Why Does Gordon Comstock Reject Money In 'Keep The Aspidistra Flying'?

On the night of our third anniversary, Killian missed dinner again. Texted me he was working late at the auto shop. I looked at the $5.90 clearance cake on the table. I'd fought a crowd at the grocery store to buy it. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. We need to save for a real house in Brooklyn, I told myself. I put the cake in the fridge. I wrapped my cheap coat tight and walked into the cold to deliver late-night takeout for extra cash. I never expected to run into my "poor" husband at a luxury hotel in Manhattan. He stepped out of a Rolls-Royce in a sharp custom suit, tossing hundred-dollar bills to the valet. A hot woman wearing a priceless pigeon-blood ruby followed behind him, hooking his arm. "Killian, it's snowing so hard. Are you really going back to Brooklyn to play house with your naive little peasant wife?" she whined. Killian looked at the cheap, tarnished silver ring on his finger. A hint of softness crossed his cold eyes. "For three years, she worked five jobs a day to pay off the fake debts I made up. She wouldn't even see a doctor when she was sick." "That's enough. She passed my test. Once I deal with the rat in the family, I'll tell her everything. Give her the glory she deserves as my Donna." The woman bit her lip. "What if she finds out you're a Mafia Don and is just after your money? Why not tell her you have a terminal illness—see if she'll drain her savings to save you. Test her one more time…" Killian stayed quiet for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "One last test. After this, I'm giving her the grandest wedding." The freezing wind howled. I gripped the paper takeout bag. Tears rolled down my face without a sound. I am done with this arrogant, lying love.

Peter Crowley finds out that it's been three days since I last lodged a purchase request from him. Thinking that I've finally learned how to become a good wife, he decides to text me as a form of reward. "I've already restored your adoptive mother's treatment privileges. You should be more docile from now on. Don't keep lying just to ask for more money from me. "I know that it's tough, being from the bottom rung of the society and all, but I'm not a gullible idiot, you know." What Peter doesn't know is that I've already finished drafting a divorce agreement by the time I receive his text. Before leaving the manor, the only thing I can take with me is the white T-shirt and the jeans I wore when I first married into this family. No one will ever believe that I, the glamorous and radiant Mrs. Crowley, don't have enough decent clothes to take up an entire closet. Every cent meant for any private expenses needs to go through a corporate approval system. All of the fancy clothes and jewelry are locked up in a safe, too. If I ever need money, I'll have to submit a request to Peter's secretary, Cara Harden. This is all because Peter looks down on my background. He thinks that I'll somehow develop a bad habit of spending money excessively just because I've married rich. But three days ago, my adoptive mother was in critical condition. I quickly put in a request for 200 thousand dollars for her surgical bills, only for Cara to drag out the approval system's procession. In the end, my adoptive mother died in the hospital. Peter has no idea that the only reason why I can tolerate his behavior for so many years is for the sake of the medical resources that can cure my adoptive mother. Now that my adoptive mother is dead, there's no need for me to continue staying in this marriage.

As soon as I get off the surgical table after my miscarriage, my husband, Presley Quinn, sends me a text message. "You were ten cents short when you paid your share of the power bill this month. Transfer the money to me immediately." I can only sit on the cold bench in the hospital on my own. The anesthesia has yet to wear out, but my belly is already hurting so much that I can practically feel it constricting on itself. The next thing I know, a new post appears on my social media homepage. It's a post made by Vivienne Ashford, the intern Presley is in charge of tutoring. In the photo, Vivienne can be seen holding a bouquet of flowers folded from money bills. A bright and radiant smile blooms on her face. The four-leaf clover necklace adorning her neck is the same necklace I've seen in Presley's purchase history two days ago. The caption of the photo writes, "I don't want a lot of money. I want a ton of love instead." Only then do I remember that today is Valentine's Day as well as my fifth-year anniversary with Presley. Over the past five years, Presley and I have been splitting every single bill, down to two decimal places. If I take a shower for more than 20 minutes, Presley demands that I pay extra for the water heater's power bill. When I cook myself some supper in the middle of the night, Presley wants me to split the gas bill generated by the stove. Even when my mom is hospitalized due to kidney failure and is waiting for her surgical bills to be settled, Presley refuses to lend me a single cent. Instead, he sends me a few links leading to web loans. As I stare at the social media feed, I chuckle all of a sudden. It turns out that Presley does know how to spend money. It's just that he doesn't have the heart to spend it on me. I smile once again as I leave a like on the post. Then, I transfer the ten cents to Presley. From now on, I don't owe him any single penny.

At an underground auction, Bianca Ferraro, the fiancee of Don Lucian Castellano, bought a single night of my services for five dollars. Everyone sneered that I was the cheapest woman in the world. Bianca just pointed at me, laughing so hard she shook. "Back then I pinned a traitor's label on her, and as punishment I sold her straight to her creditors." "As I recall, she went for a few dozen dollars." She swirled her glass, her smile turning more vicious. "Five years on, worn out and used up, of course she's lost her value." The guests on the yacht roared with laughter. Only the yacht's owner, Lucian Castellano, crushed the glass in his hand to powder with a sharp crack. Blood ran down his knuckles, but he seemed to feel no pain. He only stared at me. And I, in the bunny outfit Bianca had thrown at me, poured wine for the rich and powerful and angled for their tips as if nothing was wrong. The next second, he shot to his feet and seized my wrist. But before he could speak, I coldly pushed his hand away. "Don Castellano." "You have a fiancee. Do you want my services too?"

I always thought my boyfriend came from a poor family. One day, I saw him drink a bottle of wine worth 100,000 while tipping the waiter over 1,000. The watch he gave away without a second thought was worth millions. Yet, his gift for my birthday was a dirt-cheap trinket. He claimed it was a test to make sure I was not a gold digger. Later on, I proved that I was not a gold digger. That was when he begged and pleaded for me to accept his extravagant gift.

After I switched from a private company to a foreign enterprise, my salary rose accordingly. My husband, who was always frugal, suggested that I hand over my entire salary to him. He claimed it would be used for daily household expenses. Watching him calculate the numbers, I asked, “What about your salary?” He said casually, “I’m saving it for our retirement.” I said nothing and followed his instructions. I spent my entire salary within a month. My husband finally felt uneasy when he saw how many packages kept showing up at our home. Seeing his doubts, I happily said, “You’re the one who said to use my whole salary for household expenses.” He exclaimed, “What are we, the Rockefellers?! How can one month cost this much?” That was funny. It turned out that he knew that a normal family’s expenses would never take my entire salary.