Could you at least change your dressing gown? Its dreadful seeing you in that old thing all the time. You look like some market stall woman, honestly. Look at Charlotte from number forty-five. Shes only twenty-five, always looks immaculateeven takes the bins out in heels. And she smells lovely, like spring flowers, not like fried onions like you.
Emma gently set the heavy iron pan down onto the hob. The oil sizzled loudly, but the sound was swallowed by the kitchens sudden silence. She faced away from her husband, staring at the sparkling white tiles shed scrubbed last weekend until they shone like new. Something inside her snapped. Not noisily, but like a coin quietly dropping to the bottom of a deep well.
Charlottes twenty-five, Emma replied evenly, still not turning round. She lives alone, works as a receptionist at a beauty salon, orders all her meals. I, David, have just come home from my shift at the factory. I stopped by Sainsburys on my way, lugged home two bags of shopping, and have been standing over this stove for almost two hoursso you have something to take for lunch tomorrow.
Oh, here we go again! David waved his hand dismissively, scrolling through the news on his phone at the kitchen table. Youre always banging onIm tired, I work. Everyone works. My mum worked too, raised three of us, and Dad always looked sharp, and there were always pies and a tidy house. Its not about the work, Em, its about effort. Youve let yourself go, gotten lazy. A wedding ring isnt a lifetime guarantee, you know. A man needs inspiration. Charlotte smiled at me yesterday in the liftreally brightened my day. Then I come home, and theres your sour face and burnt sausages. Its dull, Emma. Drab.
Emma switched off the gas. The sausages were still raw inside, but she couldnt care less. She wiped her hands on the same apron David just insulted, then untied it with deliberate care.
Drab, is it? She turned to face him, her calm almost intimidating. Normally, shed be on the defensive or raise her voice. But now, her stillness made her seem cold. Inspiration, you say?
Theres not enough, no, David muttered, not looking up. Dont I have a right to a bit of beauty at home?
Of course, Dave. Every right.
Carefully hanging the apron on its hook, Emma left the kitchen and headed upstairs to the bathroom. She let the hot water cascade over her, washing away the smell of frying, her exhaustion, and her husbands cruel words. She looked at her handskept as tidy as her work allowed, but no longer young. Twenty-seven years of marriage. Twenty-seven years holding the family together. Ironing his shirts to keep the creases sharp, nursing his man-flu, sacrificing her own needs so he could have good tyres for winter, or the fishing rod he wanted so badly.
And nowall he sees is Charlotte. Floating around in high heels.
After her shower, Emma applied her best night cream, put on her silk pyjamas, usually saved for special occasions, and got into bed, facing the wall. David came up later, full and pleased with himself (having no doubt eaten whatever was in the fridge). He reached to cuddle her, but she moved away coldly.
Whats the mood now? he grumbled. I was only being honest, trying to help. Spur you on, you know.
Emma said nothing. Shed already made up her mind.
In the morning, everything changed. David woke to the alarm, not the usual smell of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. The house was silent. He shuffled into the kitchen, expecting a laid table. But the worktop was bare. No tea, no toast. The cooker was stone cold.
Puzzled, he peeked into the bedroom. Emma was sitting at her dressing table, putting on makeupwearing the smart dress she usually reserved for the theatre, and, indeed, those very heels.
Now thats more like it! David whistled, half-joking. Finally took notice of your husband! You look gorgeous. Wheres breakfast? Im running late.
There isnt any. Emma carefully outlined her lips with lipstick, checked the shade. As far as I know, Charlotte drinks smoothies or grabs a coffee out somewhere. She doesnt stand at a cooker at six a.m. Ive decided to take her lead. Beauty, Dave, requires sacrifices.
Are you joking? David bristled. Ive got work. I need some food. Smoothie, honestly. Cant you just crack on with some eggs?
Cant get sweat on my makeup. Itll ruin the look, she replied, picking up her bag and heading for the door. Plenty of eggs in the fridge. Youre a capable, independent man. And, apparently, in need of inspiration.
The door closed firmly behind her, leaving David standing, scratching his belly in the hall. Eventually, he found the frying pan, got oil everywhere, burned the egg on the bottom and left the top nearly raw. The coffee boiled over, soaking the hob. His breakfast, a scorched fried egg, went down like lead. Shell calm down, she always does, he muttered. Shell come back to her senses tonight. Youve got to be firm with women or they walk all over you.
But that evening, the sweetness he was counting on didnt materialise. David returned home, hungry as a wolf, longing for stew and those sausages. The flat was eerily quiet. No inviting kitchen aromasonly the faint fragrance of Emmas perfume.
His wife was sat in the living room armchair, reading. She looked smarther outfit still pristine, shoes on her feet (indoors!).
