Alice, honestly, come off it Rebecca eyed her old linen dress like she was examining a dubious antique at a jumble sale. You walk around in that rag? In front of your husband?
Alice instinctively tugged at the hem. The dress was soft, comfortable, and had survived more washing cycles than her old teddy bear.
But I like it…
You like lots of things, chimed in Emma, thumbs dancing on her phone. Sitting at home, cooking stews, crocheting those ridiculous doilies. Dont you realise youth doesnt last forever? You should be living it up, not just fading away.
Rebecca nodded vigorously, her new gold hoop earrings cheerfully clattering and glowing under the pub lights.
We went to that new restaurant in Soho last night it was divine! You probably just fried potatoes again, didnt you?
Alice had, in fact, fried potatoes. With mushrooms, just how William liked them. Hed come home from work exhausted, eaten two servings and drifted off on her shoulder while watching EastEnders. Alice shrugged to herself. No point mentioning that her friends wouldnt get it.
Back in the day, the three of them got married within mere months of each other. Alice vividly remembered that year: her modest registry office affair, Rebeccas extravagant bash complete with jazz band and fireworks, and Emmas wedding, where every guest received a hand-made party favour with their name stitched on. Even then, Alice had caught them exchanging glances when she talked about plans for a honeymoon at Williams parents cottage in Cornwall. Rebecca snorted into her prosecco, Emma rolled her eyes so dramatically it was basically interpretive dance.
Since then, the jibes had become their girls night soundtrack. Alice learned to ignore them, but it still stung somewhere under her ribs every time.
Rebecca was one of those women who filled a room like a brass band: booming laugh, arms waving, stories about who said what, who wore what, who stormed out where. Their flat had become a thoroughfare for friends and acquaintances people wandered in and out, leaving behind empty wine glasses and red stains on the cream rug.
Well have about fifteen around on Saturday, Rebecca announced down the phone. You must come! Toms making roast beef.
Alice politely declined. William, after a week at work, craved peace and quiet, not a kitchen full of strangers.
Fine, sit in your burrow, Rebecca sighed, her voice briefly flickering with something resembling pity.
Tom, to begin with, was a good sport helping set up, cracking jokes, doing a one-man clean-up show after the crowd had stumbled out. Alice saw him sometimes at these gatherings she gritted her teeth and attended: tired eyes, forced smile, moving around like a wind-up toy. Pouring the wine, spluttering when appropriate, but his gaze drifting ever farther away.
Oh Tommy, why so glum? Rebecca would pinch his cheek in front of all, Smile! People will think Im starving you!
Tom smiled. The guests giggled. Alice kept thinking: just how long can you wear a mask before your face agrees to keep it on forever? Or until one day you want to rip it off, skin and all?
Ten years later, the mask split down the middle. Tom left for a colleague a quiet woman from accounts who, rumour had it, brought him homemade sausage rolls for lunch and whispered instead of yelling. Rebecca found out last, even though everyone at the office had been gossiping for weeks.
Hes abandoned me! Rebecca sobbed into the receiver, as something crashed and smashed behind her. Ungrateful sod! I gave him my best years! And now hes gone!
Alice just listened. What could she say? That Tom spent a decade nodding off to someone elses laughter, waking up to someone elses chatter? That a home is not a permanent cocktail party venue?
Next came the financial reality check: the flat mortgaged to the hilt, enough debts to make a banker weep. Rebecca was left to shovel out the paperwork alone, and her raucous laughter got less and less frequent.
Meanwhile, Emma was busy building a sparkling Instagram empire: photos of posh restaurants, designer shops, holidays in Marbella. Perfect shots with perfect make-up and captions about gratitude and living ones best life. Edward lurked in the background blurred, but clearly funding the whole glossy operation.
Look, Emma stuck her phone in Alices face, Chloes husband got her a necklace from Cartier! What about mine? Hell buy some rubbish again.
Maybe he just enjoys choosing it himself?
Emma gave Alice a look that said, You obviously dont get it.
No. I sent him the list. He can choose from there.
