I still recall the night I caught my sisterinlaw measuring my clothes without asking.
James, I beg you, lets keep the visits brief. This isnt a hotel, and your sisters house is in the next town, I said, nervously polishing the glasses, the water spots on them irking me as much as the upcoming visit from my husbands relatives.
Emma, why are you getting worked up? James sighed, his fingers pressed together as he stared at his laptop. Emily and his mother are just passing through; Mum has a cardiac appointment, and Emily is coming along for company. We cant send them back on the night train.
Passing through, of course. The last time they passed through they stayed a week while Emily hunted for winter boots all over London, because, as you know, our choices are better. I fed, watered and entertained them while you were at work.
I promise, this time will be different. One evening, dinner, a nights sleep, breakfast and theyll be on their way. Be a little lenient; theyre family.
I only sighed. The word family in Jamess vocabulary was a holy shield, a licence to forgive any sin. Yet his younger sister Emily and his mother Margaret were far from saints; they were simply without a shred of decorum. That sort of crassness, as they say, is worse than theft.
I was a department head at a large logistics firm, well paid, a lover of order and fine things. My wardrobe was my pride and, perhaps, my only weakness. Silk, cashmere, designer bags I tended them as a gardener does rare orchids. And it was precisely that wardrobe that acted as a red rag to Emily.
The doorbell rang at six oclock. On the doorstep stood Margaret with a bag of greasy, deepfried pastries that always gave me heartburn, and Emily, her sister, who swept my gaze from head to toe.
Oh, Emma dear, hello! Emily stepped in without removing her shoes and planted a kiss on my cheek. Why are you dressed so fine? New dress? Expensive, I bet?
Hi, Emily. Just a simple athome dress. I forced a smile, though Emilys probing fingers on the fabric made me uneasy.
Nothing simple about it, she snorted, shrugging off her jacket. Pure cotton with embroidery. Thats what halfasalary gets you. Lucky you, James spoils you.
I work for a living, Emily, I reminded her, hanging her jacket in the wardrobe.
Come on, you work. James doesnt earn peanuts either. Mum, hand me the bag, Ill take it to the kitchen.
The evening fell into the usual script. Margaret immediately began rearranging the spice jars for convenience, while James, delighted to have his family back, poured tea and listened to his mothers endless tales of neighbours, pressure, and the price of buckwheat.
I kept my composure, serving food and counting the hours until they left. Tension rose when the conversation turned to Aunt Zinas upcoming jubilee.
Girls, I dont even know what to wear, Emily lamented, a slice of cake in her mouth. Ive put on weight over the winter; nothing fits. And the restaurant will be full of ladies in fine dresses. I cant be seen in a shoddy outfit.
She looked directly at me. I took a sip of tea and stayed silent. I knew that look the one that begged for permission.
Emma, Emily blurted, you have so many clothes. Could you lend me something for the weekend? Were almost the same size almost. Remember that blue dress with sequins?
Im afraid were not the same size, I said firmly. Im a size 12, youre a size 16. And you know I never lend my things. Thats my principle.
Exactly, the principle! Emily rolled her eyes. Just a piece of cloth, dear. My sisterinlaws dress hangs there, gathering dust, and I only need to try it on once. Id even take it to the dry cleaners afterward!
Emily, why do you need someone elses? James tried to mediate, his fingers turning white. We could buy you a new one, I could transfer some money.
What would we buy? Margaret exclaimed. Why waste money when the wardrobe is full of goodies? Emma, youre a hoarder of dresses you could give one away and still have plenty. Were family, not strangers.
My dear, thats enough, I cut in, my voice a touch sharper than intended. My clothes are my clothes. I neither take nor give away. Lets change the subject.
The rest of dinner passed in strained silence. Margaret pursed her lips, Emily stared at me while poking at her salad, and James darted his eyes between them, unwilling to argue further.
The next morning I left for work early. The guests were still asleep. James took the day off to escort his mother to appointments, leaving the house under his watch.
Ill be back about seven, I told him as I slipped on my shoes. Please make sure they dont move anything in our bedroom. You know I hate that.
