“Plum Cake” and the Absurdity of Country Living: How I Found Out My Husband Took a Lover in a Dressing Gown with Jam
“Christopher, have you lost your mind?! We used to laugh at that scruffy little bumpkin together!” I shrieked, my voice unraveling like loose thread, my composure slipping like ill-fitting gloves.
My husband exhaled smoke, fingers fidgeting with the cigarette holder, and muttered,
“Sorry, Evelyn… I don’t even understand how I ended up in bed with that… ‘Plum Cake.’ The devil must’ve led me astray.”
It began a year ago when a new family moved into our block of flats in Manchester—young, around twenty-five. Nigel and Lucy with their five-year-old daughter, Sophie. Christopher and I were a bit older—pushing thirty, our son Oliver was six. We lived on the same floor, sharing lifts, tea, and idle chatter.
Lucy was the picture of rural simplicity—round-faced, always in a frayed dressing gown, hair tied in a careless knot, her hands rough from labor. But she was a splendid housewife. She made jam by the jar, pastry so perfect it looked staged—her tiny kitchen always smelled of cinnamon and warmth. The only trouble was, to put it gently, she looked as though she’d just finished mucking out a barn.
We jokingly called her “Plum Cake.” Partly for her shape, which you’d need a map to navigate, but mostly for her love of baking. She was simple but kind. Sometimes I’d chat with her—out of politeness, or maybe pity. Nigel, her husband, was a lorry driver, rarely home.
He’d once stopped in some backwater village for cigarettes and came back with Lucy—and a baby on the way. Nigel’s mother hadn’t been thrilled, so they’d rented a flat. And that’s how they ended up in our building.
Christopher always winced at the sight of her.
“How can anyone let themselves go like that? A woman, a mother, looking like a retired milkmaid…”
But that changed when my mother-in-law fell ill. At first, we cared for her together—then we looked for a carer. Lucy offered to help.
“I’m saving up for a surprise—a fishing boat for Nigel. I’ll charge you next to nothing,” she beamed as though she’d won the lottery.
I warned her—no rich food, no overfeeding. Lucy nodded, blinking rapidly, promising.
Then I was sent away for work—a whole month. I left everything to Christopher and Lucy. What could possibly go wrong?
When I returned, I sensed it instantly. Christopher avoided my eyes. Lucy vanished like a bad dream. Oliver greeted me with:
“Mum, can you make roast potatoes like Aunt Lucy? And her sausages!”
“Aunt Lucy’s been feeding you?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Yeah. She came over with Sophie. Dad left with them after.”
The pieces fell—Nigel was on the road, I was away. Who remained? Christopher and “Plum Cake.”
That evening, after he’d cooked my favorite shepherd’s pie, I sat across from him.
“Christopher. I know everything. Oliver told me. No point lying.”
He didn’t even flinch.
“Nothing happened! Her sink was clogged—she asked for help.”
I smirked.
“Relax. I was testing you. As if you’d ever go for her…”
But after that, he started spending nights at his mother’s. I went to investigate—she was alone, well-fed and content.
Then I knocked on Lucy’s door. A tired woman in a crumpled dressing gown answered. And behind her—my husband. On the bed. Half-dressed. Smug.
I didn’t scream. Just left. Silently. Like a proper woman.
Later, Christopher burst in.
“Have a shower,” I said. “Wash it off. Then we’ll talk. Had fun? I’ll tell Nigel.”
The image of wiry little Nigel shaking his fists at my solid husband flashed in my mind. Funny. But I wasn’t laughing.
Turns out, Lucy confessed first. A week later, they moved out. Nigel said on his way, with pride:
“Well… Hard to resist my Lucy. Can’t blame your Christopher.”
I nearly choked.
Time passed. I’d almost forgotten when I ran into Lucy at the market. She held a little girl’s hand—four years old. The spitting image of my husband.
“Hello, love! Still holding a grudge? No need. Where I’m from, this is just how it is. I lost nothing, and yours had a bit of fun. You’re off jet-setting, but a hungry man’s got to eat,” she chuckled, as if sharing a recipe for scones.
Then I realized—she felt no shame. She genuinely believed she’d done right.
Ladies. If your neighbor—dressed in a dressing gown, armed with pies, and simple country wisdom—starts appearing too often in your house, don’t relax.
Men love with their eyes, yes. But sometimes they follow their nose. Especially when it leads to the kitchen.
And if “Plum Cake” has a plan—nothing will stop her.
But neither will we. Not even after such a betrayal.
