Oh come off it, Lucy, dont make such a fuss! A few mates round to watch the footie, whats the harm? Havent seen these lads since school! Why dont you slice up those pickled onions and get out that pork pie we bought for Christmas? Theres plenty of lager, but absolutely nothing to nibble! boomed my husbands voice from the lounge, rising above the deafening roar of the telly and the baritone guffaws of three hulking blokes.
Lucy stood in the hallway, clutching her house keys like a lifeline. Shed just walked through the front door, desperate for one thing: to ditch her shoesthose high-heeled torture devices shed worn for nine hourswipe off her makeup, and collapse on the sofa with a book. It had been a hellish day: annual review time, her bosss meltdown, an hour and a half crawling along the M1 in rain heavy enough to drown a duck. Shed been heading home like it was sanctuarya safe, silent harbour. Instead, shed turned up at Paddington at rush hour.
The stench of cheap lager and stale crisps hit her like a punch in the nose. On her beloved cream ruga prized John Lewis findwas a pile of mens trainers, some with suspiciously muddy soles. Someones ancient Barbour jacket had crashed off the hook, lying on the floor like a dead badger.
Lucy took a deep breath, trying to quell the shaking in her hands. She strode into the living room. The tableau: Simon, her lawfully wedded husband, sprawled in his armchair, while Dave, Pete, and some bearded stranger had colonised the sofa. On the glass coffee table (which shed lovingly polished this morning, so help her), bottles and crisp packets loomed atop a sea of bread crumbs and cocktail sausage wrappers.
Simon, Lucy began quietly, We agreed: no guests midweek without warning. Im shattered. I just wanted some peace and quiet.
Simon didnt even turn around. His focus was fixed on the screen, where twenty-two millionaires chased a ball round a patch of grass.
Oh, here we go! he moaned. Im tired, Ive got a headache. Lucy, dont be a killjoy, love! Lads, back me up here!
Oi, dont worry, boss! belted Dave, whose quiet registered on the Richter scale. Well keep it down! If our lot scores, we might even have a dance. Come join us! Fancy a pint?
I dont need a pint, Lucy answered, feeling a deliciously cold wave of anger starting to bubble. What I need is for this house to be empty and tidy in ten minutes flat.
Lucy, dont embarrass me in front of me mates! Simon finally bothered to glance over. His face matched the colour of his beloved Arsenal shirt: crimson and peevish. Go grab something to do in the kitchen. Maybe put some sausages on for the lads. Stop hovering and killing the mood.
Lucy gave him a long, searching look, as if seeing her husband for the first time. Ten years of marriage. Ten years of being the perfect wife: warm home, spotless surfaces, hot stew on the hob. Shed tolerated his shed nights, his mothers gentle advice, his scattered socks. But tonight, something snapped. Maybe it was the crumbs on her precious coffee table, maybe it was just the bossy go put some sausages on.
She turned without a word and left the room.
Well, shes in a mood, she heard from behind. Shell cool off, then bring in some grub. Shes got a forgiving nature, that one.
Lucy made for the bedroom. Lying on the dresser was Simons wallet. He had a habit: keys, coins, cards, all emptied out the minute he got inside. Lucy knew for a fact the quarterly bonus had dropped into his account yesterday. A nice, chunky sum, earmarked for redoing the balcony orat the very leastsome new tyres for the car.
Her gaze fell on the gleaming gold credit card.
A plan formulated instantly. A daring, perhaps slightly unhinged plan. The old Lucyquiet, obedient Lucywould never have done this. But the old Lucy had left the building. This Lucy wanted respector at least, compensation for emotional distress.
She took the card, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out her overnight case. Underwear, her favourite pyjamas (the ones Simon dubbed the slippery ones), phone charger, cosmetics bag; she packed with military efficiency.
A collective GOOOAL! shook the room as someone, presumably, leapt onto her couch. Good grief.
Lucy shrugged on her trench, slipped on her flats. One glance in the mirrortired eyes, set jaw.
Sausages, was it? she murmured. Sure, darling, sausages coming right up.
She closed the door quietly behind her. Not a soul noticed her escape; the blaring TV neatly disguised her.
It was drizzly and properly miserable outside, but Lucy was positively boiling with adrenaline. She pulled out her phone and summoned an Uber. Comfort class? No. Tonight, it was all or nothingmake it Exec.
The cara posh black Mercedespulled up moments later. The driver, who looked like he should be on the board of Barclays, stepped out and opened her door.
