Unattractive Wife
Margaret Bennett dabbed her tears with the corner of her threadbare, yet remarkably comforting dressing gown. A low wail threatened to escape her, and she wondered, in this strange, melting morning, if she might even bare her teeth and bite someone, just to feel something real.
Her husband had just told her she was unattractive. Those words, wet and cold, struck her face like a flung dishcloth. Hed compared her to Gloria, the cantankerous old wife of Freddie from the third floor, called her a cow, then donned the suit shed ironed for him, took the meal shed packed, and vanished into the drizzle for work.
All day long, poor Margaret Bennett found her world in disarray. Her colleagues were nastier than usual, and the customers seemed stupider in entirely new and irritating ways.
Her entire, encompassing soulso awkwardly stuffed into a size 22 framemourned. Even as she fretted about what groceries she should fetch for dinner. Beef stroganoff, perhaps beef He called her a cow! Unattractive! How those words echoed like shoes in an empty hall.
Margaret had never harbored illusions about her looks. Her mother and grandmother had first set the tune; her mother-in-law sang the chorus, and now her husband, too, beat the old drum.
That it came from her husband stung worse than a slap. Hed never spoken to her this way. Surely he was seeing someone else. Soon, hed leave, and shed be left to haunt the kitchen ghostlike.
On autopilot, she snapped at a customer, and then suddenly remembered she had a salon appointment this afternoona fresh hair colour was overdue.
She let out a crooked sigh. What was the point? A colour couldnt make her beautiful, could it? But shed already booked. Mrs. Rosemary, the hairdresser, would never forgive her for a no-show.
Rosemary Clarke had been trimming and dyeing Margarets hair for two decades. There was nothing left to explainRosemary knew exactly what to do. In twenty years, even a fool would know, since Margarets hairstyle hadnt changed since the millennium.
Mrs. Rosemary, sharp-eyed as ever, instantly saw that something was amiss. With practiced delicacy she asked Margaret about her melancholy, her look as flat as a week-old kipper.
You cannot, under any circumstances, be cut in this state! she declared, ears practically flapping with concern. Now, dear heart, unburden your soul. A decent coiffure begins with a decent mind, or else the dye will take all wonky.
Margarets eyes flashed; she snorted crossly, then promptly dissolved into sobs. Between fits of weeping and ragged sentences, she told Rosemary of the stone that weighed on her heart.
My dear, you make me laugh and weep at once. So what if your husband calls you plain? Thats no reason for all this rain indoors. Its a reason to become radiant! Isnt it strange, after all these yearsyes, with silver streaks, dont think I havent noticedyouve never realised its in your own hands?
Margaret bristled, launching into a muddled inventory of her misfortunes: her figure, thinning hair, small eyes, this and thatshe could go on. Rosemary was unsympathetic.
Do you believe beauty belongs only to those catalogue girls, the sort who shatter easily with a raised voice? Dont be absurd! Beauty is what you show the world. Nipped here, highlighted there, everything can be arranged. A skilled hand can make something striking from three limp strands. Even small eyes can shineevery diamond is cut small, you know! You only have to give yourself attention.
But I havent the time Margaret attempted, but her protests wilted in the face of Rosemarys certainty.
Oh really? And what do you do at home all evening?
Margaret perked up and reeled off her list of household chores: the laundry, the ironing, cooking, cleaning, helping with the grown-up child, and so on. When could she possibly find time for herself?
So, youre telling me you find time for all that rubbishbut none for making yourself delightful? Nonsense! You can swap ironing creases into your husbands trousers for a manicure. Exchange soup and pie for a blow-dry, and the rest will follow. Beauty requires sacrifice, and if your husband is the sacrificewell, he started this!
Margaret said nothing, munching over the wisdom Rosemary had served her. She absent-mindedly agreed to try a new style and colour, and fell headlong into her own thoughts.
Those thoughts lingered at home, puzzling her husband when he returned from work. There was no dinner ready, and his wife shimmered with a fresh, adventurous hue.
Stranger still, something unknown brewed behind her eyes, flickering across her face with expressions hed never seen in all their years together.
He attempted a half-hearted quarrel, but arguing with someone who wont listenor react at allfeels rather pointless, almost as if youre shouting into a fog.
So, sulking, he retreated to bed without his usual goodnight. Hed forgotten their morning row entirely.
He shouldnt have. It was the catalyst for everything that rolled through their tidy English life, shuffling the deck.
He watched with despair as his wife grew more vibrant and their household slipped towards primeval disorder. Gone were the hot meat pies he adored.
Trouser creases became a forgotten thing of the past.
Instead, he reluctantly learned that shirts do not leap into wardrobes freshly pressed. If one doesnt wash out the lunchbox, it mopes in the sink, empty and dirty and lonely.
But now beside him stood a beautiful woman. Neighbours noticed, friends remarked, even those vile coworkers of his observed the transformation. His wife was beginning to resemble those women he furtively admired in the street.
Now he had his own domestic Aphrodite, aged perhaps, but undeniably dazzling. He could sit and marvel as long as he liked. Yet, for some reason, he found this hard to enjoy.
What he wanted, truly, was for pounds to stop leaping out of his wallet so swiftly, for proper food to reappear in the fridge instead of a cold, pale void. And perhaps, he thought, someone could mend his socksurely not Aphrodite herself?
