З життя
Мій чоловік суворо поплатився за зраду.
Мій чоловік гірко поплатився за свою зраду.
Після кількох років шлюбу, я випадково дізналася, що мій чоловік мені зраджує. На роботі він знайшов молоду жінку і вважає, що ніхто про це не знає, до того ж у них є дитина. Я вирішила помститися йому так, щоб він нічого не запідозрив.
Я переконала чоловіка купити квартиру, тому що ми з моменту одруження знімали житло і ніколи не мали власного. Обіцяла навіть, що дозволю йому зберегти одну з кімнат для його особистого спортивного залу, щоб він точно погодився, а тихцем подала на розлучення.
Я витягала з поштової скриньки повістки до суду, адресовані йому, і викидала їх. Він один раз не прийшов до суду, другий раз не прийшов, і нарешті нас розлучили без його присутності. Я вже була вільною від нього, але він про це не знав. Усі його думки були зайняті іншою жінкою.
На квартиру він оформляв кредит на своє ім’я, не знаючи, що ми вже не одружені. Я чула, як чоловік хвалився коханці по телефону, що скоро купить житло, ми там будемо жити, і він мене з нього вижене, а половину кредиту суд присудить на “дурну” дружину під час розлучення.
Почувши цю розмову, я лише утвердилася в правильності своїх дій. Я затягувала пошуки квартири зі своїм чоловіком, бо паралельно шукала житло для себе. У мене було трохи відкладених грошей, але цього було замало, і я мала якось викручуватись. Коли знайшла для себе квартиру, підштовхнула його до купівлі тієї, яка нібито була для нас обох. Він отримав кредит у банку.
Залишилось тільки забрати гроші з дому так, щоб він не запідозрив, і зникнути з його життя. Гроші ми тримали на кухні у шухляді. Я домовилася заздалегідь із мамою, щоб вона подзвонила до мене і попросила приїхати на кілька днів.
Чоловік був у захваті від дзвінка моєї мами і побіг, щоб зателефонувати своїй коханці, запросити її в наш дім на час моєї відсутності. Я залишила дитину у мами, переодяглася так, щоб ніхто з сусідів мене не впізнав і не підтвердив, що бачив мене там. Вночі я тихенько повернулася додому, дуже боялася, але коли побачила на кухонному столі пляшки з алкоголем, зрозуміла, що вони скоро не прокинуться. Мій чоловік спав з тією жінкою у нашому ліжку. З кухні я забрала коробку з грошима і так само тихо залишила квартиру.
Гроші я віддала мамі, щоб придбати обрану мною квартиру. Я знала, що чоловік не піде до поліції, адже головною підозрюваною буде його коханка, мати його дитини. Через два дні повернулася додому, ніби нічого і не сталось, і тоді чоловік сказав, що нас пограбували. Він зізнався, що зраджував мене кілька років, і що гроші вкрала його коханка.
Прохав про прощення, казав, що разом ми мусимо тепер сплатити кредит, а потім назбираємо й купимо нерухомість. У той момент я використала свої акторські навички, зробила йому сцену через коханку і вигнала з дому. Він поїхав до своєї мами, а я раділа, що все вийшло. Невдовзі я зібралася переїхати і залишити його у орендованій квартирі і з великим кредитом, який я не муситиму сплачувати. Наступного дня він прийшов з букетом квітів, просив прощення. Я сказала, щоб йшов до своєї коханки і що мені його не потрібно.
Він розлютився і сказав, що подасть на розлучення, а я з нашою дитиною помремо з голоду, виплачуючи половину цього кредиту. Потім я показала йому наш свідоцтво про розлучення і порадила знайти додаткову роботу, бо тепер він буде голодувати сам, сплачуючи борг банку.
Вже місяць я живу в своїй квартирі і досить щаслива. Можливо ви мене засудите, але це ваша справа. Колись, коли я дуже любила чоловіка, була готова заради нього на все, але він мене зрадив. Зазавжди присягав, що ніколи не буде нікого крім мене, це його помилка. Хотів іншу жінку, міг би попрощатися зі мною і не брехати. Я не помітила, коли любов до чоловіка перетворилася на ненависть.
Добрі люди йому підказали, що він може оскаржити наше розлучення в суді, але з жалю почав вживати алкоголь. Я покарала його за зраду, адже тепер він по вуха в боргах, коханка його покинула, бо не простила звинувачення у крадіжці. Він розбив мені серце, і тепер платить за це.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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