**”Plum Pudding and the Quiet Chaos of Village Life: How I Discovered My Husband’s Affair with the Jam-Pot Housewife”**
*— Christopher, have you lost your mind?! We used to laugh at that frumpy little woman together!* I screeched, barely holding back my fury, bursting out of myself like an overstretched jumper.
My husband smoked, fingers fidgeting with the cigarette holder, and only muttered:
*— Sorry, Imogen… I don’t even know how I ended up in bed with that… “Plum Pudding.” The devil made me do it.*
It all started a year ago, when a new family moved into our block of flats in Brighton. Young, mid-twenties—Oliver and Lucy with their five-year-old daughter, Emily. Christopher and I were a bit older—both thirty, our son William was six. We lived on the same floor, and before long, we were thick as thieves: the children played together, we shared lifts, cups of tea, idle chatter.
Lucy was the picture of a country girl—soft around the edges, always in a faded dressing gown, with a messy ponytail and hands rough from work. But oh, could she cook. Jams by the kilner jar, pies like something from a recipe book—her tiny kitchen always smelled of butter and warmth. The only trouble was, to put it kindly, she looked as if she’d just come in from milking cows.
We jokingly called her *”Plum Pudding.”* Not just for her generous waistline, but for her passion for baking. She was simple, but kind. I’d chat with her now and then—politeness, perhaps, or pity. Her husband Oliver drove lorries, rarely home.
He’d pulled into some backwater village once, gone in for cigarettes, and walked out with Lucy—pregnant. His mother hadn’t been thrilled about the *”surprise,”* so they’d rented a flat. That’s how they ended up in our building.
Christopher always wrinkled his nose at the sight of her:
*— How can a woman let herself go like that? A mother, and she looks like she’s been rolling in the hay…*
But everything changed when my mother-in-law fell ill. At first, we cared for her together—then we decided to hire a carer. That’s when Lucy offered:
*— I’m saving up to surprise my Oliver—a fishing rod. I’ll charge you neighbour rates, hardly a thing!*
I warned her—no overfeeding, no greasy food. Lucy nodded, wide-eyed, promising.
Then I was sent on a business trip—a full month. Left everything to Christopher and Lucy. What could possibly go wrong?
When I returned, I knew instantly something was off. Christopher avoided my gaze. Lucy vanished. My son greeted me with:
*— Mummy, will you make potatoes like Aunt Lucy? And her meatballs too!*
*— Aunt Lucy fed you?* I narrowed my eyes.
*— Yeah. She came over with Emily. Dad left with them after.*
The pieces clicked: Oliver—on the road. Me—gone. Who remained? Christopher and *”Plum Pudding.”*
That evening, after he’d piled my favourite beef stew onto my plate, I sat across from him:
*— Christopher. I know everything. William told me. No lies now.*
He didn’t even flinch.
*— Nothing happened! Her tap was leaking—she asked me to fix it…*
I smirked.
*— Relax. I was testing you. As if you’d ever go for her…*
But after that, Christopher started *”staying with his mother.”* I went to check. She was alone, perfectly content.
I went to Lucy’s. Knocked. The door opened to a tired woman in a crumpled dressing gown. And behind her—my husband. On the bed. Half-dressed. Smug.
I didn’t scream. Just walked away. Silent. Graceful.
Later, Christopher came rushing back.
*— Have a shower,* I said. *Wash yourself off. Then we’ll talk. Had your fun? I’ll be sure to tell Oliver.*
The image of wiry little Oliver shaking his fists at my sturdy husband flashed in my mind. Amusing—but I wasn’t laughing.
Turns out, Lucy confessed everything to Oliver herself. A week later, they moved out. Oliver, on his way, said proudly:
*— Well… You can’t fault my Lucy. Hard to resist. Can’t blame your Christopher.*
I nearly choked.
Time passed. I’d almost forgotten the whole sordid affair when I saw Lucy at the farmers’ market. Holding the hand of a four-year-old girl… *painfully* familiar.
*— Hello, love! Still stewing? Don’t bother. Back in the village, this is just how things are. I lost nothing, and yours got a bit of happiness. You’re off on your fancy trips—a man’s got to eat, hasn’t he?* She chuckled, as if sharing a scone recipe.
And then I understood—she wasn’t ashamed. She genuinely believed she’d done nothing wrong.
Ladies. If your neighbour—the one in a dressing gown, with the perfect roast potatoes and the *”simple ways”*—starts lingering a bit too often in your home, *don’t* let your guard down.
Men love with their eyes, yes. But sometimes, they follow their noses. *Especially* when the scent leads to the kitchen.
And if *”Plum Pudding”* has a plan—nothing will stop her.
But neither will we. Not even after this.
