My husband brought guests over when I was ill, and I had to leave my room
What are you doing just lying there? It’s already five o’clock, Tom and Emily will be here any minute, and this place is a tip! Come on, get up, stop pretending.
Davids voice comes through thick and muffled, like Im underwater. I manage to force my eyes open. The room swims before me, the wardrobe has doubled, and my mouth is dry as if Ive crossed the Sahara. I try to prop myself up on my elbows, but my body aches so badly I collapse back onto the sweaty pillow with a groan.
David I croak, shocked at the sound of my own raspy, alien voice What do you mean, get up? My temperatures at 39.2 Celsius. I messaged you earlier, remember?
David stands in the bedroom doorway, still in his coat and shoes. The sharp scent of wet pavement and petrol drifts in, mixing unpleasantly with the stale, feverish air.
Come on, Helen, dont make a fuss, he tuts as he pulls off his beanie and tosses it on the dresser. I havent seen Tom in forever; theyre only in London for a night, hes brought his wife. Where did you expect me to take them? The pubs are packed and overpriced, and you cant have a proper chat anyway. I promised them a home-cooked tea. Youre the best housewife I know show them how its done. Take a tablet, perk up a bit.
I stare at him, refusing to believe my ears. Five years of marriage. Five years of being the perfect wife coming home to his favourite meal, ironing his shirts, listening to endless grumbles about his boss. Ive always tried to be accommodating, understanding, dependable. But now, shivering with chills so hard my teeth rattle, his words feel like a cruel joke.
David, I cant stand. Ive got the flu. Im contagious, do you understand? Dont have them over. Ring them, apologise, and rearrange. Or take them to a restaurant Ill send you some money if youre short.
His face goes crimson the same look he gets if things dont go his way: stubborn, sulky. Angry.
Youre going to embarrass me? he hisses. Ive already told them were expecting. Theyll be here in twenty minutes. Youve got time to sort yourself out and throw something decent on the table. Make some pasta, chop up a salad. Mum sent pickled onions, get those out. Im not doing all that womens work.
He spins on his heel and storms out, slamming the door. Tears of humiliation track down my temples and into my ears. I hurt all over every bone, every joint but the pain inside, thats worse. I thought my husband cared for me. Turns out, the opinions of old friends rank higher than my health.
I can hear David clattering in the kitchen, swearing under his breath, dropping things. Then the front door bangs evidently off to the shop for a few extras.
I shut my eyes. Maybe I can drift off and this will all go away. No such luck. Only nausea builds. I struggle upright so I can get to the loo, the world pitching dangerously. Leaning on the wall, I shuffle down the corridor. Catching sight of myself in the hall mirror: pale, blotchy, hair a mess, old pyjamas. Hardly a sight.
Back in bed, the doorbell rings, sharp and demanding. Davids not back yet. It rings again and then theres heavy knocking.
I pull the duvet over my head. I wont open the door. Let them believe no ones here. Let them go.
Keys in the lock has to be David. Accompanied by loud voices, laughter, the thud of feet.
Were here! a booming voice calls out. Honestly, David, running out for bread and leaving us freezing on the doorstep.
Come in, dont be shy! David calls, pouring the charm on. Shoes off, slippers over there. Emily, you take the pink ones.
Gosh, David, isnt it stifling in here? Emilys voice, shrill and petulant. It smells like medicine, honestly. Like a hospital.
Helens a bit under the weather, David says dismissively. Nothing serious; shell be out in a sec. Go through to the lounge, Ill get the food on. Helen! Where are you? Our guests have arrived!
I curl up tightly, listening as they make themselves at home, furniture creaking, bottles tinkling. I wish I could simply vanish.
The bedroom door flies open. David stands there, coatless, still wound up.
Why are you still in bed? I asked you people are here, and its awkward. Come out and say hi, make some tea. Emily wants tea, shes not drinking brandy.
David, I lift my head, too defeated to be angry, only weary. I wont come out. Im ill. Let me rest.
Right, he strides over and yanks off my duvet. Cold air sears my hot skin. Enough drama. Up. Dont embarrass me. Put a dressing gown on, show face for five minutes, then you can slink back if you must.
His eyes are cold and hard. I realise if I refuse, hell make a dreadful scene in front of everyone more humiliating than this.
Hands trembling, I fumble for my robe, feeling faint. As I grudgingly comply, Davids tone softens.
See, thats better. Freshen up. Emilys bought salad, pop it in a nice bowl.
He rejoins the guests. Slowly, I tie the robe and splash cold water on my face, but it only makes the shivering worse.
The lounge is suddenly dazzlingly bright. At the table is Tom, burly and red-faced, Emily slim and sharp-eyed. Theres a bottle of vodka, thick slices of salami, a jar of pickled onions.