Emma, youre being paranoid, James laughed, kissing my cheek. Who needs the bedroom? Theyll have breakfast, well go to the clinic, a short stroll, then straight to the station. By the time you return, theyll be gone.
I walked out, but a knot of anxiety gnawed at me all day. I knew Emily would see my refusal the night before not as a final no but as a challenge.
Work dragged on. By three oclock a migraine struck, colours swirling before my eyes, pills offering no relief.
Mrs. Whitmore, you look pale, my deputy observed. Go home, well manage the report.
I didnt argue. I needed quiet and darkness, so I called a taxi.
Driving past my flat on the third floor, I saw lights in every room despite the bright daylight outside. Strange, I thought. James said theyd be out by evening.
I slipped in the key, the door opening to a sweet, cloying smell cheap perfume mixed with hairspray. Music and loud laughter echoed from deep within.
I slipped off my shoes and padded down the hallway. The laughter came from my bedroom, the door ajar.
Mom, can you believe it? Theyve made me look like a queen! Emilys voice rang, thrilled. The colour, the cut and that old rag said the size isnt right. Liar! Everything fits!
Darling, splendid! Margaret cooed. Pure royalty! The fabric looks Italian, not that cheap Chinese stuff.
I pushed the bedroom door open. What lay before me belonged in a farcical soap opera, yet I felt no amusement.
In the centre of the room, before the tall mirrored wardrobe, Emily was struggling in the very evening dress of darkemerald silk I had bought in Milan two years earlier for an extravagant price roughly £2,000 and worn only once at a New Years gala.
The dress was tearing at the seams, literally. The zipper had split down the back, exposing her undergarments, the silk stretched so tight it seemed on the verge of bursting.
On her feet were my cherished beige pumps, now forced onto her toosmall feet, the heels slipping off the back. Scattered across the immaculate bed were my cashmere sweater, two blouses, scarves, and boxes of jewellery. Margaret sat in an armchair, holding my handbag and inspecting its contents with interest.
Whats happening here? I asked, my voice low but echoing like thunder in the sudden silence.
Emily let out a sharp yelp as the fabric gave way.
Oh she froze, eyes wide, staring at my reflection.
Margaret dropped the lipstick she was examining; it rolled across the parquet.
Emma? Why are you up so early? James said youd be back at seven Margaret began, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing.
I stepped fully into the room, cold fury replacing the headache.
Take it off, I said, meeting Emilys eyes.
Emma, I was just trying it on we werent planning to keep it, just to see how it fits Emily stammered, covering the back of the dress. James said it was fine!
Lying, I snapped. James knows this room is offlimits to you. Remove the dress now, immediately.
I cant! Emily shouted, hysteria creeping into her voice. Its stuck!
What do you mean stuck?
The zipper! It jammed. I tried to zip it up and now it wont move either way!
I moved closer. The scent of her cheap perfume mixed with sweat clung to the air. The silk under her arms was darkened with moisture. A gaping tear ran along the seam where the zipper had failed.
Youve ruined a dress worth about £1,500, I said, steady. Do you understand?
Not euros! Margaret interjected, rising. Just a seam split! It can be sewn. Why make a drama? She just wanted to feel pretty. Your husband earns next to nothing, and you hoard all these things!
Margaret, please put the bag down and leave the room, or Ill call the police and treat this as burglary, I ordered, not turning to her.
Youre threatening the motherinlaw with police? Margaret blushed furiously. Were guests!
Youre not guests. Guests dont rummage through someones bedroom. Youre trespassers. Out, now!
Margaret muttered curses and fled down the corridor. I was left alone with Emily, who hunched over, clutching at the fabric.
Turn around, I commanded.
I examined the zipper. The pull tab was jammed into the lining, the fabric torn open like a wound. The dress was beyond repair.
Ill have to cut it, I said calmly.
No! You cant! Im in it! Emily cried, trying to pull free, but the toosmall shoes gave her no balance and she nearly fell.
Either I cut the dress to free you, or you leave as you are. Choose.
Just then the front door burst open.
Girls, Im home! Mum, where are you? Ive got a cake! James called cheerfully, unaware of the storm hed walked into. He stepped into the bedroom, a cake box in hand, his smile fading.
