My dear, did you hold back on the salt again? How many times do I have to say, its as bland as boiled cabbage, James says with a theatrical sigh, pushing away his steaming plate of stew and stretching for the salt shaker. Mum always says, Better under-seasoned on the table than over-seasoned on your conscience, but shes got a light touch. Knows the meal, you know? You just chuck it in by the bookno feeling in it.
Emily quietly watches him heap salt onto the vegetables shed painstakingly stewed for an hour. Inside, the tension shes learnt to live with over three years of marriage tightens yet again. She draws in a slow breath, doing her best to conceal her irritation, and turns towards the window, where the autumn dusk is gathering, streetlamps beginning to glow.
I cooked just as the dietitian suggested, James, she replies softly, setting clean mugs on the rack. You had awful heartburn last week.
Oh, dont hide behind doctors! James waves her away, chewing noisily. Just admit cooking isnt your strong point. Remember last weekend at my mums? Those cabbage rolls she madetiny, delicate, perfectly alike! And her gravynot this supermarket ketchup of yoursproper local cream and special tomato paste. She just makes home feel like home. Her house always smells of baking, while ours always reeks of bleach.
Emily bites her lip. That chemical smell is from her scrubbing down the entire kitchen after his attempt at a fry-up had left bacon grease on the ceiling lampshades. But theres no point reminding James of thathes gifted at overlooking his own mistakes, turning even imaginary failings of hers into cosmic issues.
The rest of dinner passes with the background drone of the television and Jamess running commentary about what shes doing wrong in the house. Emily nods absentmindedly, her thoughts on tomorrows big report at work. Shes a senior economist at a major logistics firm, and the end of the quarter always leaves her exhausted. She comes home craving nothing more than quiet and peace. Instead, she gets a daily dosage of comparisons to the impeccable, ever-saintly Mrs. Pamela Carter.
Pamela Carter, her mother-in-law, is a formidable, energetic woman, its true, one with a strict sense of orderfulness. Her cleaning sprees are like natural disasters. When she goes at it, the furniture is rearranged, dust rooted from cracks that no human ever suspected existed. James grew up in this strange veneration for motherly care, genuinely perplexed as to why Emily wont sacrifice her life at the altar of domesticity.
The evening rolls into night but the tension never quite fades. James settles on the sofa with his tablet. Emily begins ironing his shirts for tomorrow. She sets up the board, switches on the iron, and pulls a blue one from the basket. The cloth is thick and quality, but distinctly awkward to press.
Whats going on here then? James appears right behind her, arms crossed and with that sceptical squint.
What is it now, James? Emily asks, steadying her nerves.
Who taught you to iron? Look, youre leaving creases! Mum does the sleeves first, then the back, then only the collar, always with a damp cloth over it. And youblasting it with steam, itll go shiny! Youll ruin the shirt, guaranteed.
Emily parks the iron on the stand, a hiss of steam escaping.
If you know the technique better, James, why not do it yourself? she manages in a level voice.
James scoffs, rolling his eyes. See, anything I say, you take offence! Im just helping. Mum always says a wife should look after her husbands thingsits the image of the family, you know. But you? Always busy. Reports and work. The house is falling apart.
The house is falling apart? Emilys gaze sweeps the spotless living room. James, its tidy, the laundrys done, theres food on the table. I work just as much as you, and, for the record, I actually earn more. Why should I spend my evenings sitting exams on your mums idea of housework?
There you go with money again! James wrinkles his nose. Its not about money! Its about carea womans touch. Mum worked all her life as a librarian and still always had a starter, a main, a pud, and a cake. Dad was always smart as you like. But youwell. Alright, iron it however. Ill go in wrinkled tomorrow, let everyone see what sort of wife Ive got.
He storms out to bed, leaving Emily alone with the cooling iron and a tight, aching knot in her throat. All she wants at this moment is to pack her bags and leave. But where would she even go? The truth is, the flat belongs to her. It was Emilys nans before her, long before she ever met James. Hed moved in with a suitcase and a battered old laptop, but had puffed himself up to lord of the manor over three years, always displeased with the staff.
The next few days are a drawn-out cold war. James sighs loudly at any missed speck of dust, douses every meal in salt before tasting. Emily draws into her work, holding the line with detached silence. Saturday loomsa day theyre meant, by family tradition, to spend at his mums for lunch.
Saturday begins in a flurry. James is pacing, poking at Emily.
Youre faffing again! Mum doesnt like people being late. And wear that blue dressnot those jeans. Mum says you look like a teenager in jeans, and youre nearly thirty-eight. You ought to be dressing properly at your age.
