15 March
I sat at the kitchen table, trying to set the plates without the whole thing clattering. The day at work had been a nightmare. At the Tesco where Im a cashier, the new checkout system kept freezing, and the queue stretched all the way down the aisle.
James came home exhausted, as usual, and the first thing he did was ask the kids how school had gone.
Dad, we dissected a frog today! Poppy shouted, brandishing her fork like a trophy. Oliver pushed his plate of spaghetti away, grimacing.
Ugh, Poppy, Im trying to eat! he muttered.
You dont get it, its biology! Ill be a doctor one day! she replied.
Thats why Im never going to marry you! Oliver snapped.
I smiled at their squabble, feeling that warm, foolish luck that comes with a noisy family. James was about to step in when the doorbell rang.
Mark was standing there, his usual grin gone. Hes usually the loud one, barging in with jokes, but now his shoulders were slumped and his red Tshirt looked wrinkled.
Kids, go play in your room, I said gently but firmly, pulling Poppy and Oliver away. I turned on the kettle and fetched the special mugs from the high shelfthose we only bring out on important occasions.
James, mate Mark sank into a chair, his voice heavy. Im in a right mess and need a hand.
A few months back hed started a side gig driving highend cars from China. It was going well; hed even begun budgeting to pay off part of our mortgage. Then the crash happened.
I was on a quick phone call, lost control on a bend and ploughed into a brandnew Lexus. The insurer wont cover it.
He named the amount the owner was demanding, and my head spun. Even though hed already borrowed half the sum, the figure was staggering.
Ive nowhere else to turn, he pleaded, looking at me.
James stared at his empty mug for a long while before finally saying, Give me a few days to think.
When Mark left, James and I stayed at the table, the weight of the situation pressing down. Just yesterday wed paid off the last instalment for the new bedroom set, the final £1,200 our parents had lent usstill not even stamped on the IOU.
Where would the money come from now?
James was rubbing his temples, a posture Ive come to recognise when his mind is in a knot. The childrens laughter drifted up from the next room as they argued over a video game, oblivious to the storm brewing upstairs.
James couldnt settle. Hed pace the hallway, pick up his phone, put it down again, never noticing the kids wishing him good night.
I watched him, understanding every line on his face. Mark is his only brother; they grew up together after their parents died in a car crash when they were teens. James helped Mark with schoolwork, job hunting, even stood as a witness at his wedding. Yet the sum Mark quoted was simply impossible.
Near midnight James finally sat, hands trembling as he lit a cigarettea habit he only indulges when his nerves are frayed. I placed a steaming mug of tea before him.
Maybe you shouldnt worry so much? I ventured cautiously. Mark is an adult; he should sort his own problems. There are banks, loans, his wife, his inlaws
James snapped his head toward me, eyes bloodshot, rage flashing.
What are you on about? Loans? He has three kids, a mortgage, a car on finance! Hes like a hamster on a wheel trying to keep the family fed, and now this disaster! he roared.
I was only suggesting I tried to explain.
Better shut up if youve got nothing useful to say! he snapped, storming out onto the balcony.
I stayed, staring at the spot on the floor, the years of hearing his moods. The last time hed been this raw was when his grandmother passed away.
I let him be. The night stretched long; he never made it to bed, pacing, muttering, dialing numbers over and over. By dawn he finally collapsed into the armchair, exhausted.
I rose early to get the kids ready for school, moving as quietly as possible so as not to rouse him. After the front door clicked shut, the flat fell eerily silent.
I began clearing the table, trying not to meet Jamess eyes. My gut told me he was about to say something I didnt want to hear, and I was right.
Sell the car, he blurted out.
I froze, the halfwashed mug trembling in my hand. I turned to him, halfexpecting a joke, but his face was stonecold.
Youre serious? I asked.
Absolutely. Its just a lump of metal gathering dust in the garage. When was the last time you used it? Were paying rent for the space and the upkeep. Its pointless.
Indignation surged through me. I hadnt driven much lately; ever since I started at the Tesco across the road, the car was hardly needed. Before, Id shuttled the kids, commuted downtown, and taken weekend trips to the countryside. Now school is a tenminute walk, work is a few streets away. Still, the car was a gift from my parents, saved for three years while Mum worked nighttime tutoring to afford it.