Good evening. Where to, madam?
To the Grand Royal, please. The most expensive hotel in town. Marble floors, top-hatted doormenthe works. Shed often gazed at the twinkling lights from afar, never dreaming she might one day stroll in, not as a guest, but as a resident.
Excellent choice, the driver replied, with a smile.
En route, Lucys phone shuddered in her handbag. Simon was calling. Presumably, the halftime pie crisis had struck. Lucy silenced the thing. Let him panic. Let him imagine shed just gone to Sainsburys for mayonnaise.
The Royals lobby smelled of flowers and money. The chandelier glittered like a star. Lucy headed to the check-in desk, a vision of composure.
Good evening. Do you have a booking? the receptionist asked, all perfect teeth and Queens English.
No, Lucy said, plonking Simons gold card down. Id like a suite, please. With a river view, Jacuzzi if possible.
Not so much as a flicker of surprise. We have a beautiful Executive Suite on the seventh floor, breakfast included, 24-hour spa access. That will be £265 a night, madam. Shall I proceed?
Two hundred sixty five quid. Half her monthly salary. Or a third of Simons bonus. Her thrift-trained heart tried to shriek a protest, but she stomped it soundly.
Yesplease do.
Passport or driving licence, please.
Lucy handed over her ID. The machine beeped, payment accepted. She pictured Simons phone, probably now nestling between crisp wrappers, lighting up with £265.00 spent at GRAND ROYAL. Would he notice straight away? Doubtful. The football took precedence.
A bellhop escorted her up. When she stepped inside the suite, Lucy actually lost her breath. This wasnt a room, it was Buckingham Palace with WiFi. Giant bed, snowy sheets, squashy armchairs, a marble bathroom bigger than their kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows sparkling with city lights.
First order of business: off with the shoes. Then, by all means, the mini-bar. The little bottle of champagne cost more than a crate of the lager currently being guzzled at house Lucy.
Why not, she declared brightly, popping the cork.
One glass later, she checked her phone: fifteen missed calls, three WhatsApps.
Lucy, where are you?
Did you pop to Tesco? We need mayo!
Lucy, the lads are starving!
Heartfelt concern, clearly. Lucy sipped the chilly, ticklish fizz. Bliss.
Then, another chirrup.
Lucystrange text here. £265 spent? Cards missing. Did you take it? Ring me!
Ah. Hed noticed. Lucy smirked and called room service.
Hello! Yescould I order dinner to the room? I know its late. Seafood salad, medium-rare fillet steak, and oh, go on, tiramisu. A bottle of decent red. Yes, do put it on the account.
She set a bubble bath running, phone vibrating furiously on the duvet. Simon had abandoned subtlety and was resorting to rapid redial.
She answered only when sunk in almond-scented foam.
Hello?
LUCY! Are you mad? Simon barked at her. For once, the background was silent. Presumably, the mates had stopped to listen. Where are you? Whats this hotel charge? What did you BUY at this time of night?!
Not a fur coat, darling. I bought myself peace and respect. Im at the Royal.
At the Lucy, what do you mean? Why?!
Because home was a public house, and it stank of crisp dust. You knew I was exhausted. You invited a small platoon of men round. You ordered me to cook sausages. I didnt want to make sausages. I wanted steak and a bubble bath.
Are you drunk? Come home this instant! Thats our savings! Thats for the balcony!
Balcony can wait. My nerves cant. By the way, look out for another chargedinners about £70. Dont faint.
Seventy quid for a snack?! Lucy! Weve got sausages in the freezer!
Bon appétit, Simon! Maybe Dave will cook them for you. Im sure the lads will pitch in during these difficult times.
Lucy, stop this! Come back now! Theyre leaving already!
Are they taking the smell with them? Will the pile of dishes vanish? Sorry, darling, Ive paid for a night, and I mean to get my moneys worth. Tomorrowa massage. I hear their spa is divine.
Whatmore money? Lucy, stop! Ill clean everything, swear down! Ill mop the floor myself!
Im delighted to hear your domestic instincts have kicked in. Practice away. Ill be back for lunch. Scream, and Ill stay an extra night. The card is, after all, in my bag.
She hung up. Then switched the phone off completely.
A knock at the door: dinner. The waiter wheeled in a table, set with a pristine cloth. Silver cutlery, that steak smell, a cloud of dessert. Lucy, in the fluffiest hotel dressing-gown, ate her divine meal while gazing out at the Thames.
