Claire, honestly, come on, Julia is eyeing her old cotton dress as if it were some questionable relic dug up at a village antiques fair. Do you actually wear this old thing? With a husband at home?
Claire instinctively straightens the hem. The dress has grown softer with dozens of washes and fits just right.
I like it…
She likes it… You like all sorts of things, Emma chimes in, barely glancing up from her phone. Staying home, making stews, knitting doilies. Do you not realise youth doesnt last forever? You should live a little, not just exist.
Julia nods with exaggerated energy, her shiny gold hoop earrings swinging with each move:
We were out at that new brasserie off Marylebone with Tom last night. Absolutely divine! Bet you were frying potatoes again.
Claire did fry potatoes. With mushrooms, just how Michael loves them. Hed come home exhausted, tucked into two servings, and fell asleep on her shoulder in front of the telly. Claire keeps that to herself. Why bother? Her friends would never understand.
Years ago, all three married within the same year. Claire remembers it clearly: her modest registry office ceremony, Julias lavish wedding with a live band and fireworks, then Emmas formal affair, where every guest received a handmade favour with their own name. Even then, Claire noticed the glance they exchanged when she mentioned honeymooning at Michaels parents cottage in the countryside. Julia snorted quietly into her Prosecco, and Emma rolled her eyes so dramatically, it was hard to ignore.
Since then, their teasing became a ritual at every meet-up. Claire taught herself to block it out, though it left a dull ache beneath her ribs each time.
Julia sweeps into rooms as if shes centre stage. Loud laughter, sweeping gestures, endless stories about who said what and who looked at whom. Their flat with Tom has become a hub: friends, colleagues, random mates people drift in and out, leaving dirty glasses and red wine stains on the pale carpet behind.
Well have about fifteen round Saturday night, Julia chirps over the phone. Come along! Toms making his famous roast.
Claire politely declines. After five days at work, Michael wants peace, not a crowd of strangers stirring about their kitchen.
Suit yourself, stay tucked away in your burrow, Julia replies, something like pity flickering in her voice.
Tom had always backed his wife in her social whirl, helping lay the table, bantering with guests, tidying up afterwards. Claire would see him at the few gatherings she attended: tired eyes, his smile pulled taut, movements feeling mechanical. He poured wine and laughed in the right moments, but his gaze often wandered elsewhere.
Tom, why so glum? Julia would tweak his cheek in front of everyone. Smile, people will think Im starving you!
Tom smiled. The crowd chuckled. Claire pondered how many years a person can wear a mask until it fuses with the face. Or until you want to rip it off, no matter the cost.
After ten years, the mask broke. Tom left Julia for a quiet woman from accounts who, rumour had it, brought him homemade pasties and never raised her voice. Julia was the last to know, though the entire office had been whispering about it for weeks.
He left me, Julia sobbed down the phone, noises crashing in the background. Ungrateful git! I gave him my best years! And he just walks out!
Claire listened, silent. What could she say? That Tom had spent a decade falling asleep to someone elses laughter, waking to someone elses chatter? That a home isnt just a constant party?
Once the divorce dust settled, Julia learned the flat was mortgaged and credit cards had piled up like kindling for a bonfire. Alone, she struggled through the muddle, her laughter ringing out less often.
Emma, meanwhile, built an empire out of her picture-perfect life. Her socials overflowing with snaps: restaurants, boutiques, weekends by the sea. Immaculate brows, glowing captions about bliss and thankfulness. Dennis blurred somewhere in the background supporting the glossy façade.
Look, Emma shoves her phone under Claires nose. Katies husband got her a necklace from Tiffanys. And mine? Probably brings home some tat again.
Maybe he enjoys picking gifts himself?
Emma stares at Claire as if shes grown another head:
No, thank you. I sent him a list, he can choose from there.
Claire says nothing. Just yesterday, Michael found her a book shed wanted, wrapped it himself in brown paper, having picked it out at a cosy independent shop near the station. Claire never mentions it; Emma would only laugh such poverty.
Five years Dennis kept up with Emmas ever-climbing bar: overtime, side jobs, striving for ever-higher standards she set. Then he met a bookseller divorced, child in tow, no manicures and no designer bags. She looked at him as if he was enough, just as he was.
The divorce was swift and ugly. Emma demanded everything, received half by law, not by want. By then, all their savings were spent: spa memberships, salon treatments, endless shopping trips. Nothing left behind.
How am I meant to live? Emmas in a café, smudging her mascara with tears. On what?
Claire sips her coffee, reflecting that not once in all these years did Emma ask how she was, or how Michael was, how their health fared. Her questions always orbited a single topic: herself.
Both friends arrive at the same spot: husbandless, moneyless, bereft of their easy comforts. Julia scrambles for a second job to keep the creditors at bay. Emma downsizes to a modest flat, stops posting pictures.
But Claire lives as she always has. She cooks Michael supper, asks about his day, listens to tales of tense meetings and supplier mishaps. Doesnt demand gifts or compare him to others. Shes simply there. Steady as a house wall, warm as a kitchen light.
Michael values it all. One evening, he comes home, places a folder of papers on the table in front of Claire.
Whats this?
Half the business. Yours now.
Claire sits quietly, hesitant to touch the papers.
Why?
Because youve earned it. Because I want you to feel secure. Because none of this would exist without you.
A year later he buys a new flat bright, airy, wide windows. Puts her name on the deeds. Claire cries into his shoulder, Michael strokes her hair and calls her his treasure. His haven.
The former friends start popping by for tea. At first, rarely. Then, more often. They sit on the new sofa, touch silky cushions, peer at paintings on the wall. Claire reads their faces: puzzled, a bit lost, barely concealed envy.
Howd you manage all this? Julia sweeps her eyes across the sitting room.
Michael gave it.
Just like that?
Just like that.
They exchange a look. Claire refills their coffee, silent.
One visit Julia cant help herself. She sets her cup down so quickly coffee splashes onto the saucer and blurts out:
Explain it to me. Why? Why have we lost everything, yet you a grey mouse end up the happy one?
The silence hangs over the table. Emma stares out the window, pretending indifference, nervously spinning a ring cheap costume jewellery now, instead of diamonds.
Claire could answer. Mention patience. Care for the small things. That a happy marriage isnt a public event but daily hard work. That loving is listening, noticing, nurturing. Not demanding, but giving.
But why bother? For twenty years they saw through her, barely more than background furniture. Their advice was always live brighter or stop being dull. For twenty years, they didnt hear anything but their own voices.
Maybe I just got lucky, Claire says, with a gentle smile.
After that, the visits dwindle, then stop altogether. Friendship cant survive envy; its too strong to ignore. Its easier to walk away than admit theyve been wrong all these years.
Claire isnt sad. Amazingly, the empty space where those friendships once sat fills with a simple, easy calm. Like kicking off tight boots and finally breathing free.
Ten more years pass. Claire is fifty-four now, and life is good. Grown children, a grandson, Michael who still brings her books wrapped in brown paper. She hears from an old acquaintance that Julia never remarried, works two jobs, forever grumbling about her aches and pains. Emmas tried three partners, but all end the same way: endless complaints, resentments, demands.
Claire listens to such news without spite just listens, and thinks how sometimes quiet mice find happiness. Not flashy, not obvious, but priceless inside.
She switches off her phone and goes into the kitchen. Michaels promised hell be home early and would quite love fried potatoes with mushrooms for supper.
