The Flat Situation
Who are you? asked Valerie, opening the door to find a nervous yet oddly resolute woman standing before her.
Catherine, the woman replied, fiddling with the corner of her handbag. Nigels fiancée.
Sorry, which Nigel?
Your ex-husband.
Oh, George, you mean?
Yes.
Well, you could have just said George. I never called him Nigel in all twenty years of marriage. He was always George. What do you want?
Would you mind if I came in?
I would mind, Valerie replied, folding her arms. Say whatever you need to right here. I have things to dokids are at school, lunch to whip up, house to clean, then off to work.
Catherine arranged her face into something half-mournful, half-angeliclips quivering, eyelids drooping, hands laced over her middle.
Please, Valerie. Im rather nervous. It wasnt easy for me to come.
Valerie, however, was not easily melted. She was a woman toughened by years of single parenthood, skepticism, and too much dish soap. She trusted neither fate nor wide-eyed strangers at her doorstep.
All right then, Valerie said, chilly as a British November. What is it you want from me?
Catherine clung on to her injured-lamb look. She even managed a delicate little sniffle for effect. One, but poignant.
Are you upset with me? Did I offend you somehow? Her big eyes shimmered. Maybe you just dont like me?
Im not upset, Valerie cut her off. But youre right, I dont like you.
How strange.
Whats strange?
Well, this meeting isnt at all what I imagined, Catherine breathed, feigning a dramatic wound. I pictured us sipping coffee together, chatting over pastries. I even brought pastries, see? She tugged a box from her bag. Cherry, your favourite. George said you like cherry.
And why would I? Valerie didnt so much as glance at the box.
Oh, Im not sure, Catherine spoke slowly, like assembling a jigsaw. I do watch a lot of telly, mostly soaps and dramas. You know how these things go: the ex-wife and the future wife have awkward yet charming meetings. They drink coffee, gossip, compare notes about their shared man. I thought maybe
What exactly did you think and what we are you talking about?
Us. You and me. We could be friends.
No, said Valerie with the calm certainty of someone who always remembers where she put her keys. We couldnt.
Why not?
Theres absolutely no reason to be, said Valerie. Friends.
But how not? We have so much in common.
Such as?
Well, Georgesorry, Nigel. Hes what we have in common. Hes your childrens father, I love him. That ties us together, surely.
Valerie gave a dry little chuckle.
Let me get this straight. Did George send you here?
Good heavens, no! Catherine flapped her arms. George isnt like that. He doesnt even know Im here. All my own initiative.
I see, Valerie narrowed her eyes. Did you have a tipple before coming?
No, goodness, Catherine gave a guilty smile. Well, maybe a sip. But I dont really drink. Just a tiny bit for courage. She tried again with her innocent, tremulous routine. It wasnt easy, coming here, you know. I rehearsed. And then you open the door, all glacial
At that moment, the neighbouring door creaked open and Mrs. Wilkins, the blocks original tenant (rumour had it shed lived there since the Great Fire of London), peered out. She eyed Valerie, then Catherine intently.
I was just wondering who you had there, Val. Ah, this must be hercarry on, dont mind me.
Afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins, Valerie said, making an effort at politeness. Did you need something?
Talk away, dont mind me. Ill come by later, Mrs. Wilkins waved her off.
No, best now, Mrs. Wilkins. What do you want?
Have you got any salt? Mrs. Wilkins feigned innocence, but her tone made clear salt was the least of it.
I gave you a whole packet yesterday, Valerie reminded her.
You did, yes. Completely forgot.
But she didnt leave the doorway, instead folding her arms and observing the goings-on with the patience of a pensioner watching the BBC.
Anything else? Valerie asked, not hiding her exasperation.
So this is her, is it? Mrs. Wilkins nodded at Catherine. The one who was coming round to George when you two were still married. I remember you wellblack cap, red boots. Very bold look.
