, Time to pick up your toolbox.
He looked baffled. What?
Your tools. Grab them, and lets see you to the door.
Claire, are you serious? Think about it! You cant cope alone. Whos going to protect you? Wholl hang your pictures?
Goodbye, Mark, I pronounced, calm but very clear.
He scowled. Typical. Made a bit of money, think youre above everyone now? I was doing you a favour, you know.
I pretty much ushered him out and locked the door, top and bottom lock.
My heart felt like it was racing in my throat, hands shakingnot with fear, but absolute rage. Just sheer clarity about how some men think women are just a sort of appliance.
A man about the house. In charge. All that.
And I caught my reflection: a confident, attractive woman who bought this place herself, did the whole renovation herself, and chooses who she lets into her life.
Mark, if you ever read thisthank you, truly, for leaving all those years ago. It was the greatest gift you ever gave me. There is a man of the house here already, and thats me.
Tell me, does every ex-husband seem to have this built-in setting where they come crawling back exactly when youve sorted yourself out?
Lets just forgive each otheras if hes handing out royal pardons. The nerve.
What would you have done in my shoes? Maybe I was too harsh, but honestly, I dont think so. Love to hear your stories.
