You’re leaving! I shouted at my wife.
Mollie Hargreaves was deep in her Christmas cleaning when she stumbled across a USB stick. It was tucked away behind the armchair, in the farright corner next to the radiator. At first glance it was invisible, like a hidden hazard you wouldnt notice until you sweep the floor.
Mollie was crawling on her hands and knees, wiping every crevice, so the little device finally gave itself up. The mood in the house was festive it was the night before Christmas, the whole place humming with anticipation. The tree was still bare; there hadnt been time to dress it yet. My husbandtobe, Liam, wasnt much help with the decorations.
Darling, you know I cant untangle the lights, hed said, halflaughing, because he could never hang the baubles symmetrically. Itll look lopsided anyway.
Mollie tried to reason with him. Just think of the trunk as the axis. The branches go left and right. Hang one side, then the other, and fill any gaps. It isnt rocket science. But Liam, bless him, saw only a mess of toys on one side and a barren stretch on the other. He called it a righthanded mess and muttered that it was a bit of daftness.
When Liam grew irritated, hed say, If you dont like it, do it yourself! and it suited him fine to be offended it gave him an excuse to slink away. The mantra around the house became: If you dont like it, do it yourself! and If its not right, fix it yourself! So Mollie ended up doing everything on her own, saving herself a hundred redoings later.
Liam wasnt exactly handy his mum never taught him a thing. Still, he was generous at heart; he just needed a kind soul beside him, and the rest could be sorted with a good umbrella, as the old saying goes. Mollies life was simple. She worked for a highend property firm that rented and sold luxury flats and penthouses. These days everyone seemed to need a loft or a townhouse, whether they were starving for space or just chasing a bit of sparkle.
She earned a decent wage, enough to buy the weekly bread, butter, oranges, and the occasional fancy red fish for dinner. Meanwhile, Liams career was a perpetual shuffle. Hed been let go three years ago, right after they married, and his motherinlaw tried to set him up with a friends son. The commute was a fortyminute bus ride, while Mollie drove because her job required it. Sorry, move along, shed say.
After a couple of days of frantic job hunting, Liam gave up. Back to the sofa again? his grandmother teased, having heard all his attempts. Hed been turned down for two more positions one because the interviewer didnt like him, another because the boss turned out to be a real nightmare.
Liam looked the part of a gentleman who should have been a lord, a squire, or even a modernday mogul. Yet his lazy air made it clear he was built more for leisure than for labour, perhaps to keep a lonely lady like Mollie company.
Mollie loved him despite the old womans snide remarks, calling Liam General of the Sofa Army. Whats the matter, love? shed defend him, He doesnt just lounge in my house. The grandmother retorted, Its offensive enough that a pretty, smart girl has to shoulder a useless bloke!
Then Liam and his mates went off to the sauna, leaving Mollie to finish the preChristmas tidyup alone. She didnt have time to dig out the USB; they owned several flats just in case something pops up in Brazil so she shoved it in the ashtray. Liam never searched for USB sticks, so it was clearly Mollies. Shed been using drives to store property listings, so the forgotten stick lay there for a couple of weeks.
One afternoon something clicked for Mollie as her mother would say and she decided to see what was on the stick. Maybe there was something useful. Liam went for a walk; fresh air does wonders, after all. The video that started playing was a bizarre mix of hot tango, Thai massage, and a lesson on Morning and Evening Routine, plus a dash of something decidedly inappropriate.
Mollie laughed, Ah, Pushkin, you rascal! and turned it off after a few seconds. The clip involved a mysterious prosecutor and a blackmail scheme. It seemed someone was trying to extort money, but who could be behind it? Liam had no secret dossiers, no hidden riches. Still, a pretty, clueless man could be useful to someone.
Mollie took a day off, grabbed the USB, and headed to her clever friend Lucy, who was as sharp as the famed detective Holmes. Do you think hes a secret agent? Mollie asked, halfhopeful. Youve gone mad, love, Lucy replied. Your seal is an agent? The best thing he does is lie down! Agents move, not nap!
Lucy, whod grown up with a sailor uncle, tossed nautical slang around. You need a woman, love, she suggested, sipping her tea. Start courting, or youll be stuck forever. Mollie wondered why anyone would want a puffedup turkey of a bloke who wasnt bright.
Lucy warned, If you post that rubbish online, theyll find you. Why would I do that? Mollie protested. People post everything. Look at what Džubas (a local footballer) uploaded. I dont know why Džubas posted it, Lucy retorted. Were not debating his sanity, are we?
Lucy handed her three options: send it, compromise and send, or forgive and forget. Whats your next move? she asked. Perhaps youll send it to the police, she added, a hint of her sailoruncles voice in the background.
Mollie finally watched the video to the end. The finale was unexpected: a womans voice said, If you want to talk, call this number. A scrap of paper with a phone number appeared. AmericaEurope? Mollie muttered. That explains the weirdness, Lucy said, amused.
Mollie dialed the number; they arranged to meet at a café, with Lucy joining as your legal counsel. Tell them Im your lawyer and Ill keep you from doing anything foolish, Lucy promised. Mollie, already considering giving Liam a swift kick and sending his belongings to whatever new partner he might find, agreed.
At the café the scene unfolded like a textbook drama. We love each other, please let him go! declared a pretty young woman of Mollies age. Why would you think Im holding him? I asked, bewildered. Because Len said so! the lawyer replied. Hes taking all his money and wont divorce!
I stared at the two women, the plot thickening. Youve been misinformed, dear, I said coldly. Take him, I dont mind. The lawyer gasped, Can we just take him now? I shrugged, If thats what you want. The woman added, Tonight, bring his things!
The café emptied, leaving the bewildered lover alone. Liam slept soundly after a hearty lunch of mushroom soup, beef with prunes, and a pot of jam a proper British feast. Mollie packed his belongings into a bag and placed it by the hallway. When Liam stirred, she announced, Youre leaving!
But you know I cant shop for groceries! Liam protested, thinking she was sending him to the store. Then go yourself! she snapped. The room was warm, a modest tree glimmered in the corner, and the telly chattered away with classic films the usual postChristmas routine.
Outside, the weather turned cold, the thermometer dipped, and the afternoon tea was due. No more pancakes with jam! Mollie declared. Im not sending you to the shop, she said. Im sending you where you can show what youre actually good at. To mums? he guessed. To your motherinlaw! she retorted, pointing at the two grandmothers who were already in a better place.
Liam froze, wondering what was happening. He hadnt noticed the little USB hidden in his pocket, tucked under a handkerchief. Come on, say something clever, Mollie urged. Like youre not the one on the screen, that an actor was hired, that you were under hypnosis! She reminded him of the prosecutor video, He fought like a lion, but he wasnt him!
Liam stayed silent; he wasnt a fool, and leaving Mollie wasnt his plan. The house, with its sparkling tree and humming television, felt empty on the old sofa. It was the end, in a Frenchsounding way, of a story that began with a flash drive hidden in an ashtray.
My motherinlaw called, laying on the guilt, demanding that Liam be taken back. He didnt return to the flat; he went back to his mothers onebedroom. Feeding a lazy, healthy bloke with a big appetite proved difficult, so she wondered, Will you take him back, dear?
In the end, Mollie filed for divorce. It was, indeed, the end. And what had they really been counting on? A stack of pancakes with jam, perhaps.