Emily, fastening her zip on a comfortable pair of trousers, freezes. Im happy in my jeans, James. Its just Sunday lunch, not a royal investiture.
Its about respect for your elders! James retorts. Mums put in an effort. You cant turn up looking a scruff.
In the end, Emily sticks to her jeans and a simple white shirt. All the way to Pamela Carters, James sits in pointed silence, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The car is technically joint, though its Emily who covers most of the repayments.
His mums flat greets them with the scent of baking and roast meats. Pamela Carter, a large woman with perfectly styled hair, opens the door, hands still wiping off on a starched apron.
Oh, youre here at last! James, youve lost weight! Hasnt your wife been feeding you? she exclaims, enveloping him in a hug and barely glancing at Emily. Come on then, Emily, the guest slippers are there. Mind the floor, Ive just polished it.
Lunch is little more than theatre. Pamela slips her son the best cuts, fussing about his pale complexion.
Have some duck, James. I slow-roasted it with apples, three hours at least. Not like young folks nowadaysthrow it in an instant pot and call it cooking. Thats not food, Emily, surely?
Emily smiles politely, idly forking at her salad. Everyones got less time these days, Mrs Carter. A slow cooker really does help.
Time! Mrs Carter gestures. What forsocial media? We never used to have all these gadgets and we managed work, the kids, a sparkling home. Now its robots and dishwashers and no warmth at all. I was over at yours last week… your net curtains were grey and the windows filthy. A womans face is her windows, you know.
James nods eagerly. I keep telling her, Mum! Lets wash the curtains, clean the windows. She says, Ill get a cleaner in. Can you imagine? Outsiders mucking up the place for money!
Cleaners? Pamela acts as if Emilys suggested opening a casino in the lounge. Emily, have you lost your senses? What a waste! A woman needs to touch every corner herself. Bad energy, strangers in the home. No wonder you argue all the time and havent given us any grandchildren.
Right to the bone. The subject is painful for Emilytheyve been under doctors care for some time, it just hasnt worked. Her mother-in-law knows but always finds the chance to prod.
Its not cleaners we argue about, Mrs Carter, Emily says resolutely, putting down her fork. We argue because James cant stop comparing me to you.
A pin-drop silence falls. James coughs, choking on his squash.
And whats wrong with aspiring to the best? his mother asks, genuinely baffled. Of course James is proud of me. He wants a wife who matches. You should be making notes and learning recipes, not snapping back, while Im here. James is used to a certain level of care.
Exactly! James chips in, dabbing his mouth. Mums right. You could be more gentle, a bit more domestic. Just look at how her home shines. Ours? Theres dust on the skirting for two days now.
Something inside Emily finally gives. A sharp click, switching her from tolerance to action. She looks at James, smug and full-bellied, and his mother, glowing in victory.
Thank you for the meal. It was delicious, Emily says, her voice calm as she rises.
Youre off already? Pamela exclaims. But I baked a Victoria Sponge for tea!
No, Im not leaving. I mean, I am, but James will stay for cake. I’m sure he’ll relish the home comforts.
Emily, whats the matter? James hisses, catching her arm in the hall. Sit down, dont embarrass me!
Im heading home, James. My heads killing me. You can get back however you likeyouve got keys.
Emily steps out into the crisp autumn air and, for the first time in ages, feels a delicious sense of relief. A plan forms in her mind with a clarity that feels long overdue.
Instead of relaxing that evening, Emily becomes a whirlwind of resolve. She grabs the suitcases theyd used on last summers holiday to Cornwall and, with determination, empties Jamess wardrobeshirts, jeans, jumpers, socks, boxers. Even that suit he insists must be ironed with a damp cloth gets lovingly folded and packed.
James stumbles home around 11pm, smelling of home-baked cake and smugness.
What was that stunt today? he calls, stepping out of his shoes. Mums fuming. Her blood pressures up. I had to find her heart tablets. Honestly Emily, youre so selfish.
He walks into the bedroom and freezes. The room is lined with three huge suitcases and a few boxes. His wardrobe gapes empty.
Er… are we going somewhere? he stammers.
Emily, calmly settled with her book, closes it and meets his gaze.
Were not going anywhere, James. You are.
He laughs nervously. Not funny, Em. Come on, put all this away. Im knackered.
Im not joking. Your things are packed. Your clothes, your documents, your vinyls, and your favourite mug. Ive booked a van for 9am tomorrow.
James flushes, face turning a deep shade of red.
Youre chucking me out? From my own home?
My home, James. Lets be accurate. The flats mine. You moved in, and youve made it clear just how much you dislike it here.
