So, Emily unlocks her phone and checks her bank balance. The number in the app makes her shut her eyes and slowly count to ten.
“Jim?” she calls to her husband, who’s fussing in front of the hallway mirror. Jim is adjusting the collar of his new shirt. “What’s up, Emily?” he asks. “Are you going to pay for the taxi to the restaurant from your card?” Jim stops fiddling with his collar and gives her a guilty look. “Emily, come on, don’t start. I’ve only got a bit of loose change left. I’ve still got to pay for parking later. Why don’t you just order it?” Emily locks the phone.
It’s Jim’s fortieth birthday today. A proper milestone, right? Six months ago they’d agreed to keep it modest, at home, just the three of them – Jim, Emily and their son. They’ve got a mortgage on their two-bed flat, taken out two years back. The repayments swallow nearly all of Jim’s salary. Emily picks up the utilities, food, the boy’s after-school clubs and clothes. Her pay as a senior manager can cover it, but there’s never any spare cash.
Then, about a month ago, his mum Margaret stuck her oar in. She announced that her only son’s fortieth was an event of worldwide importance. No way should they sit in the kitchen like a bunch of beggars. They needed to invite all the relatives, hire a function room in a restaurant, show everyone that Jim had made something of himself. When Jim timidly tried to object that there wasn’t any money for a restaurant, Margaret just said, “Emily earns a good salary – you won’t go broke for one occasion.” And Emily gave in. She found a cosy little restaurant with a great kitchen herself, sorted the menu herself, and put down the deposit herself.
By the time they get there, the waiters are already flying about. The table for fifteen is groaning under the starters. Emily purposely chose a loose, sand-coloured dress so she’d feel comfortable after a whole day of work and party preparations. Guests start turning up around six. Margaret arrives last, with Jim’s sister Vicky in tow. The mother-in-law walks to the table as if she’s attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
“Happy birthday!” Margaret announces, handing Jim a paper bag. Jim peeks inside and breaks into a grin. “Oh Mum, thanks! The same aftershave!” Emily instantly clocks the brand. That bottle cost a third of their monthly mortgage payment. “Nothing’s too good for my darling boy,” Margaret says proudly, passing her new fur-collared coat to a waiter.
Then her gaze shifts to Emily. The smile vanishes. “Ah, Emily. Congratulations,” she says coolly. “Good evening, Margaret,” Emily replies evenly. Margaret sweeps her eyes around the room. “Well, I don’t know what to say…” she drawls, sitting down at the head of the table. “It’s dark in here. And the tablecloths look cheap. Jim, I told you about that The Manor in the centre. They have gorgeous chandeliers!” “Mum, The Manor is out of our budget,” Jim mutters, sitting down. “Oh, stop playing the martyr!” Vicky scoffs, flicking her hair. “Our Emily earns like the boss of a factory. You could have done something decent for your brother just once.”
Emily feels the irritation rising, but she holds it in. This isn’t the moment for a row in front of guests. “Please help yourself, Margaret,” she says, sliding a fish platter towards her mother-in-law. “The food is lovely here.” Margaret pokes at a piece of fish with disgust. “This salmon looks pale. Must have got it cheap at the market, did you?” “It’s lightly salted trout from the head chef,” Emily explains calmly.
The party is in full swing. Guests are eating, drinking, toasting. They praise Jim to the skies – what a brilliant professional, what a wonderful family man, how lucky he is. Margaret never shuts up the whole evening. She tells stories from Jim’s childhood, boasts about his imaginary career wins, and never once mentions Emily. The daughter-in-law is just service staff to her, whose job is to keep the juice topped up and keep herself invisible.
By the time the main courses arrive, the table has gone red hot. Emily is tired. She gets up to ask the waiters to bring tea, and as she comes back to her seat, she hears her mother-in-law’s loud voice. “Good God, Emily, will you look at that dress.” The forks stop clinking. Every guest suddenly stares into their plate as if the salads are the most fascinating thing on earth. Emily stops halfway to her chair. “Sorry?” she says. “In that dress you look like an old mare, honestly!” Margaret announces, sweeping her eyes around the quiet table.
Jim goes blotchy. “Mum, stop it,” he says weakly. “The dress is fine.” “Jim, your eye’s gone blind,” his mother says, waving a hand and adjusting the collar of her new silk blouse. “I only mean well. Darling, you’re thirty-eight, yet you’ve dressed like an old woman on an allotment. No waist, no shape. Utterly tasteless!” Vicky smirks behind her napkin.
Emily walks slowly back to the table. All evening Margaret has been deliberately pulling faces – the starters too simple, the restaurant too cheap, the son’s wife not fit to be seen. “Well, I like it,” Emily says flatly, looking straight at Margaret. “It’s comfortable.” “Comfortable!” Margaret snorts. “A woman should be an ornament to her man. His calling card.” She squares her shoulders. “Look at me,” she goes on. “I’m retired, but I keep my standards high. Because you have to respect yourself, not just drag on the first sack you find at a market stall.” The guests swap awkward glances. Jim’s uncle is staring into his glass like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Emily, sit down, don’t rise to it,” Jim whispers, tugging her sleeve. That’s typical. He always preferred to hide in the shadows while the women sorted it out. Ideally Emily would just keep quiet and take it.
