Gwendolyn was stirring a pot in a cramped flat in Camden when the evening air smelled of rain and distant traffic. Her husband, Peter, had announced earlier that he craved seafood pasta, so after her shift at the call centre she darted into the local Tesco, lugged home the bags of shrimp, linguine, and a jar of sundried tomatoes, and began cooking alone. Peter lingered in the office longer than usual, but finally burst through the door clutching a wild bouquet of roses.
Gwen, welcome home, weary husband! he shouted, his voice echoing off the hallway tiles. Gwendolyn laughed, took the flowers, and set them in a chipped vase. After dinner they settled on the sofa, the glow of a latenight film washing over them, and talked about the days small grievances as if they were the only things that mattered.
They had been married for more than a decade; the early fire had settled into a comfortable warmth. Together they ran a modest importexport outfit: Gwendolyn negotiated with suppliers, Peter found buyers, and he handled the accounts. Their flat was tidy, their life full, though they had never pressed the children buttonperhaps they would consider it when they hit forty.
One damp evening Gwendolyn found a scruffy, mottled kitten curled beneath a park bench and, against Peters protests, brought it inside.
What are you doing with that ragdoll thing? Take it to a rescue. If you want a cat, get a proper pedigree Maine Coons are all the rage now, Peter grumbled, eyeing the kittens thin tail.
But Gwendolyn grew attached; the grey stripy kitten, whom she named Milo, became her little shadow. Peters dislike of Milo matched the cats disdain for him. In the silence of the flat, Peter could nudge the cat away, and Milo would retaliate by sprawling across Peters trousers, shedding fur, or clawing at a sweater as if marking a secret pact.
I’m throwing this cat out. Its ruining my clothes, Peter warned.
Dont fling things about. Put them away. Milo doesnt like it, Gwendolyn replied, trying to soothe a small, greeneyed glare that the cat shot at them both.
For a whole year a silent war raged between husband and cat. Milos presence made Peters nerves twitch; whenever the cat prowled past, Peter would shout, Whats he doing here? Hell cause trouble.
Gwendolyn, ever the peacemaker, would say, Peter, calm down. Milo is just doing cat things. He isnt a menace.
Give me the cat, Peter insisted.
Its mine, Gwendolyn answered, and Milo grew larger, sleek, and more regal with each passing month.
On a Saturday, while Gwendolyn was deepcleaning, Peter vanished on a Thursday business trip to Manchester, promising to return before Sunday. She dusted, vacuumed, and noticed Milo slipping his paw into a narrow crack in the wardrobe. Curious, she pulled out a dusty folder hidden there. Inside lay receipts for boutique hotels, short weekend breaks, expensive jewellery, airline tickets, and a contract for a glossy red car signed by a mysterious Natalie. The invoices bore Peters handwritten notes.
Peter had a habit of hoarding paper trails, later passing many through the company to reimburse themselves. The folder felt like a frozen breath in her chest. She wanted to tear the pages, to scream, to call Peter, but she held back as Milo circled, leapt onto the folder, and brushed against her leg.
You saw this, and you showed me, she whispered, tears blurring the ink. Milo, purring a low, ancient lullaby, nestled in her lap, calming her trembling hands.
She photocopied every receipt, every contract, and that night she scoured social media for the cars owner. A young woman posted a picture beside a new scarlet sedan, captioned gift from my love, the angle showing only a back and a pair of handshands Gwendolynn recognized as Peters. It was a lovers secret, the money from their joint accounts siphoned into an affair.
Peter returned Sunday evening, flowers in hand, his usual bright grin.
Why dont you greet your husband? he shouted from the doorway, a joke that fell flat.
My head aches, Ive caught a cold, Gwendolyn replied, her eyes rimmed red.
Peter ate, then she slipped away to a spare room.
Should we call a doctor? he asked.
No, Ill just rest. Ive taken the tablets, she said, lying back.
Later, Peter dozed on the couch, his phone humming on the kitchen counter. Gwendolyn, who had for years trusted him implicitly, picked it up, scrolling through messages, texts, messenger chats. The evidence confirmed her fears: a latenight message to Sunshine read, Missing you. See you Tuesday.
On Monday she sent Peter off to work, claiming she was ill and would stay at the country cottage. She gathered the documents and walked to a solicitors office. She filed for divorce and a split of the assets, telling Peter, Im feeling poorly, Ill spend some time at the cottage.
Peter, receiving the papers, felt a blow like thunder on a clear day. He rushed to her flat, voice shaking, What are you doing? Weve been together for years. I did everything for you.
Ive fallen out of love, Gwendolyn said simply. Well see each other in court. She said nothing about the mistress. When the solicitor presented the receipts and the car contract in court, Peter paled, unprepared.
The judge asked, Did you really spend those sums on a lover? Did you purchase a car for her?
Yes, Peter stammered, I did.
Gwendolyns lawyer secured a division of the business, half of the companys value, and reclaimed the money spent on the affair, deeming it joint family funds. Peter kept the flat; Gwendolyn took the cottage and a solid sum of cash. The two cars remained each persons.
Even before the divorce was final, Gwendolyn moved her supplier contacts to a new company, taking both sales and finance under her own wing. Milo, now a proud, silverstriped cat, curled beside her desk as she rebuilt her life.
Peter seethed as his exwife became a thriving competitor, his own bank balance dwindling. The new love he chased never settled in his home; she was a weekend visitor, and he returned each night to an empty flat, the echo of his own footsteps louder than ever.
