My husband compared me to the young neighbour, and I stopped looking after him
“Could you at least change your dressing gown for once? Its revolting, you look like one of those market stall grannies. Have you seen Rebecca from number 45? Shes always floating about, done up to the nines even when she takes the bins out in her heels. And she smells of spring flowers, not fried onions like you.”
Sophie slowly set the heavy iron frying pan down onto the cooker. The oil hissed angrily, but the sound was swallowed by the heavy silence that suddenly descended on the kitchen. Standing with her back to her husband, she stared at the spotless tiled backsplash, each tile gleaming from the hours of her scrubbing last Sunday. Something inside her quietly snapped. No drama, no crashjust a faint tinkling, like a penny dropping into a deep old well.
Rebecca is twenty-five, said Sophie calmly, not turning round. She lives by herself, works as a receptionist at a beauty salon and eats takeaway. I, David, have just come back from my shift at the factory, popped to Tesco, lugged two bags of groceries home, and Ive been standing at this cooker for two hours so youve got something for your lunch tomorrow.
Oh, not this tune again! David waved his hand, slumping at the kitchen table, scrolling through news on his mobile. ‘Im tired, I work.’ We all work. My mother worked, and she raised three kids. My dad always went out looking sharp, and there were cakes in the house. Its not about work, Soph. Its attitude. Youve let yourself go. Got too comfortable. You think that ring on your finger is a guarantee? A man needs inspiration. Rebecca smiled at me in the lift yesterdayset me up in a great mood for the day. Then I come hometo you with your sour face and your meatballs. Boring, Sophie. Bland.
Sophie turned off the hob. The meatballs were barely cooked, but she suddenly didnt care at all. She wiped her hands on her apronthe one David had just insultedand slowly untied the strings.
Bland, is it? She faced her husband, her face eerily calm. Normally shed argue, get defensive or start shouting. This timejust silence. You need inspiration?
Well, yes, he muttered, eyes glued to his screen. Dont I have a right to a bit of aesthetics in my own house?
You do. Full right, David.
Sophie hung the apron carefully on a hook and left the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. She stood under the shower for ages, washing away the smell of the kitchen, her exhaustion, and his wounding words. She looked at her handswell-kept as her job allowed, but not the hands of a girl any more. Twenty-seven years married. For twenty-seven years, she was the solid foundation. She ironed his shirts sharp as arrows, nursed his colds, scrimped and saved so he could get himself good tyres for his car or a new fishing rod.
Now comes Rebecca. Floaty. In heels.
After her shower, Sophie put on her best night cream, slipped into her silk pyjamas shed saved for special occasions, and lay on their bed, facing the wall. David came in later, full and pleased with himself (hed clearly scavenged leftovers from the fridge). He even tried to cuddle up to her, but she quietly moved away.
Oh come on, are you sulking? I was only being honestfor your own good. Gave you a bit of motivation.
Sophie said nothing. Shed already made her choice.
The morning was nothing like usual. David woke to his alarm, not the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling eggs. The flat was silent. He shuffled into the kitchen, expecting a laid table, but the worktop was spotless. No plate of sandwiches, no mug. The hob was cold.
He peered into the bedroom. Sophie sat at the vanity, doing her makeup. She wore her elegant dressthe one she usually saved for a trip to the theatreand the heels hed moaned about the night before.
Now thats more like it! David whistled. You listened after all! Beautiful. So, wheres breakfast? Im running late.
Theres no breakfast, Sophie lined her lips with her best lipstick, pursing them to check the colour. Rebecca, as far as I know, has a smoothie or grabs coffee at Café Nero in the mornings. She doesnt stand at the cooker at six a.m. Ive decided to follow her example. Artistry takes sacrifice, David.
Youre winding me up, grumbled David, frowning. I need energy for work. Just make me eggs, quick.
Im all made up now, dont fancy sweating at the hobmy makeup might run. She picked up her handbag and headed for the door. There are eggs in the fridge. You can manage, you know. Youre an independent, inspired man.
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving David baffled. He lingered in the hallway, scratched his stomach, and shuffled to the kitchen. It took him ages to find the frying pan, he splashed oil on his hand, fried the egg so the bottom burnt and the top was still slime. The coffee boiled over, flooding the cooker. He ate gritty, burnt egg in silence. “She’ll come round,” he told himself. “Tonight shell have calmed down. Womenthey need you to show who’s boss, then sweeten the deal after.”
But there was no sweetening that evening. David came home hungry as a wolf, dreaming of the stew Sophie made yesterday, and those meatballs. The flat greeted him with silence and only a hint of Sophies perfume.
His wife sat in the lounge, reading a book. Dressed up, wearing heels (at home!), looking fresh as ever.
Hi, he muttered, kicking off his shoes. No smell of dinner?
