Where have you put the napkins? I told you to get the ones with the silver trim they match the tablecloth better, Margaret Preston called out, slicing lemon into almost transparent crescents, her back to the kitchen door.
Any other year, her husband Richard would be planted in front of the telly by now, waiting for the New Years Eve countdown show. But tonight, he was conspicuously absent; Margaret was left to mutter and fuss to herself in the spotless, fragrant kitchen. There were only three hours until midnight. The ovens rich scent of roast duck with Bramley apples her familys cherished, handed-down recipe mingled with the sharp whiff of fresh pine from their glimmering tree. The house shimmered with clean, deliberate care. She felt that peculiar, rare anticipation that never quite leaves you, even after fifty Christmases.
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and glanced at the clock. Richard shouldve been home by now. Hed said he only needed to pop into the office to collect her forgotten present. Margaret smiled, imagining him fussing over the right gift. This year was their silver anniversary twenty-five years, side by side and theyd decided to spend New Years Eve quietly and romantically, just the two of them, with their children long since scattered to their own lives.
The door finally clicked open. Margaret straightened her hair, slipped off her apron to reveal a plum velvet dress, and hurried out to greet him.
Richard, where have you been? The ducks just
Her words stuck in her throat. Richard wasnt alone. Next to him, dusting snow off an expensive mink coat, stood a young woman bold, striking, a fiery mane of red hair and lips bright with crimson lipstick. She clutched a bag of clementines, while Richard awkwardly brandished a bottle of Moët, the expression on his face at once apologetic and unnaturally cheerful.
Mags, look whos here! he called too loudly for their small entryway. This is Alice. Alice Graham, our new finance manager.
Margaret froze, something inside her icing over. She glanced from Richard to the gateway guest, and back, heartbeat thudding.
Good evening, she managed stiffly. Were we expecting someone?
Alice, perfectly at ease, extended a gloved hand.
Oh, Margaret, thank goodness! You cant imagine honestly, its like something out of EastEnders! Richard that is, Mr. Preston absolutely saved me. Im so grateful, honestly, I dont know what Id have done.
Richard bent to remove his shoes, deliberately not meeting Margarets eyes.
Maggie, its just youll never believe it I found Alice at the office sobbing her eyes out! Complete disaster: her flat flooded, electrics gone, freezing cold, plumber wont be out until the third. No family nearby, all on her own for New Year! I couldnt just abandon her, could I? I said, Come round to ours Margarets set the table for a banquet, shes an absolute angel, she wont mind
Margaret listened, numb, as the reality of her romantic evening crumbled. Twenty-five years. A table ready for two. Candles waiting on crisp white linen. And now, this vision in furs.
Well, come in then, she said, voice dry and unfamiliar even to her own ears. Youre here now.
Alice fluttered into the hallway, enveloping the air in a thick, sugary cloud of designer perfume, instantly blanketing the scents Margaret had carefully crafted all day.
Oh, its simply charming in here! Alice warbled, brazenly inspecting every corner. So retro. My gran had a dresser just like that. Very atmospheric like the British Museums 70s exhibit!
Margarets jaw tensed. The dresser was Italian, solid oak, bought five years ago for a small fortune. Explaining this to a girl young enough to be her daughter felt beneath her.
Richard, help our guest off with her coat, she said coolly, retreating to the kitchen. She needed to breathe. Her hands were shaking.
In a minute, Richard crept in, sporting the look of a chastened schoolboy but with a stubborn gleam in his eye.
Mags, pleasedont make a fuss, he whispered, nervously pulling the kitchen door shut. She truly had nowhere else to go. Its New Years Eve! Lets do something kind tonight. Shell eat a bit, have a drink, then Ill send her off in a cab or she can kip on the sofa
On the sofa? Margaret spun round, clutching her ladle so hard her knuckles blanched. Richard, have you lost your mind? We planned a night aloneand you drag in some woman who insults me the moment she steps through the door? Since when is my house a museum?
She meant nothing by it! Shes just young, doesnt think before she speaks. Please, Mags, dont embarrass me in front of my team. Shell tell everyone I chucked her out in the cold. Ill still have to work with her.
Margaret stared at her husband, searching for the man shed built a life with. Instead, she saw a middle-aged show-off, desperate to impress his pretty colleague at his wifes expense.
Fine, she said at last. Let her stay. But if she says one more word about my house
She wont! Ill keep her in line! Richard tried to embrace her, but Margaret pulled away.
Go entertain your free-spirited guest. Ill set a third place at the table.