Hi, David said, kicking off his shoes. No dinner on then?
Hello, she replied, turning a page. I ate at that café on the high street. Salad and a glass of wine. Really quite refreshing. Made me feel like a woman again, not a housekeeper.
So what am I supposed to eat? David snapped. Yesterdays sausages?
I threw them out this morningundercooked and, as you said, didnt exactly smell of flowers. And there arent any more.
This is getting out of hand, Emma! he shouted. I said one thing yesterdayit happens! Now pack it in and cook something. Boil up some pasta at least.
Theres some in the freezer, water in the tap, pan in the cupboard. Off you go, Dave. Charlottes not in the kitchen making pasta for her man. Shes inspiring greatness. So go on, inspire yourselffeed yourself.
David went purple. He wanted to bang his fist on the table and start a row like hed done beforeanything to restore order. But her expression stopped him cold. She looked through him as if he were a bit of furniture, a bothersome fly. That blank indifference was more chilling than any shouting.
He clattered pans about, boiled frozen dumplings into mush and ate them straight from the pan, just to spite her. Lets see how long your little performance lasts, he thought darkly.
A week passed. The flat began to change. Not dirtyEmma kept it tidy enoughbut only at surface level. She dusted, swept the floor, but everything to do with David was left untouched.
The laundry basket overflowed. David ran out of clean socks.
Emma, where are my socks? he called, rifling through the drawer.
Same place as always. In the basket, she replied from the kitchen, sipping tea and watching Netflix on her laptop.
Theyre filthy! Why havent you run the machine?
I washed my things yesterday. Didnt want to touch your lot with hands that, as you pointed out, smell of onions. Now they smell of lavender hand cream. Im saving that for aesthetics.
Youre having me on! David stormed into the hall, bare-chested, one sock on. How am I supposed to go to work? None of my shirts are ironed!
Irons on the windowsill. Boards behind the door. On you go, Im not your laundress. Im a muse now. And muses dont do mens pants.
He had to work out the washing machine for himself. He put in double the detergent and soapy foam spilled everywhere. His shirts were so badly ironed there was a crease down the back and he nearly scorched the collar. His workmates eyed his crumpled look; the young secretary, Lucy, who he also sometimes watched with aesthetic interest, grinned behind her hand.
His pride took a hit. Time for a new tactic. If Emma was going to play at independence, so could he. If she wasnt fulfilling her duties, neither would he.
Come Friday, he dressed up ostentatiously, doused himself in aftershave, and put on the one half-decently pressed shirt (ironically, done by Emma the week before).
Im off out, he announced at the door. Going to the pub with the lads. No point staying here, is there? Maybe Ill run into Charlotteshe goes for her evening walks.
Enjoy, Emma answered lightly. Dont forget your keyI might go to bed early.
He slammed the door. Hed expected her to stop him, ask when hed be home, act jealous. She barely noticed.
At the pub, the mood was glum. The blokes complained about their bosses, the price of petrol, politics. David moaned about Emma.
Shes gone completely mental. Hasnt cooked or washed for a weekjust because I compared her to the girl downstairs. I was only trying to give her a bit of a wakeup.
Are you daft, mate? said Big Mike, shaking his head. Women dont let that go. My Mrs would have battered me with the frying pan. Yours is being reasonable, if you ask me. You should apologisebring her some flowers.
As if! David scoffed. Apologise? Not a chance. Give in now and shell walk all over me. No, shell break. Especially when she runs out of money. Ill just block her bank card.
He thought it a brilliant masterstroke. Emma earned less than he did, and hed always paid for the big shops and the bills. Let her eat Tesco basics for a bit. Well see who needs whom, he decided.
Walking back home, slightly tipsy, he bumped into Charlotte herself near the entrance. She was coming out of a taxi, holding the hand of a tall, well-groomed man.
Evening, Mr Williams! she chirped. How are you?
Alright, David mumbled. Big night out?
Yes, we went to the cinema. This is my fiancé, Matthew.
Matthew shook his limp hand, flashing a blinding white smile. David felt old, bloated and dull. Next to this fit, fresh-smelling young man, his crumpled shirt looked pathetic. Charlotte barely acknowledged him, as if he was an elderly neighbournot remotely inspiring.
The flat was dark. Emma was asleep. David flopped onto the sofa, not even wanting to go to their bedroom.
The next morning, he hatched his plotshifted all their shared money to his personal account and waited.
A day passed. Two. The fridge emptiedonly a crust of hard cheese and some mustard left. David ate canteen food at work and grabbed a greasy doner on the way home. Emma, for her part, seemed barely to eat at all, or perhaps she was dining elsewhere.
By Wednesday night, hed had enough.
