Simon asked for my card on Wednesday, just as I was dishing up the scrambled eggs. He had the right toneworried, but not so much as to spark alarm.
Emily, love, work payments due, my cards blocked, just for two days, could you help me out?
I wiped my hands on my apron, fished out my card, and handed it over. Simon snatched it with the speed of a practiced pickpocket, pecked my hair.
Thanks, darling, you always save the day.
Twenty years of marriage had taught me not to ask silly questions. I trusted him. Or at least pretended to.
Friday evening, I was ironing duvet covers when I overheard Simon chatting away on the phone in the next room.
The door was ajar. His voice sounded cheery, nothing like the martyr routine he reserved for me.
Mum, honestly, dont worry! All sorted. Booked the restaurant, table for six, fabulous menu, bubbly, those cocktails you love. No, shes none the wiser. Why tell her? I said were having a quiet one at home.
The iron hovered in my hand.
My gullible wife wont suspect a thing. Country girl, Mum, you remember from some tiny village. Shes been in London twenty years but still thinks like shes on a farm. Yep, Im paying with her card, obviously.
Mines blocked? Never mind. Its going to be quite the bash at The Silver Swan! No risk shell show up. Shell be at home parked in front of the telly.
I switched off the iron. Walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water and downed it. My hands didnt shake. Inside felt hollow, cold, as if someone had scraped out whatever was alive.
Terraces, lawns, and gardens
Gullible wife country woman her card
I set the glass in the sink and looked out at the darkening sky. Maybe Simon was right. Perhaps I was naive, plain as a field mouse. But even mice bite when trapped in a corner.
Saturday morning, I blocked the card. Told the bank Id lost it and was worried someone might use it.
After that, I drove clear across town, to the little suburb where I grew up.
Roger answered in slippers, eyebrows shooting up.
Emily? Blimey, its been years! Dont hang about in the hallwaycome in!
We sat at his kitchen table drinking tea. I told him everythingbrisk and to the point. He listened, no interruptions.
I get it, Roger nodded. Listen, Em, do you remember when you helped my family out ages ago? Dad was out of work; you brought a massive sack of potatoes, said it was surplus.
We knew it was all you had. Time to return the favour. Their little dos Monday night, yeah?
Kicks off at nine. Ill ring when the orders in and they ask for the bill. Just walk in then. Ill have a word with the waiter.
Monday evening, I put on my burgundy dressthe one I made three years ago and never wore, for want of an occasion. Did my hair, slapped on a bit of lippy. Glanced in the mirror. Not a mouse.
My phone rang at half ten. Roger.
Come over. Theyve just called for the bill. Hes about to try your card.
It took the taxi twenty minutes to reach The Silver Swan. The place glittered with stained glass and gold trim. Roger met me in the lobby, nodded towards the dining room.
Third table from the window.
I walked in. The place buzzed with laughter and the clink of glasses. I picked my way between tables, and there they were.
Simon, lord of the table, beside his mum Barbara in chestnut brown, his sister Helen with her husband. Plates scraped clean, glasses nearly empty, remains of pudding lying about.
A waiter brought the bill. Simon, not bothering with the sum, pulled my card from his pocket and plonked it onto the tray, looking every inch the generous host.
Terraces, lawns, and gardens
Superb service, he declared, surveying the spread. See, Mum? Told you Id give you a party worthy of a queen.
Barbara nodded, primping her hair like a pageant finalist.
My clever boy. Now thats style. Not like some who do nothing but fuss at the sewing machine and sit in the corner.
Helen gave a dainty chuckle. Simon grinned smugly.
Well, Mum, only the best for you. Thank goodness Ive got the wherewithal.
The waiter took the card to the machine. Swiped once. Swiped twice. Frowned at the screen. Returned to the table.
Terraces, lawns, and gardens
Sorry, cards declined. Blocked, Im afraid.
Simon turned the shade of a Marks & Spencer gammon.
Blocked? Impossible. Try again.
I ran it three times, sir. No dice.
I stepped up to the table. Barbara clocked me first; her face dropped.
Emily? Simon stammered, scrambling to his feet. What… what are you doing here?
I met his eyes, calm and steady.