Me? I tried, Emily! I meant well…
Exactly, you tried. But nothings ever right. The food, the cleaning, the ironingnever as good as your mums. I cant and wont compete with Pamela Carter. I dont have to.
But were a family! James pleads, deflated.
A family supports. It doesnt judge, it doesnt hold someone up to anothers standard. Youre miserable here because everythings not like home. Im exhausted of failing standards I never signed up to. Lets solve it: You go back home, back to Mum. There, youll get the spotless home, the meals, all the attention you crave. And I wont have to worry about collars ever again.
James works his mouth soundlessly, then finally sneers. Ill have you know Ive put work into this flat! I did the bathroom, the wallpaperyou cant just boot me out!
Emilys prepared for this. Youre a solicitor, even if you dont practise. The flats my pre-marriage asset. The work? I paid for materials, paid the builders, heres the paperwork. You bought the wallpaperfive rolls at £20 each, plus paste. Ill wire you £120 now. Your DIY was maintenance, not capital improvement. You can take this to court, but youll spend more on fees.
James wilts. He knows shes right. His wages cover petrol and groceriesEmilys career always paid for the big things.
All this, over a bit of bickering about stew? His voice shakes. Emily, I do love you. I just… Mum… Look, I wont compare any more.
For a week, maybe a month? Emily sighs. Its not about stew. You never grew up, James. Youre still Mummys boynot a husband. You want a mother, I want an equal. I cant keep doing this.
They spend the night in separate rooms. Emily locks herself in the bedroom; James tosses away on the sofa. 9am, and the vans at the door. The movers quickly haul away his suitcases and boxes.
James stands at the door, lost, in his old parka.
You cant be serious, Em. Mum will be livid when I turn up with this lot. Whatll I tell her?
Tell her the truth: Im not up to her standards and youve gone back to where everythings done properly.
The door clicks behind him. Emily locks it, rests her head against the cool metaland laughs. Not desperately, but with a lightness and peace shes missed for years. The flat falls silent. No complaining, no criticism, no demands.
A week passes. Emily savours the quiet. She hires a cleaner and, miraculously, the flat is spotlessno mention of bad energy. She nips out for dinner with friends or picks up lovely ready meals on her way home. Evenings are spent with a glass of wine in a bubbly bath or reading, not fussing over shirts.
The phone rings on Thursday evening. The screen reads Pamela Carter. Emily sighs, but picks up nonetheless.
Emily! What on Earth do you think youre playing at? The outrage practically fizzes down the line. Whyd you throw James out? Hes driving me mad!
Hello, Mrs Carter. I didnt throw him outI returned him home. At yours, he gets the care he deserves. Youve always said my foods bland and my cleaning subpar. Hell be happiest with you.
Dont get cheeky! Hes an adult! All he does is demand food, scatter his things and mess up my routine. Im not younghes ruining my peace! I told him: Go back to your wife! and he says: Emily doesnt appreciate me.
There you go then. Thats the level of service you trained him for. I cant competeIve got a job.
Oh, job, job! A wifes place is with her man! Take him back! Yesterday he said my soup was oversalted. Mine! Oversalted!
Emily laughs. Sorry, Mrs Carter, but Im not taking him back. Were divorcing. He can stay with you, or get his own place and learn a bit about life.
Divorcing? Emily, be sensiblewhos going to want a forty-year-old divorcée? James is a good catch…
Exactly. A good catch, and all yours. Have a lovely evening, Mrs Carter.
Emily hangs up. She blocks both Pamelas and Jamess numbers.
A month later, they meet at the registrars. James looks tired. His shirt is creased, there are heavy circles under his eyes.
Em, cant we try again? he pleads, looking down. Mums… impossible. She nags about everything. Sits me in the wrong seat, tells me off for where I put my cup. I thought shed look after me, but she just wants to run the show. You know, with you it was peaceful. Sure, your food was boring, but at least it was quiet.
Emily looks at him, a touch of pity but no regret.
James, you only realised when you were in my shoes. But thats not loveits wanting comfort. Youre after a cosy environment, not a relationship. Im not an environmentIm a person.
I can get a flat! Do everything myself!
Then do. Learn. Grow up. But not with me. Ive got used to not being compared to anyone, and I dont want to give that up.
They leave as strangers. James shuffles away, hunched into his coat. Emily slides into her car. On the seat lies a glossy brochure from a travel agent. Shes always wanted to see Italy, but James had always said it was too expensive, suggesting mums allotment instead. Fresh air, vegetables, a riveralways the same.
No more veg patches. Just her, her life, her choices. She turns the ignition, music upher whole future before her. And, she thinks, it sounds wonderful, even if someone once said it needed a little more salt.