Hello, she replied, turning a page. I ate at the café. Salad and a glass of wine. You know, quite inspiring. Felt like a woman, not a dinner lady.
So what am I supposed to eat? Davids voice rose. Yesterdays meatballs?
I binned them this morning. They werent cooked through and, as you said, didnt smell of flowers. There arent any new ones.
Sophie, youre taking it too far! he barked. I snapped last night. Who doesnt sometimes? Stop this nonsense. Make some dumplings, at least.
Dumplings are in the freezer. Waters in the tap. Saucepans in the cupboard. Go ahead, David. Pretty sure Rebecca doesnt make homemade dumplings for her boyfriend, she inspires him to do great things. Why dont you start by cooking for yourself?
David flushed hot red. He wanted to make a scene, pound the table as he had sometimes done to bring his wife to heel. But something in her eyes stopped him. She looked at him not as her husband, but as if he were a pesky flyutterly indifferent. That scared him far more than shouting.
He clattered around the kitchen, boiled himself shop-bought dumplings till they turned to mush, and ate straight from the pan, just to spite her. “Lets see how long you last,” he thought grimly.
A week passed. The flat began to change. No, it didnt get dirtySophie kept the place tidy, but only the visible parts. She dusted, cleaned floors, but anything that was Davids was ignored.
The laundry basket overflowed. David ran out of clean socks.
Sophie, where are the socks? His voice echoed from the bedroom as he rummaged through drawers.
Same place as alwaysin the basket, she replied from the kitchen, sipping tea and watching a drama on her tablet.
Theyre dirty! Why hasnt the machine been on?
I washed my things yesterday. Didnt do yours. Didnt fancy touching clothes that, as you charmingly said, smell of fried onions. Now they smell of lavender hand cream, and Im keeping that scent for artistry.
Youre kidding! David charged into the hallway in just his underpants and a single sock. Ive got work! The shirts arent ironed!
The irons on the windowsill. Board’s behind the door. Plug it in and crack on. I’m not your laundry maid. Im a muse now, and muses dont wash their husbands pants.
David was forced to try the washing himself. He poured in twice as much powder and bubbles spilled everywhere, so he fought them with towels, cursing. His shirt was ironed badly; he creased the back and nearly burnt the collar. At work, his colleagues looked askance at his crumpled appearance, and the young receptionist Elliesomeone hed noticed beforegiggled behind her hand.
That stung his pride. Change of tactics, he decided. If she wanted to play at being independent, so would he. If she stopped her duties, he was off the hook too.
Friday evening, he got ready with a show. He splashed on aftershave, put on the only half-decent shirt (the last Sophie had ironed a week ago).
Im going out, he declared from the hallway. To the pub with mates. If theres no comfort here, Ill look elsewhere. Maybe Ill meet Rebeccashes always out at this time.
Go ahead, Sophie said easily. Enjoy yourself. Dont forget your keysI might go to bed early.
David left, slamming the door. He expected her to stop him, ask when hed be back, even get jealous. But she didnt care.
The pub felt wronghis friends just moaned about work, prices, the government. David complained about his wife.
Shes gone off the railsstopped cooking, stopped washing. Says I compared her to the neighbour, got offended. I meant it for her own good. To perk her up.
Oh mate, you shouldnt have, his friend Mike shook his head. Comparings like a red rag. My wife wouldve gone for me with a frying pan. Yours hangs on. You ought to buy flowers and apologise.
No way! snorted David. Apologise? Im a bloke! Bend now, shell take over. No, shell break before I do. Shell come crawling back when the money runs out. Ill block her card.
The idea seemed brilliant. Sophies wages were lower; David paid for most things, food and bills. Shell be living off dry pastashell soon remember how to make a stew, he decided.
On his way home, tipsy, he bumped into Rebecca at the gate. She was climbing out of a taxi, accompanied by a tall man in his thirties, carrying her bag, opening doors, looking at her with adoring eyes.
Good evening, Mr Collins! Rebecca called cheerily. Hows things?
Alright, mumbled David. Out late?
Yes, went to the cinema. This is Joe, my fiancé.
Joe shook Davids limp hand, flashing a bright smile. David suddenly felt old, bloated, and invisible. Compared to this slim, well-groomed man, with expensive cologne, his crumpled shirt felt pitiful. Rebecca looked through him, like he was just part of the furniturea harmless old neighbour. No inspiration, no interest.
The flat was dark. Sophie slept. David crashed onto the sofa in the lounge; he didnt feel like heading to the bedroom.
The next day, he put his plan into action. He moved all the money from the joint account Sophie could access to his own. And waited.
A day passed, then two. The fridge emptied outonly a dried block of cheese and some mustard left. David ate at work canteens, survived on greasy kebabs at the tube stations. Sophie, it seemed, didnt eator ate somewhere else.
By Wednesday night, he cracked.
