Well then, Im moving back in with my mum! the husband declared, his voice echoing off the cracked kitchen tiles.
And you sit here alone! his wife snapped back, the words landing like a slap.
Molly Whitfield was left clinging to the wrecked remnants of a life that had never truly taken shapeno steady boyfriend, no job, no future. And now the New Year loomed, cold and unforgiving.
All those nerves, damn it! her mother muttered, hearing the latest calamities. Its all his fault, that blundering blokehes the one who ran off with you! You think youre the only one whos broken?
So what? Martin smiled, a thin grin curling his lip. Start making peace Ive been waiting.
Mollys world had been haunted by two curses: not a lack of men, and not a lack of roadsthough the first was still up for debate. The real misfortunes were her charming husband and her beloved boss, a pairing that, as with many couples, turned sour in the most solitary ways.
Her husband was witty, eloquent, a perfect conversationalist, drenched in romanceuntil it came to work. Then he turned out to be sick, unready, exhausted, always later, and forever craving a good meal.
The whole mess unfolded like an old English nursery rhyme:
Blow, blow, my kettles empty!
Wheres my big spoon?
Before they were married, their meetings were brief, their dinners a cheap pizza, their intimacy a fleeting spark, their conversations bright with banteran ideal prelude to matrimony. Yet Molly, head over heels, never saw that her fiancé was forever hunting for himself and a proper job.
Ill find itpromise Ill tell you first! hed joke, his eyes twinkling.
They laughed, thinking the absurdity was a joke.
Martins humor outshone any compliment; he began calling her Elf and Elfette, while she, in turn, dubbed him Marty. Not a monkey, mind youjust a cheeky nickname that felt harmless. It was a pet name, not an insult.
When the wedding bells finally rang, Martin moved in with Mollyhis thirtyyearold bachelor flat still empty, no room for his own furniture.
Jokes dont pay the rent! Mollys mother concluded, scowling at the new soninlaw.
Who could stop them? He wasnt a comedy writer, after all.
The first clash came over the rent. Mollys purse was empty; she did what any sensible wife wouldasked her husband for help.
Turns out Marty was always at home, searching both for a job and for himself, preferably from the comfort of the sofa. What if tomorrow they call me up for a shift and Im exhausted? hed argue.
Pay from your own pocket! Martin pleaded, eyes wide.
Ive spent my last penny on groceries! Molly retorted, stunned; this wasnt the married life shed imagined.
Then take from the wedding gift, and Ill replace it later!
When later? she pressed.
When the cats done with the soup, love! he chuckled, the joke landing oddly.
Their wedding gift had been about £200,000a tidy sum, enough to keep them afloat for a while. Their parents, weary of supporting an adult child, had drawn a line: Let your husband feed you.
Martin, still a freeloader at his parents house, was cut off as well: Youve moved out, havent you? Fine then.
Mollys salary vanished, and she had to dip into the wedding fund, then the reserve, then the emergency stash. The rainyday savings melted away like a snowball in the sun.
When she finally opened the gift box again, it was empty. According to her calculations, there should have been something left. The boxs emptiness was explained by Martin having taken the leftovers to buy new headphones.
He didnt understand why that was a problemOld headphones dont work anyway! he joked.
What are you going to do now, Marty? Molly snapped.
Come up with something, loveyoure the crafty one!
She tried, but her pride swelled and she fell silent; the request was beyond her decorum. She borrowed from her mother until payday.
Did that stop Martin? No. He didnt sprint off to find a job. He simply quipped, I cant stand being ignored, especially by Eleanor! and then, with practiced charm, whispered, Enough sulking, Elfette, I miss you.
They patched things up; she missed him tooyouth had its own stubborn rhythm. Yet a sour aftertaste lingered. Borrowing until payday became a habit, a sour note in her mood.
One afternoon, her motherinlaw could no longer hold back:
Martin, have you earned any gold yet, or are you still living off Mollys neck?
Martin fell silent, the witty retort stuck in his throat. How could he answer truth?
Mollys second nightmare was her boss, Marta Benson, head of the analytics department where Molly worked as an economist. Marta was a withering, selfabsorbed ice queen, a relic compared to the gentle Lily Harper, who seemed almost saintly beside her.
Marta, a lone, bitter aunt who despised anyone who existed without her permission, loathed both men and women. Three disastrous marriages had left her scarred, and at fifty she ruled a department with two cats, tango lessons twice a week, and a penchant for firing staff on a whim.
