Hand Over Your Husband! Irene Preston was frying pies. The pies were delicious, made with thin pastry that puffed up into golden, plump spheres—she’d flip them gently from one side to the other to make sure they browned perfectly. Then she’d scoop them from the pan and arrange them on a special dish. The aroma of Irene Preston’s pies wafted down the whole block, escaping out into the street until it nearly toppled over a petite, skinny woman-girl in a moss-green raincoat, oversized glasses, and a raspberry beret perched on her head. She also wore short white wellington boots decorated in little red berries. The doorbell rang just as Irene Preston finished the last batch, stuffing them with cabbage. “Peter, dear, someone’s at the door…” But Peter didn’t hear her—he was lost in football, watching the semi-final of his beloved team, gobbling pies without tearing his eyes from the screen. He reached for another pie, eyes glued to the telly, and when he found the plate empty, he absently put his fingers to his mouth and nipped himself. “Ireeene! Irene! Hoo—hello…” At that moment, Irene opened the door to the insistent ringing. There stood the woman-girl: moss-green coat, raspberry beret, berry boots. “Hello,” she said slipping briskly into the hallway without so much as an invite, wiping her glasses. “Hello… And who are you? Who are you here to see?” “Me? I’m here for you.” “For me?” “Hand over your husband…” “Sorry?” “Your husband, Peter Preston. Hand him over.” “I’m not following you—why do you want him?” “He’s miserable and bored with you, and I’ll give him happiness and unearthly bliss.” “Are we talking about my Pete?” The woman energetically nodded. “Pete, yes—Peter…” Wailing and roars came from the living room: “Goal! Goaaaal, whoooooaaah!” “Peter dear, you’ve got company!” “Who’s there, Irene love?” “Come and see.” Peter, in his blue vest (“wifebeater”—a leftover from his mother-in-law’s stash) and black satin boxers (also courtesy of his mother-in-law for future use), hands and chin greasy, peeked around the door. “Irene…” He froze, embarrassed, shrank back. “Masha? What’s she doing here?” he wondered. Masha, the new colleague—she’d started recently, and somehow… Peter had lately felt a restless ache in his chest, craving something—something different. He’d walk the street, watching the youngsters—girls in short skirts and tight trousers running around giggling. So far from Peter’s age—everything still ahead of them. And what does he have? Irene—his wife—once just like those girls but two kids later, she’d expanded in every direction; her once appealing figure had grown impressively vast. Thirty years. Thirty years—and it’s all flown by. He’d barely blinked, and the young boy Peter had turned into Uncle Pete. The neighbour girl Nat, once a mischievous rascal carried on Uncle Pete’s shoulders, had already become a mother for the third time, transformed into a hearty woman. Everything changes: now Peter isn’t “Peter” at all—he’s “Granddad Pete” to little three-year-old George. But his soul is young…it craves fun and mischief, something—like that feeling after you leave a stuffy hospital for fresh air: still weak, but ready to conquer mountains. Peter Preston’s soul wanted something—maybe even to fall in love, read Brodsky (Masha loves Brodsky, whereas Irene never did). Coincidences: Masha likes Kandinsky too; Irene calls it rubbish. Peter doesn’t want to go to the country and plant tomatoes with his mother-in-law—he wants to dance and fall in love. His mother-in-law smells of old age, while Masha smells of youth… Peter leant against the wall, his heart pounding in his throat. He felt like a fifteen-year-old lad, as if a mate had come to fetch him and his strict mum was interrogating her. “Irene darling,” called Irene gently, “come out—don’t hide, there’s a young lady here who wants to borrow you.” Peter, sheepishly covering himself with the pie plate, peeked into the hallway. “Hello, Mary Paterson.” “Hello,” said Masha, blushing, head bowed, nearly in tears, “Sorry, Mr Preston, for dropping in like this…” “Don’t worry about it,” said Irene Preston, “You did just right, I think.” She turned to her husband: “Peter, go wash up and put some trousers on—for goodness sake, have some decency, we’ve got guests.” “Please come to the kitchen. Would you like some tea?” Peter braced himself for anything—hysterics, yelling, blame. He wouldn’t even have been surprised if the mother-in-law burst in, cursing him and his entire rotten family. But this? Peter hadn’t expected this. “What to do?” he fretted, “What do I do?” “I ought to call George, it’s his fault, the scoundrel. ‘Look how that new girl stares at you, mate, stares and stares…’” Total disgrace—everyone will find out, even the mother-in-law, ugh. And the kids? Embarrassing…and yet exciting. Trousers—put on trousers, Irene said. Which ones? The old tracksuit with baggy knees? No—he’ll put on his Sunday suit and a shirt, dash into the bedroom and get changed quickly… Peter appeared in the doorway as Irene and Masha discussed pie recipes. He stood there, sucking