Its my car, James. I cant just sell it! I protested.
He stepped closer, voice trying to be reasonable. Its a way out. We help Mark. Hes family.
No! I snapped. Dont even think about it. Its my property.
His composure shattered; anger flooded his features. Do you understand? My brother needs help! Hes blood! And you cling to a piece of metal?
Its not just metal; its my parents sacrifice! I shouted, tears blurring my vision. They worked themselves to the bone for that car. Why should I give it up?
Because family matters more than anything! he roared, face flushed.
I felt something breaking inside, not fear but a cold certainty. Ten years of marriage, never had he spoken to me like this.
So heres the deal, he hissed, his tone slithering. Either you sell the car and we help my brother, or pack your bags and leave the flat.
I pinched myself, halfexpecting to wake up. The man standing before me was a stranger, ready to trade our marriage for his brothers woes.
Are you serious? I whispered.
Decide by tonight, he snapped, marching out of the kitchen.
I sank into a chair, the weight of his ultimatum crushing. The garage rented out in Brixton held so many happy memoriessea trips, picnics, shopping with friends. All now threatened by a reckless mistake not my own.
I stayed there, stewing, until the early hours. The thought of losing everything for a mans selfishness boiled into something else: resolve. My father, a solicitor, always said, Nat, never mix family with money without proper paperwork. I remembered his words.
I called James back in, my voice steady. Ill sell the car, I told him, meeting his eyes.
His face lit up like a child whod just found a hidden chocolate bar.
Finally! I thought youd never agree.
But I have conditions, I added. All the money goes to Mark, every penny. It will be a loan, documented with a notarised IOU, repayable in a year.
He smirked. Fine. Noted.
Also, youll be the guarantor. If Mark doesnt repay, half the flat goes to me. I become sole owner.
James laughed, a harsh bark. Youre joking! Write whatever you like. Mark will pay. Hes not a crook.
So, were agreed? I asked, eyes narrowed.
Yes, he said, still chuckling. Get the papers ready. I knew youd understand. Good girl!
He left whistling, pleased. I phoned my old friend Alisha, the best notary in town. Alisha, I need an urgent loan agreement secured against property. It must be airtight.
We discussed the terms, and I felt a cold satisfaction. I knew Mark would never be able to repay; his salary and debts made the sum absurd. In a year Id own the threebedroom flat outright.
A year later I placed the signed agreement on the kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the window, just as it had on the day wed forged the deal.
Whats this? James glanced at the papers while watching TV, not even taking a sip of his drink.
A years passed. Wheres the money Mark owes me? The deadline was yesterday.
He waved me off. Hell pay when he can. Hes having a hard time. Lets not talk about it.
I gathered the documents, my resolve hardening. A week later the court summoned James.
What are you doing?! he shouted, holding the summons. It was a joke! Were family!
I can be serious, I replied calmly. You asked for this.
The hearing was brief. The agreement was flawless; every clause, every comma in order. The judge ruled in my favour, making me the sole owner of the flat. James turned as white as a sheet.
You wont do this, he whispered. Think of the children
I did think of them. That very day I filed for divorce, called a locksmith, and changed the locks. When James arrived home, his belongings were neatly packed on the landingsuitcases, shoes, books.
Natasha, open up! Lets talk! he pounded on the door, gathering a small crowd of neighbours.
I opened it, meeting his pleading eyes. Why? he croaked.
Never threaten a woman, I said evenly. Your threats have backfired. You told me to get out. Now its your turn.
The door slammed shut. James stared at his packed bags, bewildered, then dialled a number.
Mark? Its me. Can I crash at yours for a while?
A month later James took a nightshift job up north, sending letters and occasional gifts but never returning. I renovated the flat, found a better job, and started smiling again. The children were unsettled at first, but they settled into the new routine, especially as their father sent money and visited on weekends.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Ive lived it. Ive learned that sometimes you must lose something dear to gain something far more importantyour own dignity and freedom.