Emma, Im starving. The fridge is a wasteland. Are you going shopping?
No, she said, eyes on the telly. Ive all I need. I bought yoghurts and fruittheyre in the mini-fridge in our room. You know, the old camping one from the garage? Very handy, actually.
In our room? What about me?
Well, Dave, you made a point of blocking my money. I got a notification when I tried to buy bread. So if you want separate finances, well do separate food. Ill buy what I like with what I earn, and eat it myself.
But thats our money! David roared. I earn more! Im entitled to see where it goes!
Control away. But you wont be spending it on meals for your wife. Brilliant bit of saving, that. And just so you remember, this flat is in my name. My gran left it to me before we married. Youre registered here, but I own it. If were going fully independent, maybe we should talk rent?
David was speechless.
Youre kicking me out? All because I said the neighbour looked nicer?
Not because of that, Dave. Because you no longer see me as a personjust a function. Cook, clean, sort, iron. And yet you shove it in my face that Im not a twenty-year-old living without a care. You want the comfort I provide and the look Charlotte does. Well, you cant have both. Comfort comes with gratitude and respect, not criticism.
Whos going to want you at your age? he threw out a last desperate, low blow. Think menll come flocking?
They might not. But at least Ill have peaceIll wear what I like and eat what I like, without comments about onions. You know, Dave, loneliness isnt being in the flat alone. Its having two people under one roof, and one of them not caring at all.
Emma stood up and went to bed, locking the door behind her.
David sat in the dark, stomach rumbling with hunger, and for the first time felt pricklings of genuine fear. She wasnt bluffing, he realised. This wasnt a tantrumit was over. She really could divorce him. And then what?
He pictured life without her. An empty flat (if he could even find one), piles of unwashed clothes, ready meals for every meal, nobody checking how his day went, smoothing his collar or finding his missing specs. As for Charlotte… she wouldnt give him a second glance.
The next three days dragged by, hellish. Silence in the flat. His cooking turned the kitchen into a war zone and food tasted of nothing. Emma left for work looking smarter, more self-assured than in years. The anger and hurt had made her stronger, straightened her back. She looked like the lively girl he married thirty years ago, but with a steely edge.
Saturday morning, David woke to a beautiful scent. Not onionsvanilla and fresh baking. His heart leapt. Hope? Was it over, had she forgiven him?
He bolted to the kitchen. Emma was at the oven, pulling out a tray of cake, smartly dressed in a neat at-home set.
Em! he cried out, grinning. You baked! I knew youd come round! Were back to normal, right?
Emma placed the tray on the stand, cut herself a large slice and put it on a plate.
Thats for me, she said. The rest is coming with me.
With you? Where?
To my friends. Were having a catch-up.
And me? The smile vanished from his face.
You can have a sniff. You did want aesthetics, after all. Enjoy the vanilla smell. But the cake is for those who appreciate me for who I am, not a woman to be compared with twenty-somethings.
She covered the cake in foil and slipped it in a bag. Then she paused, giving David a long, penetrating look.
By the way, Ive filed for divorce. The papers were accepted yesterday. Theres a months cooling-off period, but frankly Im not interested in reconciliation. Start looking for somewhere to live. You can keep the money you stashedyoull need it for rent and impressing the younger neighbours. Not that theyll even notice you.
Emma, wait! David caught her hand. Im sorry! I was an idiot! I love you. Ill cook, Ill buy you flowersplease, Im begging you.
Its too late, Dave. That trains departedand it was an express, not goods. I dont want your flowers now. I want to live for myself. I spent twenty-seven years living for you, and all it got me was nothing. Let go of my hand.
She slipped her hand free, took her cake, and left.
David was left standing alone in the kitchen. Only cake crumbs remained on the table. Outside the window, the sun sparkled, and somewhere below Charlotte was laughing as her fiancé opened the car door for her. The flat had never felt emptier.
He walked to the mirror in the hallway and, for the first time in years, really saw himself: the bags under his eyes, thinning hair, the belly drooping over his belt. Emma had been right. The king had no clothesand no one but his wife had ever really cared. Now, not even she did.
A month later, the divorce went through. David moved into a tiny bedsit in the dullest part of townrefusing to spend for a proper flat, with the added sting of maintenance to his kids from his first marriage (which, conveniently, hed always left Emma to manage). He tried to sort out his life, but let himself go even more, stopped shaving, gained weight. Women ignored him completely.
Emma, on the other hand, blossomed. She redecorated, got rid of the saggy old sofa David had lain on, signed up for dance classes. Word had it she even had an admirera gentle, quiet man who brought her flowers for no reason and adored her baking. Because he understood: a woman isnt a function or a pretty picture. Shes warmth, and if you dont look after it, shell just go and light up someone elses life.