For the first time in years, she felt like a Woman with a capital Wnot a domestic tool, not a background feature. Expensive, fussy, belovedat the very least by herself, at the minor expense of the family wallet.
The night was bliss: a bed like a cloud, no one snoring, no one stealing the duvet. She woke to morning sun peeking through heavy curtains, stretched, and found her mind clear and body rested.
After breakfast, she visited the spaswim, steam, massage. The masseuse, firm as a drill sergeant, kneaded Lucys shoulders, clucking sympathetically. You must look after yourself, dear, she chided.
I will now, Lucy promised, feeling the tension finally slip away.
She left the hotel just after two oclock. On reactivating her phone, a barrage of notifications rained in. Simons final text stood out: Ive cleaned up. Waiting for you. Can we talk?
She ordered another Uber Execonce youve taste for caviar, its hard to go back to peanutsand returned home.
The key turned in the lock. The flat well, it smelt of bleach, lemon, and just a touch of penitent husband.
Simon sat at the kitchen table, a mug of tea growing cold before him. The flat was immaculatenary a trace of yesterdays carnage. Hallway rug spotless, floors gleaming, plates washed and stacked. Hed even scrubbed the oven, bless him.
Simon rose at her entrance. He looked a wreckshadows under the eyes, utterly spent. Clearly, his night had been less restful than hers.
Youre home, then, he breathed, a touch nervy. You really Lucy, do you know how much you splurged?
Lucy set her bag down, fished out the card, and plonked it on the table.
I do. £384.50. The price of peaceand your lesson.
Simon gaped. Three hundred eighty-four in one night! Lucy, thats half the balcony!
And how much does a decade of cleaning, cooking, and couples therapy cost? Lucy sat opposite, eyes steady. You take me for granted. That Ill be quiet, patient, invisible. Last night, you made it clear my no meant nothing. You turned our home into a mens club. You made me feel like an intruder in my own house.
Simon opened his mouth, thought better, closed it.
I didnt force They just sort of turned up
Lost your ability to say no, have you? Are your lads more important than your wife? Lucys voice was low, words falling like slate tiles. Let me put it simply: pull that again, and next time Im not going to a hotel. Ill go for good. And trust methe divorce will be far pricier than £384.
Simon wilted. His gaze drifted from the card, to Lucy, to the gleaming kitchen hed scrubbed all night, cursing Dave and his pork scratching habit. For once, the penny dropped. The old, convenient Lucy was gone; in her place sat a refreshed, dazzlingand, frankly, slightly terrifyingstranger.
Right then, he muttered, eyes downcast. Overdid it, I see. Daves a muppet, anyway. Told him not to barrel in again.
Splendid. Lucy rose. Im starving. Any sausages left or did you lot scoff the lot?
Simon leapt up. No, er, I made soup. Chicken. From a tin, but I put spuds in. Want some?
Lucy almost laughed. Tin soupa Herculean effort.
Ill have some, yes. Please.
They ate in silence. Simon shot her nervous glances from time to time, as if braced for an explosion. But Lucy, enjoying her oversalted soup, reflected that those £384 quid had probably been the wisest investment in their marriage for years. Sometimes, to get noticed, you have to price yourself like the Crown Jewels.
That evening, when Lucy selected the film (her turn, melodrama, utter tripe in Simon-speak), Simon sidled up and put his arm round her.
Lucy
Hmmm?
That hotel was it as good as it looked?
Better. Jacuzzi, river view, towels like clouds
We could maybe book a night there? Together, I mean. For our anniversary, once weve saved up a bit.
Lucy rested her head on his shoulder. Definitely. Just make sure you keep hold of your card. I might fancy another midnight steak.
Simon chuckled nervously, hugging her tighter. Ill learn to cook steak myself. Cheaper by miles.
Half a year on, guests were only allowed with prior agreement, and only at weekends. Most shockingly, Simon had taken to washing his own plates. Turns out, the chilling spectre of the Grand Royal bill was a stronger motivator than any amount of gentle persuasion.
As for Lucy? Shed opened her own savings account. She called it her Independence Fund, and siphoned a little from each paycheque. Just in case. Because its comforting to know that, at any moment, one could book a suite with a river view. And that knowledge, truly, was warmer than any fire.
And if you found this story relatable, and you too believe in self-respect and the occasional little splurge, do follow, like, and share your own tales belowId love to read them!