in his stomach, leaning against the frame, trying to channel Marlon Brando—but his elbow slipped on flaking paint. Peter grimaced… “Needs redecorating, really—maybe replace all the doors. George did his last year. Even mother-in-law nags him for not doing anything. Yeah? Who carts all those tomatoes about then?” “Tomatoes—what tomatoes, what mother-in-law…” Peter muttered to himself. Irene eyed her husband approvingly, nodded, as if to say “well done, you dressed up yourself.” “Right!” Irene shouted suddenly, “What are you two sitting here for—go out for a walk! Peter, take the lady to the pictures or the park, ride the carousel.” Peter blushed, glancing at Masha, wondering what to do. “Let’s go…” Masha piped up nervously, “I’ve not been to the park for ages.” “Peter—just a sec.” “Here we go,” thought Peter, “now it begins, fairy-tale’s over…” “Peter—do you have any money?” asked Irene, “Bit awkward, otherwise.” He nodded, “Got some.” “Here—take this, buy her an ice cream or some candyfloss… Off you go, for heaven’s sake,” Irene said, nudging them toward the door. As they stepped outside, Peter caught sight of a tall, skinny, familiar figure heading to the building—a figure squinting to see Peter and Maria’s faces. “Mother-in-law!” But Peter didn’t care…Peter was heading on a date, just like he did in his youth. “Where’s your useless layabout off to?” “And hello to you too, Mum. Don’t ask…” “Wearing his new suit, like it’s his wedding! Daft as a brush. Walking about, pulling faces like he thinks I don’t recognise old blockhead.” “Told you, Irene, should’ve married George Smith—he’s handy. And this one…” “Mum—George is on his third wife, all for love. What about it?” “And yours? Who’s that next to him—some old bat?” “Oh, Mum…” And the women whispered about something serious. “Look, Irene—he may be a fool, but he’s ours.” “Mum, I worry too, but I was told everything will work out…” “Well, you’ll see…” said the mother-in-law firmly, “And why isn’t that scoundrel taking my tomatoes today, eh?” “Mum…” “Well, never mind, I’ll catch up with him, make him dance round the allotment! I’ll recite poetry and show him a painting—oil on canvas, mind!” And Peter strode along, heart pounding, feeling certain everyone was jealous—‘Old Pete’s got himself a young one!’ Masha was quiet the whole way, then suddenly started mapping out their future: the house they’d buy—she does have one at her mum’s, but they’ll need their own; plant tomatoes and cucumbers. Have a baby—she’s thirty-three already, it’s time. After the child is three, they’ll travel to Blackpool by train. They’ll roast a chicken, pack eggs, will need to buy a potty with a lid, says Masha, dreamily… “With a lid?” “Of course, Peter. How else will you haul your child’s little offerings down the train?” Peter felt a sinking feeling. “Again? Again with the house, tomatoes? Another holiday by train every three years? But what about Brodsky, Kandinsky? What about moonlit walks, poetry, stars? When’s that happening? Kids, Blackpool? Been there, done that thirty years ago…” “Peter! You haven’t heard a word I said—what’s up?” Now, Peter no longer thought folks envied him—he was certain they were laughing. ‘Old fool, dressed up for a wedding…’ Peter just wanted to go home, to his Irene. “Damn—forgot the tomatoes for the mother-in-law…Time! There’s still time, better make a run for it…” “Masha—Mary Paterson—please hear me out…” And Peter, flustered, began explaining: “Masha—you’re a wonderful girl, you’ll find your own happiness. I thank you for these moments, for making me feel young…” “Peter! What about the house, Blackpool, the baby—our future?” “Not with me, Masha—not me…” Peter called, dashing away. Irene Preston jumped at the phone ringing. She was afraid to answer, but forced herself: “Hello.” “He’s on his way home.” “Really?” she whispered, relieved. “Yes.” “Thank you…” Masha was never seen at work again; Peter dreaded meeting her, didn’t know how he’d act. Rumour was she’d left unexpectedly. Those restless aches were forgotten; he hauled tomatoes three times as fast and life went back to normal. Irene signed up for some fitness class; they were going to Spain in autumn, and she wanted to shape up a bit. She dyed her hair, got a manicure, a pedicure… “Irene’s a stunner!” Now, in the kitchen, Irene Preston sits with her friend Olga. Olga complains her husband, Victor, is always gloomy. She caught him writing comments online, scrolling through ex-classmates. “Not like your Peter—look how he dotes on you, all chipper, while mine…” “I’ve got one trick, Olga, to shake your Victor up. But warning—you’ll worry yourself too.” And she whispered something to Olga. “Really? Did it help?” “Well, you can see…Here’s her number—she’s a professional actress, pricey, but worth it. Sort out where they’ll meet, how she’ll appear, you can arrange it all. She was recommended to me, so I’m passing her on. Go on, good luck.” And at the allotment, under the approving eye of mother-in-law, cheerful Peter hauls crates of ripe tomatoes, winking playfully at his lovely, familiar Irene…