Poppy Whitaker was stirring a pot in a kitchen that seemed to ripple like water. Her husband, James, had said he fancied a seafood pasta, so after a long shift she slipped into the corner shop on Abbey Road, gathered everything, and began cooking alone. James lingered a little longer than promised, but finally burst through the door clutching a bunch of roses and shouting, Poppy, welcome home, dear weary husband! She laughed, took the flowers, and set them in a vase that turned turquoise for a moment.
Later, after dinner and a soft conversation about the days oddities, they sank into the sofa, the cushions sighing, and watched a film that melted into the walls. They had been married ten years, the fire long settled into a comfortable glow. Their modest joint venturea boutique that supplied handcrafted goodshad James handling sales and the accounts, while Poppy dealt with suppliers. The flat was spacious, a full cup, and children were a notion theyd pushed aside, perhaps to revisit when they were nearer forty.
One damp evening Poppy rescued a scruffy, stripy grey kitten from a doorway. James frowned at the sight. What on earth did you bring home? Take it to a shelter. If you want a cat, get a pedigree British Shorthairthose are all the rageor a sleek Sphynx. This little rag is nothing but trouble. But Poppy had already tied a thread of affection to the kitten, and it became her tail. James could not stand Morris, the cat, and Morris seemed to return the sentiment, sneaking onto Jamess trousers, shedding fur, and clawing at his cardigan.
James shouted, Ill get rid of that cat; its ruining my clothes. Poppy retorted, Dont fling things about. Put them away; Morris doesnt like the chaos. Morris is a vulgar name, James muttered, and the cats emerald eyes flashed an uncanny light.
For a year the house hummed with a silent war between husband and cat. Whenever Morris appeared, James would flare, Whats he doing here? Hell cause mischief. Poppy would soothe, James, calm down. Hes just doing cat things, not bothering you. He irritates me. Can you give him away? Never. Hes mine. By the end of the year Morris had grown sleek and majestic.
On a Saturday Poppy set about a deep clean. James had vanished on Thursday for a business trip to Manchester, promising to return by Sunday. She scrubbed the flat, dust danced in shafts of light, and Morris prowled toward a wardrobe. What are you rummaging for, you little thief? she asked, reaching into a narrow gap. She pulled out a slim folder. Inside were receipts for hotel stays, short weekend breaks, expensive jewellery, airline tickets, and a contract for a car purchase. The buyer was a woman called Natalie, a name Poppy did not recognise, yet the payments were in Jamess hand.
Poppy flipped through the papers, noting Jamess scribbles. He habitually collected receipts, later processing them through the company to siphon money. The folder lay like a frozen river in her thoughts; she wanted to crumple it, shout, call James, but held back. Morris circled, leapt onto the folder, and purred a low, soothing tune that seemed to steady her trembling heart. You saw this, didnt you? she whispered to the cat, and he pressed against her, his purr a strange lullaby.
She copied every receipt and document. That night she searched social media for the cars owner and discovered a young woman posing with a fresh red hatchback, captioned gift from my love. No picture of a partner, only a glimpse of a back and armsarms Poppy could recognise as Jamess. It became clear: James had a lover and was spending their shared money on her.
James returned on Sunday evening, bright as ever with a bouquet. Why arent you meeting your husband at the door? he roared as he stepped inside. Poppy, eyes rimmed red, replied, Im feeling a cold, my head hurts. James ate, then left her to a separate room. Should we call a doctor? he asked. No, Ill rest. Ive taken my meds, she replied.
James fell asleep, his phone abandoned on the kitchen counter. Poppy, thoughtful, turned it over in her hands. She had never peered into his messages before, but now she read his chats, texts, and messenger notes. All her doubts were confirmed. That evening he sent a sweetsounding message to sunshine: Missing you already. Lets meet Tuesday.
On Monday she sent James off to work, claiming she was ill and would convalesce at the cottage. She gathered the papers and visited a solicitor. He drafted a divorce petition and a request for asset division. Poppy, without telling James, announced, I think Im quite ill; Ill stay at the cottage for a while. She still commuted to work once a week, the journey now a blur of train tracks and countryside.
When the petition arrived, James was stunned as if a sudden thunderclap had split the clear sky. He rushed to Poppy, pleading, What are you doing? Weve been together so long. Ive given you everything. Ive fallen out of love, she said simply. Well see each other in court. She kept silent about the lover. In court, when the receipts and expenditures were displayed, James stammered, Did I really spend that much on her? We bought her a car? The judge asked, Did you use family funds for your mistress? James answered, Yes, I did.
Poppys lawyer secured half of the business assets, a monetary compensation, and reclaimed the money James had spent on the affair. The division left James with the flat, Poppy with the cottage and a sizable sum. The cars remained where they were, each keeping their own. Before the divorce was final, Poppy had already moved several suppliers to a new company, taking over sales and finance herself. She and Morris now ran a lean, thriving enterprise.
James, fuming, watched his exwife become a competitoran efficient, successful one. His accounts dwindled, his new romance offered no comfort; meetings were brief, the apartment empty, the nights echoing with the soft purr of a cat that no longer belonged to him.