Valerie turned to Catherine with the slow menace of a second-hand fridge humming into life.
Is that true? You came round to our flat while we were still together?
Catherine blushed, shifting on the spot. Well, yes, but whats that got to do with anything? I didnt come to talk about that. Plus, it was ages ago. Over a year. Only a couple of times.
Four times! corrected Mrs. Wilkins, positively relishing her own recall. I counted: three evenings and once during the day, when Valerie was at work. Saw you through the windowGeorge let you in.
So, over a year ago? Four times? Valeries voice had an unnervingly calm note. And why didnt you mention this to me, Mrs. Wilkins?
Didnt get round to it! I was whisked off with a dicky heart, remember? Ambulance took me, pressure over 200thought I was a goner. By the time I was back, you and George were splitsville. Then I simply forgot, till now.
Well, that clears that up, said Valerie to no one in particular. Anything else, Mrs. Wilkins?
Not at present. But the neighbour was planted like a stubborn rose bush.
Thank you and good day, Mrs. Wilkins. Well carry on without you.
Very well. She retreated, but left her door just fully ajar.
Valerie turned, ice in her voice.
So, what do you want, Catherine? Out with it.
Id like you to stop interfering with our happiness, Catherine said, almost whispering.
Ours meaning yours and Georges? The man I divorced long ago?
Yes.
And how exactly am I interfering?
By feeding him every Sunday, Catherine blurted, eyes filling with tears.
Sorry?
Every Sunday, he comes here. I knowI’ve checked. Says its to see the kids, but really, its to see you.
He comes to see his children, Valerie explained, almost soothingly. We have two. They need a father, I can’t ban him from their lives.
He doesnt come for the children, but for your cooking! Catherines emotional dam broke. Your pies! The ones George brought home. He told me to my face.
Thats what he said?
That he couldnt care less about the children. He just wants a proper breakfast, lunch and supper. Think about itwhat can a toddler and a pre-schooler offer him? He comes here for your foodhe admits it!
Valerie fell silent, her insides fizzing, but held herself together.
Cat got your tongue? Catherine scrubbed her cheeks. Of course its hard to reply. My nightmare is that he’ll stop loving me, dump me, and run back to yousimply because you cook better suppers.
Valerie sighed. For a moment, she felt sorry for this poor, insecure woman, scared of losing what she had, so desperately clutching on.
Back to me, you think? Valerie finally said. She tried to sound kind. Well, Im nearly remarried myself. Im in love with someone else. Youve no rival in me.
Catherines relief was almost comical. She fished out a hip flask, took two brave gulps, hid it away again, and instantly sounded more cockney than the fishmonger down the street.
Sorry. Bit frazzled. What were we on about?
Youre afraid George will come back to me.
Is that possible? Catherines tone was suddenly deadly serious.
Oh dear, thought Valerie. She really is terrified. More than jealousy, Catherine was panicking.
I love another, Valerie said. Well move soon, anyway.
Catherine closed her eyes, snorted bitterly, and croaked, And whats that ever stopped anyone? You love another Valerie, please, just stop feeding him
Stop what?
I meanstop serving him those hearty meals! And stop letting him in. If he wants to see the kids (which I doubt), fine, but he doesnt need to do it in your flat!
Catherine swigged from her flask again, hand shaking now.
He can have them over at mine, on Sundays. Ill feed them. Ill play with them. Anything, just dont let him back in!
I hear you, Catherine. But I cant serve him no foodwhat do you want, for him to spend all day here, starving?
Dont let him in at all! Catherine was becoming stubborn. He can pick up the kids and stroll round the park. Or take them to a café. Or to his place.
I cant not let him in, Valerie sighed.
Why on earth not!?
Because”
Valerie nearly explained about George being the childrens dad, but didnt get the chance.
Mrs. Wilkinss door creaked wide once more.
Ill tell you why, she proclaimed, stepping out. Because this is still Georges flat, thats why! How could she refuse the owner entry, eh? Not her flat, my dear.