Dinner began under a heavy silence. Margaret moved plates with the stiff grace of a servant. Alice, minus the coat, wore a cocktail dress with a plunging neckline that clashed spectacularly with the living rooms comfort. She sprawled at the table, elegantly swinging one leg over the other, twirling her wine glass.
Richard, darling, open the champagne, will you? Lets toast the old year goodbye, she purred, her eyes smouldering.
The darling nearly made Margaret drop the salad bowl. She banged her herring-and-beetroot salad down with excessive force.
In this house, we wait for midnight to open champagne, she snapped. For now, you can have cranberry cordial. Its homemade.
Alice grimaced. Cordial? How quaint. I dont take sweet things, Im watching my figure. Got any dry prosecco? Or at least something not so basic?
Richard busied himself at the drink trolley. Ive got a nice single malt in the cabinet, Alice. Want a dram?
Well, maybe a splash its chilly in here. Do you save on heating?
Margaret sank into her chair opposite the pair. Shed never felt so surplus in her own home. Richard turned on every past-his-sell-by-date joke, pouring Alice whisky and offering caviar while her laughter clanged through the space.
What about you, Margaret do you work? Alice suddenly asked, pausing her mouthful.
I do, Margaret replied, voice steely. Im head of product development at Windsor Sweets.
Really? Alices pencilled brows shot up. You dont look the type. More homey, you know? Like someone whos always in her kitchen, waiting for hubby to get in from work. Richard said youre good with your hands. Admitted things get a bit dull, but at least your pies are lovely.
A metallic silence fell. The wall clock ticked. The TV buzzed pointlessly in the corner. Richard started to choke on his whisky.
I I never said that! he spluttered. Alice, youve got it wrong!
Margaret set down her fork, very slowly. The thin thread of patience shed clung to snapped with a sting. Nothing to talk about? Boring routine?
Do go on, Alice, she said, her smile glacier-cold. What else has Richard been confiding?
Alice, realising her mistake, tried to row back only making things worse.
Oh, dont take offence! Men need excitement, dont they? Richard was a right live wire at the staff do last Friday best dancer of the bunch! We even did the salsa together, everyone cheered. He said he never dances at home, you get tired legs and all that.
Margaret glanced down at her own legs, under the table. They didnt ache, not unless shed stood cooking for three days straight to create this festive spread for her beloved.
Richard sat, the colour drained from his face, realising inevitability was descending. But he remained silent, paralysed.
To peace on earth! he blurted, raising his glass in desperation.
No, Margaret locked eyes with Alice. One moment. About this flood what exactly happened at your flat, Alice?
The girl hesitated, her eyes flitting wildly. Oh, well you know, a burst pipe! Hot water everywhere! I was terrified, called Richarder, Mr. Prestonbecause hes reliable, a real gent. Not like my ex.
Margarets tone turned measured, icy. Strange. Considering its below freezing outside, if youd had a burst pipe and your electrics were fried, youd be freezing, reeking of damp and stress. But you smell only of that salon, and the desire to snatch another womans husband.
Alice flushed scarlet.
How dare you! Im a guest! Richard, say something, will you?
Richard shrank into his chair.
Dont, Mags perhaps she had time to change
Enough, Richard. Margarets voice was quiet, forceful. She stood. Twenty-five years Ive looked the other way, while you ogled at skirts, while you worked late. I believed you valued this family over all else. And now Im just the drudge you cant be bothered to talk to?
She yanked back the curtain, revealing the dark garden beyond, lit only by the rare spark of a firework.
Enough, she said firmly. Shows over. Miss Graham, collect your clementines and leave this house.
Alice opened her mouth, ready to spit fury, but Margarets stare stopped her cold. There was something dangerous in the poise, the conviction.
Richard! Are you seriously letting her kick me out at this hour? Alice shrieked, her voice now edged with panic.
Swelling with a misplaced bravado (or perhaps just whisky), Richard thumped his hand on the table.
Margaret! Stop this tantrum. This is my home too! I brought a guest. Alice stays. Well see in the New Year properly, not like a pair of
Of what? Margaret asked, eyebrows raised.
Battleaxes! he roared, instantly regretting it.
Margaret nodded serenely. Wordless, she fetched a large leather holdall from the sideboard, originally readied for gifts to the grandchildren. She upended the contents boxes of chocolate right onto the floor.
You think this is your house? she said, tossing the bag at Richards knees. Very well. Im going. Just so you know, however, this flats still in my familys name, youre just a lodger. Come the second of January, Ill be filing for divorce and your removal. But for now both of you: out. Now.