Alice kept quiet. Yesterday William had brought her a book shed mentioned wanting to read found it in a poky little secondhand shop near the tube, wrapped it himself in brown paper. She didnt tell Emma shed just sneer at such poverty.
Five years Edward kept up. Overtime, side gigs, reaching for the ever-rising bar that Emma hoisted overhead. Then he met a woman working at the local bookshop divorced, kid in tow, no fancy nails or designer handbags. She looked at him like he might actually be enough already. No hoops to leap through.
The divorce was swift, messy. Emma demanded everything, got half the legal way, not her way. By then, the joint savings were gone: spa memberships, beauty treatments, one shopping tour after another. All spent, no stash left.
What am I supposed to do now? Emma moaned over a latte, mascara streaked down her cheeks. How am I meant to live?
Alice sipped her tea and thought that, in all their years of friendship, Emma had never once asked how she was. How William was. If they were well. Emma’s world had always revolved around Emma.
Both friends landed in similar spots: no husband, no money, no familiar lifestyle. Rebecca took a second job to plug the debt-hole. Emma moved to a smaller flat and stopped posting glossy photos.
As for Alice, she just kept living her gentle life. Cooking supper for William, asking about his day, listening to tales of suppliers and tricky negotiations. No demanding presents, no dramatics, no weighing him up against other husbands. Just there, solid as the bricks in the wall, warm as kitchen light on a winters night.
William noticed. One evening he came home with a thick folder and put it on the table in front of Alice.
What’s this?
Half the business. Yours now.
Alice stared at the papers, not quite daring to touch them.
Why?
Because youve earned it. Because I want you to feel safe. Because none of this would have happened without you.
Another year passed, and he bought her a flat bright, spacious, enormous windows. Put it in her name. Alice cried, buried into his shoulder, while William smoothed her hair and called her his treasure, his quiet harbour.
Her old friends started popping around for tea. At first rarely, then more often, sprawling on the new sofa, stroking the silk cushions, gazing at the watercolours on the walls. Alice saw their faces: confusion, not a little envy, well-concealed but unmistakable.
How do you have all this? Rebeccas eyes beamed around the lounge.
William gave me it.
Just like that?
Just like that.
They exchanged glances. Alice topped up their tea and said nothing.
One afternoon, Rebecca couldn’t take it anymore. She set her cup down so abruptly that tea splashed into the saucer.
Tell me. Why? Why have we lost everything, and you, little grey mouse, carry on being so happy?
The silence hung between them like laundry in a stiff breeze. Emma stared out the window, pretending not to care but nervously twirling a cheap ring, the replacement for her old diamond.
Alice could have answered. Spoke about patience. Paying attention to small things. About how real marriage isnt a staged carnival, but daily devotion. That loving is listening, noticing, tending. Not demanding, but giving.
But what was the point? For twenty years, these two had looked straight through her, like decorative lampstands. For twenty years, their advice had been live louder! and stop being so boring. For twenty years, they only heard their own words.
Maybe I just got lucky, Alice said, smiling.
After that, the visits dried up. Then stopped altogether. Turns out, envy trumps friendship, beats nostalgia, drowns out common sense. Easier to look away than admit theyd missed it all along.
Alice wasnt bothered. Funny thing, that empty space where the friendship used to be filled her with a calm, clear peace. Like slipping off pinching shoes and finally being able to wiggle her toes.
Ten more years went by. Alice turned fifty-four, and her life was lovely. Grown-up kids, a grandchild, William still bringing her books wrapped in brown paper. She heard from an old friend that Rebecca never remarried, still slogged away at two jobs, constantly moaning about her health. Emma had tried her luck with three different men, but each relationship crumbled with the same story: endless complaints, grievances, demands.
Alice listened to these updates without gloating or judgement. She simply thought that, sometimes, its the little grey mice who find the happiness. Quiet, hidden away from prying eyes, but absolutely precious inside.
She switched her phone off and went to make supper. William had promised to be home early, and asked, as always, for fried potatoes with mushrooms.