What on earth Emily? Why are you in Emmas dress?
James! Emily shrieked, flinging herself toward him, the tight skirt and shoes betraying her. She wants to kill me! Shes got scissors! I was only trying it on and shes calling the police! Tell her!
James stared at me, bewildered. I stood, arms crossed, watching the circus with sheer contempt.
James, your sister slipped on my designer dress, tore it, broke the zipper and ruined my shoes, while your mother rifled through my bag. Ill give them ten minutes to gather their things.
Emma, maybe James began, his usual peacemaker tone.
Look at the dress, James, I interrupted. Come and see.
He approached, saw the rip, the wet spots, the split zipper, the scattered valuables.
Emily why did you do this? I asked you not to.
Whats it to you? Its just a rag! Fix it, buy another! Youre rich, you can afford it! she snapped. And you, brother, youre siding with her? Your mothers in the corridor, clutching at your heart while youre counting clothes!
Take it off, James said hoarsely.
What?
Take the dress off. Right now.
It wont come off! Emma shouted. Shes stuck. Bring scissors.
The rescue took five minutes, accompanied by Margarets wails from the hallway and Emilys strained noises. I had to slice the silk along the back, each snip feeling like a knife through my own heart, but I kept my composure. The ruined dress fell to the floor in a heap of expensive waste.
Emily was left in her stained underwear and tights, hurriedly pulling on her own clothes and muttering, Youll rot in moth, you snob.
Fifteen minutes later the flat was empty. James called a taxi for the train, slipped Emily a few pounds (I saw it, but said nothing), and returned.
The living room was dead quiet. I sat on the sofa, staring at the torn dress on the coffee table, a tangible proof of the crime.
James sat beside me, hesitating to embrace.
Im sorry, he said finally.
For what? I asked, not turning.
For not listening to you. For bringing them here. For letting it get this far.
You cant be responsible for who they are, but you are for letting them into our home. I wont have them here again, James. Never again.
I understand.
You dont, I snapped, turning to him. This isnt a whim. Its a breach of every boundary. Your sister invaded my space. It isnt about the money, even though the dress cost as much as a car. Its about her believing shes entitled to everything because youre her husband, and your mother encourages it. If you ever suggest they visit again, Ill file for divorce. Im serious.
James looked at the dress, then at me, seeing I wasnt pleading or manipulating I was stating a fact.
I promise. No more visits. If I need to see my mother, Ill go to her. They wont set foot in our house again.
And also, I added, standing, well change the locks tomorrow. Your mother had a spare key you gave her just in case a year ago. I need to be sure that just in case never comes.
James nodded.
Ill arrange for a locksmith first thing.
He asked, What will you do with the dress?
Ill throw it away. Its defiled. I cant wear it even if it could be mended.
I carried it to the bin, the silk slipping into a plastic bag, along with any hope of normal relations with my husbands family. Relief washed over me; the wound finally began to close.
A week later my phone erupted with messages from Emily insults at first, then complaints about my mothers pressure, then demands for compensation for a new dress. I blocked each number in turn.
That evening James came home thoughtful.
Mum called, he said at dinner.
I braced for another plea.
She found the same dress online, a cheap Chinese copy, and wants me to buy it as an apology for you almost cutting her with scissors.
I laughed, a genuine, loud laugh for the first time in days.
What did you say?
I told her I have no sister, only a woman who owes me £2,000 for the ruined dress. Until she pays, theres nothing to discuss.
James stared at me, surprised.
Did you really say that?
Absolutely. You know, Emma, Id put up with simple folk, a bit of envy, but when I saw what theyd done how theyd rummaged through our bedroom, how your mother rummaged through your bag it frightened me. Im glad you were right. Simple manners are indeed worse than theft.
I moved to hug him.
Thank you.
Ive changed the locks, by the way. Told the concierge not to let anyone in, even if they claim to be the Pope.
Life slowly returned to its usual rhythm. I bought a new dress even finer than the last but now I always lock the bedroom door, just in case. My husbands relatives remain exactly where they belong: on my blocked list and in a past that no longer holds sway over our present.
