Olga unlocked the door, heaved her heavy bag over the threshold, and caught her breath. Immediately, a voice rang out from the living room:
“Olly, finally! What’ve you brought for dinner? And where’ve you been all this time? I’m starvin’ to death over here!”
Her mood, already far from cheerful, shrivelled into a prickly little knot. Of course—Will had spent the whole day lounging like a king on the sofa, glued to the telly or glued to his computer playing God knows what. The floor was still filthy, and he probably hadn’t even bothered to shove the laundry in the machine. But oh no, she was the one running late—neglecting her poor, grown-up baby! And the money? Well, that just magically appeared in the drawer, didn’t it?
With the heavy tread of a plumber, Olga marched into the kitchen, unpacked the shopping, and without even changing her clothes, set to throwing together dinner—she was hungry too! Her frustration took it out on the innocent pots and pans, banging them about with unnecessary force.
Will, sprawled on the sofa, listened to the angry clatter for a while before finally losing patience—it was drowning out the telly. With a creak, he hauled himself up and went to restore order.
“Olly, what’s with all the racket? Sounds like a bleedin’ blacksmith’s forge in here! I can’t even hear the news!”
Olga slammed a plate onto the table.
“Get sat down and eat! I’ll make as much noise as I like! And you wouldn’t know a forge if it hit you in the face, you lazy sod!”
Will sulked but sat down anyway, tucking into the meat and potatoes. Olga kept clattering about, eating standing up, refusing to join him. Her sudden question caught him off guard—he’d been too busy chewing.
“While you were busy upholstering the sofa, did you even think to put the washing on?”
He threw his hands up.
“Olly, come off it! Washing’s women’s work—I’m a bloke! I don’t know the first thing about it, and I shouldn’t have to! Last time I tried, you had a fit ‘cause I ruined your delicates or some nonsense!”
“A right man you are—about as manly as I’m the Queen of Sheba! And of course, in all your years, you’ve never once bothered to learn how a bleedin’ washing machine works!” Olga snarled.
Will was properly offended now.
“Olly, that’s out of order! You’re going too far! I know you’re annoyed ‘cause I’m out of work, but it’s temporary! I can’t just take any old job where they’ll work me to the bone for pennies! A man’s got to find his calling—it doesn’t happen overnight! And you treat me like dirt! What’ve I done to deserve this?”
Something about Will’s sense of self-preservation wasn’t working that evening. Otherwise, he might’ve noticed the danger signs—the way Olga had gone eerily quiet. But no, he blundered on, oblivious.
“You’re a woman, Olly! You’re supposed to be gentle, caring! But you yell and clatter about like a navvy! Can’t you at least walk softly and put things down nicely?”
Olga snorted through her teeth, but Will’s self-preservation was still fast asleep—possibly snoring. He finished his meal, dumped his plate in the sink, and began pacing the kitchen like a politician on the campaign trail.
“Honestly, Olly, you ought to show me a bit of respect! I’m your husband, for heaven’s sake—it’s only right! Look at Yasmin—dotes on that husband of hers, treats him like gold! Never a cross word between ‘em. That’s how it should be! Why do I have to teach you the basics?”
Will completed another lap near the windowsill before he finally sensed trouble. Olga was watching him like a cat eyeing a mouse, and in her right hand, nestled comfortably, was the handle of a cast-iron frying pan. A heavy one. Olga was a tall, strong woman—she could swing it like a cricket bat.
“Yasmin, eh? And Adil,” she hissed through her teeth.
Everyone in their building knew Yasmin and Adil. The young Pakistani couple had been gifted their flat as a wedding present—relatives had chipped in for generations. Both had grown up in England, spoke perfect English, and though they were Muslim, Yasmin didn’t wear a hijab, just dressed modestly. Still, they kept many of their traditions.
“Yasmin,” Olga repeated, and Will froze. “Know what, love? You’re right about her. She’s a good wife. But you forgot one thing. Or rather, one person—Adil.”
Will blinked.
“See, sweetheart, Adil’s up at dawn for his construction job, then he’s off to his cousin’s shop hauling stock, and even weekends, he’s behind the counter. Doesn’t seem to need to ‘find himself’—does that in his spare time, if at all! And Yasmin? Always got new earrings, a new dress—she’s always bragging. Course she dances attendance on him—she’s got nothing to worry about! He’s her rock. Her only headache is making sure he’s happy. And she does. Properly.”
Will gaped, utterly lost. Olga smacked the pan lightly against her palm.
“Now let’s look at us. Who’s working two jobs, picking up extra shifts? Me, love! And who’s sitting at home? You. So if we’re comparing, I’m Adil. And you, Will, are Yasmin.”
Will’s jaw practically hit the floor. That was not the logic he’d expected. Olga wasn’t done.
“So, love, it’s not you who should be nagging me about Yasmin—it’s me nagging you! You’re a man in the bathroom, the bedroom, and the pub, but everywhere else? You’re Yasmin! And you’re not even good at it! If I’m the breadwinner, you’d better be the perfect househusband! But no—floor’s filthy, laundry’s piled up, dinner’s not ready, and look at you! Wrinkled shirt, saggy trousers, and a belly coming in! How d’you expect to charm me like that?”
Will stood rooted to the spot, stunned. Olga slammed the pan onto the table.
“Right, up you get! Wash the dishes, tidy the kitchen, have a shower, and present yourself in the bedroom in proper order! Or I’ll institute a matriarchy faster than you can blink! Teaching me about Yasmin, indeed!”
With that, Olga marched off to bed.
***
Will was so terrified he didn’t make a sound—just pulled on an apron and got scrubbing. It was slow going, but he managed to wash up, wipe the table, sweep the floor, and even splashed on some aftershave before tiptoeing into the bedroom. Olga, mercifully, was already asleep.
He crept to the very edge of the bed. Sleep didn’t come easy—he was too shaken. And when it did, it got worse.
He dreamed he was wearing translucent harem pants over his boxers, belly-dancing in the living room. Not alone—Steve from number twelve and Vik from the fifth floor were writhing alongside him. Only Adil, dressed normally, sat in the corner playing Will’s video games.
On the sofa, draped in silk dressing gowns, sat Tanya, Sharon, Yasmin, and Olga—like a queen on her throne. They watched the performance with cold disinterest, muttering criticisms—too flabby, too hairy, downright lumpy!
And there he was, twisting and shimmying, hair combed, nails clean, stone-cold sober—and still not good enough!
Then Olga waved a regal hand. “Off you go, you useless lot! Will—dishes. Steve—floors. Vik—ironing. Adil stays. He’s the only real man here.” And Adil smiled and turned back to the game.
Will woke up in a heap on the floor—he’d fallen out of bed in terror. It was five in the morning. On wobbly legs, he crawled to the kitchen for water—he had no idea where the valerian drops were. Olga always handed him his medicine.
***
Come morning, Olga was stunned—her lazy lump of a husband had bolted out the door before her, mumbling something about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and rushed to work.
But that was nothing. The real surprise came that evening.
First, she noticed the spotless hallway floor. Before she could wonder what catastrophe had prompted this miracle, Will’s voice called from the kitchen.
“Olly, finally! Tea’s going cold. Got a cake from the shop—didn’t trust myself to cook.”
He popped his head out—clean shirt, proper trousers. Olga wasAnd as she sat down to tea, Will grinned and slid a set of car keys across the table, mumbling something about a promotion and how he’d finally found his footing—while Olga, for the first time in years, let herself exhale and simply smiled.