Here she is! Tom bellows, raising a glass. Thought David made you up, that he lived here alone! Well, nice to finally meet you!
I attempt a smile, but my lips quiver.
Hello. Sorry, Im not feeling well.
Oh, dont go on, Emily waves me off, running her eyes from head to toe with open rudeness. Were all ill sometimes. I had a migraine last week, still made it to the office, had payroll to run. Women these days slightest thing and theyre moping in bed.
A wave of sickness pushes up my throat. I need to sit, but their coats and bags are draped across every available chair. David fiddles about, pouring drinks.
Helen, what are you standing for? he barks over his shoulder. Fetch some plates, we need forks too. Slice up some bread.
I drag myself to the kitchen. Every movement is torture. The knife slips and nicks my finger. Blood beads up. I stare at the red drop, realising something inside me is breaking the last thread holding this marriage together.
I go back and put the plates down.
What about the tea? Emily chimes in. David promised some herbal special you do.
The kettles in the kitchen, I say quietly. Would you mind making it yourselves? I need to lie down.
The silence in the room is thick. Tom stops chewing, Emilys brows shoot up, and David freezes, glass raised.
Helen, Davids voice is steel. Guests want tea. Is it really that hard to press a button?
Its hard to stand, David, I meet his gaze. Ill collapse if I stay upright.
Oh, honestly, Emily scoffs. Tom, look at this. Brings friends round and his wife cant even manage a cuppa. Id be mortified having people over with the place looking like this. Theres dust all over the shelves.
Thats the last straw. I straighten. From somewhere in my feverish body comes a surge of icy anger. It burns away my weakness, sharpens my vision, steadies my voice.
Dust, is it? I stare at Emily. Shall I tell you why theres dust? Because I work twelve-hour days. My salary is twice Davids. The mortgage on this place I paid that off, almost singlehandedly. David, for all his long days, strolls in at six and falls on the sofa.
Emily goes pale; Tom looks down at his plate. David leaps to his feet.
What are you talking about?! he shouts. Gone mad with fever, have you? Shut up at once and get to bed!
No, David, Im not leaving. Ill say what needs saying. You all came into my home. I didnt invite you. I am sick, feverish, and need rest. But apparently, Emily, you think it appropriate to drink my vodka and complain about my dust and delicacy. And you, David, rather than hand your wife a glass of water and some medicine, make me play serving girl to your guests, all so you can look the big man.
Sod off! David moves as if to strike, but stops when he sees the witnesses. Its my house too! I can have over who I please!
Legally, its shared property, if were talking furniture and decor, I reply, voice as calm as if I were in a work meeting. But as it happens, this flat was bought by me before we married. Im the only one on the title. Youre just registered here. And according to the thirty-first article of the Housing Act, the owner has full rights of possession, use and disposal. I’m using that right: partys over.
You couldve heard the fridge humming in the silence.
Are you… chucking me out? David stammers, turning grey.
Im asking the guests to leave, I say, flat. You and I will talk when theyve gone. And when Im better. Now, everyone out.
Tom, the smarter of the two, is already pulling his coat on.
Alright, mate, lets be off, he mutters, nudging his wife. Bit awkward, sorry Helen get well soon.
Tom! Emily shrieks. Thrown out like bloody dogs! And youll just put up with it?
Shut it, Tom hisses. Shes clearly unwell, barely standing. And we barged in. Lets go.
They leave. David stands in the living room, fists clenched, utterly crushed. The image of master of the house crumbles before his friends.
When the door finally shuts, my legs buckle and I slide slowly down the doorframe to the floor.
David charges in.
Happy now?! he bellows, spitting with rage. Youve humiliated me! In front of Tom! Hell tell everyone Im henpecked, my wife chucked me out! How am I supposed to look people in the eye?
I stare up at him. Once, he seemed reliable, strong. Now hes just a hysterical, selfish child.
I dont care, I whisper. I dont care about Tom, or Emily, or what anyone thinks of you. Im ill, David. I need to lie down. Help me get to bed.
Do it yourself! he snaps, stomping to the kitchen. I hear him pouring out the last of the vodka.
I crawl back to the bedroom, pulling myself along the wall, clamber onto the bed, and hide under the covers. I shiver, teeth chattering, slipping into a fevered blur.
I wake to someone touching my forehead. The hand is cool and gentle.
Helen, darling, wake up.
I open my eyes. My elder sister, Jane, is leaning over me.
Jane? How are you here?
David rang me, she says, looking severe. Said youd lost your marbles, snapping at everyone, and he couldnt cope. Asked me to take you away as hes got work tomorrow and youre keeping him up groaning.
I try to comprehend this: my husband called my sister to take his sick wife away because I was interrupting his sleep.
Where is he?