Just joining the celebration. The one you organised behind my back. With my money.
The silence was so thick you could hear the cutlery clinking two tables away.
Emily, listen, its all a misunderstanding, Simon started, reaching out. I slid away.
No misunderstanding, Simon. Its called lying. I heard every word of that phone call you had with your mum Friday. All of it.
About the gullible wife. About being from the sticks. About me watching TV at home while you threw a secret bash.
Helen stared at her plate. Barbara clutched her napkin.
So you were eavesdropping, were you? Simon huffed. Spying on me?
I was ironing sheets, and you practically announced your triumph to the nation. Boasting to your mother that youd hoodwinked your wife. It doesnt count as snooping if youre shouting.
You didnt think the mouse might bite.
Simon tried to regain his swagger.
Fine, fair point. I was wrong. But not here, for Gods sake. Lets go home, sort it out in private.
Nope, heres perfect. I blocked the card Saturday. Reported it stolen, because you nicked it and tried to spend money I knew nothing about. So now, my dear husband, you can pay. Cash, please.
Roger strolled over, arms crossed.
Terraces, lawns, and gardens
If theres trouble settling up, Ill have to call the coppers. Bill needs paying.
Simons complexion cycled from white to beetroot to old port.
Emily, dyou realise what youre doing? Youre humiliating me!
Me? I smiled. You managed that on your own, when you decided your country bumpkin wife wasnt even worth the truth.
Barbara leapt up, wagging her finger at me.
How dare you speak to him like that! Youre nobody without my son!
I looked her dead in the eye and said quietly, Maybe so. But at least now, I dont have to pretend. Better that than being somebodys naive little wife.
They spent the next twenty minutes scraping together cash. Simon emptied his wallet, Barbara upended her bag, Helen and her husband dug through their pockets.
They counted notes at the table, whispered and searched for coins. The waiter stood, face set like stone. Other diners craned to watch the drama.
I stood nearby, watching the parade of their borrowed glamour, all their bravado crumbling to loose change on the table.
Once theyd assembled the total, I pulled an envelope from my handbag and set it before Simon.
Divorce papers. You can read them at home.
With shoulders back, I strode for the exit. Roger opened the door and whispered,
Keep your chin up, Emily.
The winter wind caught me outside, sharp and stinging, but in my chest, something warm and light bloomed. Freedom.
The divorce came through three months later. Simon called, apologising, but I never picked up. I walked away with half the proceeds from the flat.
He rang one more time, a year on.
Emily, I made a mistake. Mums living with me, nagging all hours, I lost the job. Cant we go back?
No, Simon.
I hung up and havent thought about him since.
Sometimes, I remember that night at The Silver Swan. Walking through the dining room, looking Simon in the eye, placing the envelope on the table. And I knowit wasnt an end. It was a beginning.
Restaurants
Ran into Helen in Tesco last week. She pretended not to see me. I didnt call out. Why would I? We live in different worlds now.
Yesterday Roger popped by.
Well, Emily, any regrets?
I gazed out the window. Spring sunshine, life buzzing.
Not a second, Rog.
He nodded.
Quite right.
Terraces, lawns, and gardens
It’s what you dont do you regretnot what you do.I finished the tea and walked Roger to the door. After he left, I stood alone on the stoop, watching the neighbourhood kids racing scooters between the daffodils. My phone buzzeda calendar reminder: community fair tomorrow, sewing volunteers needed. I smiled, thinking of the dress hanging in my cupboard, the one Id finally had a reason to wear. Not for Simon. This time, for me.
Inside, I opened the window. The breeze lifted the lace curtains, carrying the scent of cut grass and something new. On the kitchen table, a half-sketched pattern waited. I sat, pencil in hand, and let the lines flowa new dress, bold, nothing hidden, nothing timid.
From somewhere, church bells rang out. Not for a wedding, I thought, but a kind of freedom song. I started humminglow, contentedand stitched the first seam.
For the first time in twenty years, I wasnt waiting for someone else’s plans. The world, I realized, hands traced with thread and sunlight, was suddenly far bigger and brighter than any garden Simon had imagined. And I would fill it, stitch by stitch, on my own terms.