Sophie, Im starving. The fridge is bare. Are you going to the shops?
No, she said, watching TV. Ive got what I need. I bought myself yoghurts and fruittheyre in the mini-fridge in my room, the one I brought from Mums old house. Remember the tiny one? Turns out its handy.
In your room? David blinked. And me?
Well, you blocked the moneygot a text about cancelled transaction when I tried to buy bread. Since weve got sanctions, foods separate now. I use my wages for what I want and eat on my own.
Theyre joint funds! David roared. I earn more! Im entitled to manage spending!
Go ahead then. Youre not spending any on food for methats a brilliant saving. Just remember, David, this flat is mine. I inherited it from my grandmother way before we married. Youre on the lease but I own it. If were doing market rates, maybe we should talk about rent?
David was lost for words.
Youre booting me out? Because I said the neighbour looks better?
Not because of that, David. Because you stopped seeing me as a person. All you see is a function. ‘Fetch, clean, iron, cook.’ Then you dared point out I dont look like a twenty-year-old with no worries. You want the best of both worldscomfort from me, and a pretty picture from Rebecca. But thats not how things work. Comfort is earned with gratitude and respect, but you pay in complaints.
No one will want you at fifty! he shot out, his last, lowest argument. You think therell be a queue?
Maybe there wont. But Ill have peace. Eat what I want, wear what suits me, and never hear about fried onions. You know, David, loneliness isnt just being alone at home. Its when two are home, and one just doesnt care about the other.
Sophie got up and went to her bedroom, locking the door.
David was left alone, in the half-dark lounge. His stomach twisted from hunger, but something deeper gnawed at him. Suddenly, he realisedshe was serious. This wasnt a lesson, it was the end. She might really divorce him. Then what?
He pictured life without her. A dreary rented room (hed have to moveor go back to his mums tiny flat), piles of dirty laundry, microwave meals for every meal. No one to ask how his day was, keep his collar straight, or find his lost glasses. And Rebeccawell, shed never look at him twice.
David spent the next three days in a miserable fog. He tried to play it cool, but his silence didnt bother her. He tried making meals, but the kitchen looked like a battlefield and the food was dreadful. He watched Sophie head off to worklooking sharp, upright, independent. She had truly changed. Anger and pain had straightened her back; she looked like the Sophie he met thirty years ago, only tougher.
Saturday morning, David woke up to a smell. Not of fried onionsvanilla and fresh pastry. Hope hammered in his chest. Could it be? Was she over it?
He ran to the kitchen. Sophie stood by the oven, lifting out a baking tray. Beautiful, dressed in a neat house outfit.
Sophie! he beamed happily. You made a cake! I knew you couldnt stay cross forever. Peace?
Sophie set the tray gently on the stand, sliced a big piece and placed it on a plate.
This is for me, she said. The rest Im taking out.
Out? Where?
To my friends. Were having tea.
And me? The smile faded from Davids face.
You can have a sniff. You wanted aesthetics? Heres your whiff of vanilla. Enjoy it. The one eating this cake will be someone who appreciates me, not compares me to other women.
She wrapped the cake in foil, packed it into a bag. Then looked at David with a long, measured glance.
By the way, Ive filed for divorce. The papers went in yesterday. Theyll give us a month to reconcile, but Ive got no plans for that. So start looking for somewhere to live. Youve got a month. The money you stashedkeep it, youll need it for rent, or for impressing younger neighbours. If any look your way.
Sophie, wait! David grabbed her hand. Im sorry, I was an idiot! I love you! Ill cook for you! Ill buy flowers, I swear!
Too late, David. That ships sailedand it was an express, not a slow train. I dont want your flowers. I want to live for myself. I spent twenty-seven years living for you, and it turns out it wasnt worth a thing. Now let go.
She freed her hand, took her cake, and left.
David stood in the middle of the kitchen. On the table, the crumbs of the cake cooledthe cake he’d never taste. Sun spilled into the room; somewhere outside, Rebecca giggled as she got into her fiancés car. The flat was silent and empty.
David stood in the hallway and, for the first time in years, looked honestly at his reflection. Bags under his eyes, thinning hair, stomach hanging over his belt. Sophie was right. The king was naked. And no one wanted himexcept his wife. And now, not even her.
A month later, they divorced. David rented a single room on the edge of townhe was too stingy for a flat, and, with child support from his previous marriage (which hed forgotten, until Sophie reminded him) resurfacing, money was tight. He tried to get by, but things quickly fell apart: he gained more weight, stopped shaving. The women took no notice.
Sophie flourished. She renovated the flat, tossed out the old, sagging sofa David had claimed for years, signed up for dance classes. Rumour had it shed found herself a suitora gentle man who simply brought her flowers for no reason and adored her baking. He understood that a woman is neither a domestic service nor a picture. Shes warmthmeant to be cherished, or it will find another home to warm.