Richard paled. Instantly, the alcohol drained away.
Mags, what are you doing? Where are we expected to go?
To the party, apparently. To Alices flat help her mop up. Youre the knight in shining armour, after all. After all, you can waltz, you can salsa youll manage.
Margaret watched as her resolve struck home. For a split second, Richard was ready to jilt Alice, but the wind had shifted.
No, Mags! Dont do this! Alice will go, well stay together! Please
She eyed her husband with contempt. Just moments ago, he was happy to battle for his new friend. Now, faced with losing hearth and home, he was spineless.
No, Richard. The salads gone sour just like us. Get going. Five minutes.
Alice, sensing defeat, flounced to the hallway, coat in hand.
Youre mad, she spat, buttoning up. Richard, Ill grab a taxi. Dont bother. I dont need your reliable if it comes with extra baggage.
The door slammed with a final, heady waft of perfume.
Richard stood, hollow and uncertain, still clutching the empty holdall.
Mags Alice is gone. Lets forget this? The ducks getting cold
Margaret lifted the roasted bird from the oven, the steam rich with cinnamon and apples. Once intoxicating, now it turned her stomach.
Forget? she echoed. You brought your mistress into our home. You gossiped about me behind my back. You let her mock me in my kitchen.
She hefted the heavy ceramic dish.
Richard, get out. Im not joking. Stay, and Ill ring the police say youre drunk and threatening me. Believe me, Id be believed.
Richard saw at last that she meant every word. There was a new fire in his homey wife one hed never noticed before. Head drooping, he shuffled from room to room, yanking on his coat, cramming hastily grabbed shirts into the battered holdall.
Youll regret this, Margaret! he cried from the hall, clinging to tatters of pride. Youll end up on your own! Who wants you at fifty?
Myself, she replied, closing the door firmly behind him. She turned the deadlock twice.
At last, the house was silent. Holy silence. Margaret slumped against the door and slid to the floor. She was sure shed cry. But the tears never came. Instead, there was only a curious lightness, as if someone had hauled out obsolete, cumbersome furniture, leaving room to breathe again.
She got up and made for the kitchen. The table was set for three: salads, caviar, duck. All of it seemed like a stage prop for a cancelled play.
Margaret picked up Alices half-eaten sandwich, marked with a smear of scarlet, and tossed it into the bin. The plate shattered in a burst of porcelain, a melody to her ears.
Richards plate went next. Smash.
She cleared away the third setting and left her favourite plate with the gold trim. She poured herself a tall glass of ice-cold champagne.
On the TV, the Prime Minister had just begun the annual speech. The clock began its countdown to midnight. A year had ended a year that rescued her self-respect, if it took away her illusions.
Happy New Year, Margaret, she murmured to her own reflection, dark and shimmering in the window.
She sliced herself the best piece of duck the leg, golden and crisp-skinned. Added a scoop of potato salad perfectly steeped, not at all sour.
Her phone jingled. A message from her daughter, Katie: Happy New Year, Mum! We both love you expect the grandkids in a week!
Margaret smiled. Real life was still here: children, grandchildren, work, the beloved house. And what had fallen away hadnt belonged anyway.
She sipped the champagne. Bubbles rose to her head, warm and dizzying. For the first time in years, she wasnt bustling, fussing, checking everyones glass. She was simply present, enjoying herself.
From next door, neighbours whooped and set off fireworks. The world was celebrating. And Margaret was celebrating too: her freedom.
Later, she gathered the remaining food into neat boxes. Tomorrow, shed give them to Mrs Bailey the caretaker and old Mick the groundsman. They deserved a treat too.
But the duck the duck she would finish herself. Shed earned it.
Before bed, she stood in front of the mirror, washed away her makeup. A beautiful woman looked back at her composed, cared for, a touch sad, but sparkling, alive. No hair curlers, no tired figure.
He wanted excitement, Margaret chuckled softly. All right, Richard, youll have plenty of excitement now. Find a new home, split the assets, explain yourself to our children.
She slipped into their wide, empty bed, stretching out star-shaped, hogging the space Richards snores used to claim. The linen smelt of lavender and new beginnings.
When dawn came, sunshine filled the room. And instead of thinking, Time to make Richards breakfast, she thought, I want coffee and cake from that new café on the corner. A perfect thought.
She had no idea what was next divorce, difficult talks, paperwork. But for now, the day ahead was full of quiet, excellent food, and calm. No one would ever call her home a museum again. No one would dare call her life dull.