Mrs. Wilkins! gasped Valerie. Why would you say that?
Best she knows now than later, Mrs. Wilkins shrugged. Best from me than you or George.
Valerie sighed, thinking. Fair enough, Mrs. Wilkins. Youre right. Catherine should know.
Mrs. Wilkins nodded contentedly and vanished inside. Valerie regarded Catherine in silence until the news registered.
Its true? Catherines voice went steely. The flat you wont let me in belongs to George?
Valerie shrugged. It does. The kids and I arent even formally listed as residents here.
So where are you registered, then? Catherine demanded.
At my mums, Mrs. Wilkins interjected, making a cameo appearance from inside.
Thats right, Valerie admitted. Mums at her cottage, so we let her flat out for extra cash. Plus child support. And yet you want me to refuse George entry to his own home and starve him while Im at it. The man let us stay here after splitting updidnt chuck us out, just like that. Cant fault that.
That does make sense, Catherine said quietly.
George is a decent sort, Valerie continued. He even offered to let my new husband register here when we remarry.
Oh, marvellous! Your new husband too! Catherine laughed hollowly, Nice work if you can get it.
Nothing to do with me, Valerie said, calm and dignified as a cat in the sun. Thats all Georges doing. A proper gent.
So its in his name then?
Oh, yes.
From before you married?
Yes, thats right.
Well, this is just marvellous, nodded Catherine, with the air of someone plotting revenge. Crystal clear.
So, any other questions?
No, thats all. Wheres your lift?
Over there.
Thank you very much.
Catherine strode away, then turned back:
You never told me, Valeriewhens your birthday?
August, replied Valerie, baffled.
Typical. We could have been friends, you know, Catherines voice had a misplaced nostalgia.
I doubt it, Valerie shook her head.
We could, we could Ah well, another life, maybe. Do you believe in other lives, Valerie?
No. No time. Too much to do in this one.
Catherine nodded sagely. Same old domestic battles?
The very same, Valerie replied.
Such a shame, Catherine sighed dramatically. When you never get to the big philosophical questions because life keeps getting in the way. Really, Valerietragic.
Sure, Valerie said, dry as unbuttered toast.
The lift rumbled shut behind Catherine. Mrs. Wilkinss head bobbed from behind her own door.
Why did you say that, Mrs. Wilkins? asked Valerie, her anxiety mounting.
Just fancied it, replied Mrs. Wilkins. Been a while since I spiced things up.
Thats not right, Mrs. Wilkins. Its just not done.
I can do what I like. Im old.
Its not for us to judge.
Were not judging, Valerie. Were teaching lessons.
Do you realise what might happen now? Catherines bound to have a blazing row with George, demand he throws us out. Well be homeless! All thanks to you.
Mrs. Wilkins didnt bat an eyelid. Does that worry you? Flats not his, its yours. Forgotten, have you?
Valeries confusion was almost tangible.
What do you meanmine?
Mrs. Wilkins shuffled closer, lowering her voice. Lied, Valerie. And you backed me up. Of course its your flatyour mum gave it to you when you married. Remember your wedding? I was there. You know it, George knows it, everyone knows. Except Catherine, and you played along perfectly.
Valerie went pale. Now I feel dreadful about it.
Dont, Mrs. Wilkins declared. You played your part, now leave it.
But thats just it. I cant. George will tell her soon enough, and shell know we lied. Thats awful.
Im not sorry, sniffed Mrs. Wilkins. So we spun a tale. Therell be no fallout, not today. Shell wait until shes really surethat is, when shes Mrs. George for real.
And then? Valerie was agitated.
Then youll have your drama. Until then, calm down. You did the right thing. Let her stew.
Valerie retreated, unsure whether to cry or laugh. Yes, shed kept the flat, but at the cost of lying to someone frightened and miserable. Someone drinking from a hip flask.