Snoring on the sofa, stinks of booze. I let myself in, door was unlocked. Youre burning up your temperature is nearly forty! I called the ambulance, they gave you an injection, just left. Said, if youre no better in an hour, you need to go to hospital.
Thank you, I whisper. The tears run again, but now, in relief. Im not alone after all.
Right, Jane tucks me in. Brought you broth in a flask, made cranberry juice. Youll have a sip. As for him… she nods towards the lounge well deal with that later. Id chase him off with a broom right now, but you need peace.
Jane stays the night, sitting with me, changing cold cloths on my forehead, feeding me with a spoon. By morning, my fever breaks. Im weak, but my mind is unexpectedly clear.
David shuffles into the kitchen, looking rough, eyes bloodshot. Spotting Jane frying eggs, he stiffens, but quickly shifts to his familiar wounded pride.
Oh, morning Jane. Good youre here. Helen made a real scene last night, embarrassing, honestly. I thought she was hallucinating from the fever.
Jane slowly turns, spatula in hand.
David, she says very quietly. If you dont shut it, Ill empty this hot oil on your trousers. You know I would.
He gulps. Janes always intimidated him. Chief accountant at a major firm, she can make grown men wither with a look.
I didnt say anything wrong, he mutters, sidling away from the hob. Im put out too, you know. Friends left, night ruined.
Helen enters, pale but steady in a warm tracksuit.
David, start packing, she says evenly.
What? he gawps. Helen, for heavens sake yes, yesterday was tense, but lets forget it happened, shall we? I hold no grudges.
Nor do I, Helen replies. I just understand now. Last night, while I lay thinking I might die, you were making me cut bread. I realised I dont have a husband. I have a lodger. A spoiled, cold lodger, who couldnt care if I live or die so long as hes not inconvenienced.
But I he starts to protest.
Dont bother. You called my sister to take me away so I wouldnt disturb you. In my own home. You betrayed me, David. Twice in one evening. Once in front of your friends, then by leaving me to suffer alone.
Where am I meant to go? he looks lost. Mums in Croydon thats over an hour to work!
Thats your concern, Helen pours herself water. Leave your keys on the table. You have an hour to sort your things. Jane will supervise.
You cant! Were married, I have rights
The law, Jane cuts in, says Helen owns this flat. If youre divorced, she can deregister you via court. While youre here, your right to stay depends on the owners consent especially if you misbehave. Want us to call the police? File a report for drunken threats toward a sick wife? The local constable would love another tick for his quota.
David stares from Helen to Jane. He sees that his sulks, shouting, guilt trips wont work any longer. The wall of Helen’s patience hes hidden behind has finally collapsed.
Without another word, he packs. Forty minutes later, duffel bag in hand, he glares from the doorway.
Fine! Stay here then! Youll regret this. Wholl have you at nearly forty and run down? Youll crawl back, youll see!
The keys, says Helen.
He throws the set onto the floor and slams the door.
Helen looks at the keys, strangely numb. No grief, just a ringing emptiness and relief as if an ancient wardrobe blocking out all the light had finally been hauled away.
Thats done, says Jane, picking up the keys. Sit down, eat some eggs. You’ll need your strength.
Jane, do you think he was right? Helen asks quietly. That no one will want me now?
Jane snorts, setting a plate of golden, vanilla-scented pancakes in front of her.
Oh, Helen, dont be daft. You need yourself. Thats all that matters. Besides better to be alone than with someone whod walk over you for the sake of a drink with a mate. Eat up.
The next two weeks pass in a fog. Helen recovers slowly, still weak, but determined to get on with life. She hires a cleaner to scrub the flat of any lingering memory of David and his guests. Fresh bedding, new, sunlit curtains.
David pops up a month later, clutching wilted Tesco flowers, looking guilty.
Helen, come on, pet, lets not sulk. Ive changed. I admit I was out of order. Mum does my head in I cant stay with her forever. Lets make up. I love you, truly.
Helen looks at him with amazement: how did she ever fail to see his smallness, his selfishness? Love? No, not love. Just habit, fear of lonely evenings, the urge to tick the happily married box.
Ive filed for divorce, David. Youll get the papers in the post. Your remaining belongings are in boxes in the hallway.
Seriously? Youd end everything for one argument?
Not for the row, she shakes her head. For not handing me a glass of water. Goodbye.
She closes the door and double locks it. The click of the lock is a full stop, finally ending a drab, endless sentence.
Helen goes to the kitchen, makes fresh mint tea, and sits by the window. Outside, spring sun glows, the last frost melting, sparrows chattering. Alone in her flat, nobody demanding supper, nobody leaving socks in the lounge, nobody belittling her work or her illness.
She takes a sip and smiles. Tea really does taste different when drunk in peace, not gulped down while trying to please someone wholl never value it. She is home, and at last, it truly feels like a haven.