When junior analyst Pete Rylands foolishly joked about Martas tango skills, suggesting she should lead a folk dance instead of strutting on the floor, the office erupted.
Your contract is terminated! Marta announced, her voice flat as a steel blade.
Molly froze, as did many coworkers, under the icy stare of their bosslady. She prayed for mercy, but the storm showed no signs of easing.
The next night, Molly and Martin fought againmore often now, over petty things that spiraled into a mountain of grievances. Martin, for the first time, mentioned divorce.
The following morning, Molly walked into work with a single mission: craft a proper text message to the man whod caused the chaos. She decided to call him not Marty but Martymonkey, a sharper jab.
Her draft read:
Dont think, you little monkey, that Im scared of your words! Ill walk awaybite your elbows if you try! Stop showing off, or Ill hand you over to the zoo; the animals there have been waiting for you!
Signed, Whitfield.
She smiled, satisfied. It was witty, just the way Martin liked, and it voiced everything shed been holding backwithout outright cruelty.
The New Year loomed, and as the saying goes, How you welcome it is how youll spend it.
Just then, Marta stormed in, shouting:
All right, Whitfield, the yearly report is a mess! Fix it and tell me when youll have a clean version ready, or you wont be here much longer!
Marta, buzzing with adrenaline, left the office, her heels clicking like a drumbeat of doom. Molly stood frozen, as if the very air had turned to concrete.
She scrolled through the report, found the mistake, and shot a quick SMS to her boss: Fixing it now, will have it by lunch. She also sent a message to Martin.
Three minutes later, Marta called her back.
Who do you think you are, a monkey? she hissed, eyes narrowed at the phone. Going to hand me over to the zoo, Whitfield?
Mollys heart dropped into her stomach. She had missent the text. The boss, after all, was Marta, and monkey was a perfect fit for the insult.
It felt as though a comedy sketch had turned into a tragedy. The absurdity of the situation left Molly speechless; the words dont be scared of my words, Ill leave, Ill send you to the zoo hung in the air like a grotesque echo.
Marta, believing her staff had grown too bold, declared:
Seems you wanted to quit, eh? Your wish is grantedyoure no longer employed here!
She added, with a cold smile:
Youll get your final pay todayno need to work any longer. In fact, you might even have time to visit that zoo!
Molly left the office, halfdressed, her mind a whirlwind of panic and disbelief. She spent an hour and a half gathering her things, the minutes ticking louder than a ticking clock in a silent room.
When she finally staggered back home, Martin was waiting at the doorway, a grin on his face.
Start making peace, love! he said, eyes alight. You said youd sort it by lunch, right?
Molly, clutching a cactus shed bought instead of flowers, forced a laugh.
A cactus instead of roses, huh? Martin teased. A man doesnt need roses, after all.
Your proper manners are somewhere else now! Molly shouted, nerves frayed. Do you know where Im about to stick this cactus? Because you got me fired!
In truth, if they hadnt argued the night before, she wouldnt have sent that cursed text, and Martin wouldnt have been forced to explain himself.
Why is it my fault? Marty asked, genuinely baffled. Did I mess up again?
Thats not your business! Molly snapped.
I dont get it! Martin replied, ignoring the dismissal. Just small things, theyll pass.
So, what? he demanded. You want to fight? Fine, Ill leave the house!
And you sit here alone! his voice cracked.
Molly was again left on a broken stool, no lover, no job, no prospects, staring at the New Years fireworks outside.
All those nerves, cursed! her mother sighed, hearing the disaster. Hes to blame, that scoundrel! Hes the one who led you astray! You think youre the only one whos burned?
What did you cling to? Hes like a soap bubbleshiny on the surface, empty inside!
Choose your men more carefully, love, and dont bring strangers home!
All right, dont crynone of us died. Get some rest; well feed you with whatever we can.
Her mother invited Molly to spend New Years Eve at her flat; a friend promised to bring her charming, single son.
Grandma joined too, adding,
Think of it as a loss; let someone else stir the pot!
She, too, warned,
Choose your suitors wisely, dear!
Molly and Martin finally split, both admitting they no longer understood each othersad, cruel, and utterly hollow.
Even the old sitcom writer, Stephen Fry, would have agreed: perhaps they should have been a bit more meticulous.
Take note, Molly: be careful with text messages, because the fallout can be a nightmare youll have to clean up forever.