The following Sunday, when George showed up for his customary seeing the children, Valerie headed him off.
Im not feeding you, George. Order yourself a takeaway or bring a packed lunch.
George stared, aghast. Why, Val? You cross with me?
No. Just better this way. For everyone.
He shrugged, collected the children, and took them to the park, then to a local café for lunch.
After that, Georges Sunday visits stopped. Hed take the kids out, feed them elsewhere, and return them home. Valerie would watch discreetly from her kitchen window, thinking maybe Catherine was right. George barely came to see the children at alljust for the food.
So Catherine was right after all, Valerie thought. He came for the grub, not the children.
But she didnt regret it. She had her life, her own plans, her new fiancé. George was relegated to the past, along with the full English breakfasts.
*The Finale*
Catherine approached the flat issue the day after her wedding, mainly thanks to leftover Prosecco and a backlog of nerves. George, still half-pickled from festivity, simply couldnt grasp what she was on about.
After much hopeless dialogue, Catherine still had no clear answer. In fact, the longer they talked, the less George understood.
Which flat is this, darling? George asked, scratching his head. Care to clarify?
Yours! The one Valerie and the kids live in!
But its not my flat, George said, astonished. Its Valeries. Her mum gave it to her years agobefore I moved in.
What? But they said it was yours!
Who did?
Doesnt matter. So its not yours then?
Nope, George confirmed. I used to rent, but moved into yours when we got together. My mums at her bungalow and Im here with you. Thats it.
Catherine slumped, deflated. She realized shed been drawn into a farcesomeone had deliberately set her up, watched her light the fuse, and now here she was, adrift and embarrassed.
Youre not lying?
Why would I? Ask the council, if you like.
But Catherine would rather have eaten Mrs. Wilkinss ancient pickles than deal with any more forms. Shed been tricked, and felt very foolish.
Fine. Forget it.
Forget what?
Everything. I made a mistake.
She vanished into the bedroom. George, shrugged and returned to the kitchen to polish off the leftover wedding cake.
Catherine, meanwhile, lay on the bed, replaying everything in her mind, realising it was Valerie herself whod dropped that devastating hint: Hes the father of your children and I love him. Only now did Catherine suspect the real culprit was that nosy Mrs. Wilkins with her never-ending salt requests.
*Philosophical Musings*
In this story, there are no villains or saints. There are peoplepeople who fear, love, worry, make mistakes. Women defending home and hearth. Men who get lost even with Google Maps. Neighbours who poke their noses where they shouldnt. Ex-wives who keep feeding their exes because, well, some habits die hard.
Valerie didnt intend to trick Catherine, she simply panicked and played along, and then it was too late to tell the truth. Guilt gnawed at herbut truth, too often, comes at the cost of peace.
Catherine didnt mean to cause troubleshe just didnt want to lose George. To her, Valerie was a threat that grew with every cherry-topped pie.
George didnt want to hurt anyone. He just liked properly cooked food and had never mastered anything more advanced than a bacon sarnie. He went where the gravy was thickest because, in the end, it felt like home.
As for Mrs. Wilkins, she was old, nosy, and lonely. Life is just more interesting with drama in the hallway.
In the end, everyone was deceived, in one way or another. Valerie lied to herself, thinking she could keep George from the kids. Catherine was deceived about the flat. George thought he was loved, not just for his appetite. And Mrs. Wilkins believed her meddling made a difference.
But more than anything, they all just wanted love. Valerie, with her full teapot and clean kitchen. Catherine, with her worries and Sunday roasts. George, with his need for second helpings. And Mrs. Wilkins, with her desire to hear every last detail.
Did they learn anything? Not a bit. But at least none of them were entirely aloneeveryone, in their hearts, held on to something. A sugar bowl, a fear, a pie recipe passed down, or the comforting shape of a trusty hip flask. And sometimes, not saying the truth is the only kindness that remains.