But today Emily doesn’t intend to keep quiet. She’s sick of carrying the mortgage, paying for her mother-in-law’s little fancies, and enduring public humiliations that come out of her own pocket. She grips the table edge. “Margaret, that blouse you’re wearing – where did it come from?” “What’s my blouse got to do with anything?” Margaret flounders, thrown by the sudden change of subject. “Everything, actually,” Emily says quietly. “Italian blouse. Pure silk. And the leather court shoes I spotted when you walked in. Plus the new coat in the cloakroom with the fur collar. Lovely things, aren’t they?” “Yes, they are,” Margaret says cautiously. “I have a good eye for quality.” “You certainly have an eye for choosing,” Emily agrees. “But who paid for them?” Someone at the table coughs. Jim goes red and half rises. “Emily, enough,” he mutters. “No, Jim, not enough,” Emily says, holding up a hand. “Since we’re talking about appearance and self-respect, let’s be completely honest.” She lifts her voice so the whole room can hear. “You bought that Italian blouse, those shoes and that gorgeous coat last month, Margaret. With the two grand I transferred to you from my quarterly bonus.” Margaret’s face falls. “Because, quote, ‘I’ve got nothing decent to wear to the GP, I’d be ashamed to be seen by the doctors’,” Emily says, each word deliberate. The bright lipstick on Margaret’s mouth suddenly looks ridiculous. She darts a look around the guests for support, but everyone is suddenly fascinated by the cooling roast.
“I asked my son!” Margaret shoots back. “But it wasn’t your son who gave it,” Emily cuts in. “Because your Jim’s salary only just covers the mortgage, the petrol and his work lunches.” Vicky tries to jump in. “Emily, don’t go counting other people’s money, for heaven’s sake!” “I’m counting my own money, Vicky,” Emily says, swatting her down. “And this banquet you’re sitting at right now – criticising the restaurant and my appearance – is paid to the last penny out of my pocket.” A horrid pause hangs over the room, picked out by the clink of dishes from other tables. “And that expensive aftershave you gave your son tonight?” Emily adds, looking Margaret straight in the eye. “That was the money I gave you for your dental treatment last week.”
Margaret turns the colour of beetroot. “How dare you…” she stammers. “So here it is,” Emily says, drawing herself up. “I can wear a potato sack if I want. Because I bought that sack myself on my own wages.” She reaches for a glass of juice. “And once you learn to dress on your own pension, then we can talk about my dress sense. Bon appétit!” With that, Emily sits down calmly.
Margaret is gasping like a fish. She’s waiting for her son to leap to her defence, to tell off his cheeky wife. But Jim just sits there with his head down, prodding a piece of roast potato. So there’s nothing for it. Margaret crushes her napkin, throws it on the table and stands up stiffly. “I am never setting foot in your house again!” she hisses to no one in particular. She spins on her heel and marches off to the exit. Vicky throws Emily a death stare, scrambles up, and scuttles after her mother.
The rest of the evening is flat. The guests quickly finish their mains, have a tense cup of tea, mumble their goodbyes, and leave. Emily and Jim drive home in silence.
A week passes. Life moves on. Margaret demonstratively doesn’t call. Jim wanders round with a sulky face for a few days, tries to blame his wife for being too sharp, but he can’t find a good argument. Then on Saturday morning, as Emily is making coffee, a message pings on her husband’s phone. Jim, at the table, glances at the screen and hesitates. “Emily,” he starts in that careful voice. “It’s Mum. Her fridge has broken. The repairman says it’ll be expensive.” Emily takes a sip of hot coffee. “Oh no,” she says flatly. “We need to help her,” Jim says, scratching his neck. “Could you send her five hundred? I’ll pay you back next payday.” “No, Jim,” Emily says, putting her mug down. “I’m not sending it.” “What do you mean? Her food will go off!” “I mean exactly that,” Emily says, looking at him. “Your mother made it very clear that I’m a tasteless cow who doesn’t respect herself. So I’ve decided to follow her wise advice.” She goes to the hob and switches it off. “I booked myself in for a haircut and colour at the salon yesterday. And this weekend I’m going to the shopping centre for some new dresses. I’ve got standards to keep up!” Jim blinks. “But what about the fridge?” “The fridge, love, is your problem now,” Emily smiles. “Take on extra shifts, ask for an advance. You’re family, after all – blood is thicker than water. I’m sure you’ll manage.” She picks up her mug and heads for the bedroom, leaving her husband alone with his thoughts and his mother’s broken fridge. And as she goes, she thinks to herself: well, she’s made her bed, so she can lie in it, the daft old bat.
And honestly, what would you have done? Drop it in the comments and gimme a like!
