My husband kept comparing me to his mother, until I told him to pack up and move in with her.
Did you go easy on the salt again? Ive said it a hundred timesthis is as bland as boiled nettles, groused William, shoving away his steaming plate of stew and reaching for the salt cellar. You know, my mum always says, Less salt on the plate, more worry on your back. Still, she has the golden touchshe knows just the right amount. Whereas you just chuck things in, following recipes, with no heart in it at all.
Charlotte watched in brittle silence as William heaped salt onto the vegetables shed lovingly stewed for over an hour. The same tight spring in her chest twisted again; over the last three years of marriage, it had wound tighter with every small slight. She inhaled, steadying herself, and turned to the window, where autumn dusk and lamplight muddied the streets of London.
I was cooking the way the nutritionist recommended, Will, she murmured, putting away clean cups on the rack. You had terrible heartburn last week, remember?
Oh, dont hide behind doctors! William retorted around mouthfuls of beef. Just face itcooking isnt your thing. Remember Sunday at Mums? Those cabbage rolls she didtiny, perfect, identical. And the sauce! Real clotted cream from the farm, not your shop-bought soulless ketchup. Mum makes a home; you, theres always a whiff of bleach, not baking.
Charlotte bit her lip. The scent was bleach because shed just scrubbed the kitchen following one of Williams hash-and-eggs fiascosgrease everywhere, even the ceiling light fittings. But there was no use reminding himWilliam had a rare gift for ignoring his own slip-ups and elevating any, even imaginary, shortcomings in his wife.
Dinner limped on beneath the drone of the telly, with Williams running commentary on correct household management. Charlotte nodded automatically, mind skipping ahead to tomorrows work report. As senior analyst at a London shipping firm, the quarter’s end left her wrung dry. Shed come to crave only peace at homebut instead, nightly reminders that she would never compare to the saintly, blameless, and perfect Margaret Blackwell.
Margaret, Williams mother, was a woman of nearly mythic presencecommanding, bustling, and, truthfully, a master of the domestic arts. Her order was often achieved through chaos; every deep clean meant all furniture upended and dust fleeing from crevices none but she ever spied. William had grown in the shadow of his mothers cult of care and now, with sincere incomprehension, wondered why Charlotte wouldnt offer her life upon the altar of home.
The evening seeped into night, but the atmosphere never thawed. William sprawled on the settee with his tablet as Charlotte prepared his shirts for tomorrow. She set up the ironing board, switched on her iron, and fetched his blue Oxford from the basketgood thick fabric, but infuriating to press.
Char, youre doing it again, Williams voice suddenly sounded behind her, close on the nape of her neck, making her jump.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyeing her efforts with incredulity.
What am I doing now, Will?
Who irons like that? See, youre leaving creases! Mum always does sleeves first, then the back, collar last, with a damp cloth. Youre blasting steam straight onto itwont it go shiny? Youre ruining it, just wait.
Charlotte set the iron onto its tray, steam wheezing free, echoing her thoughts.
If you know the method better than me, why dont you do it yourself? she offered without inflection.
William snorted, rolling his eyes. Youre at it again! I try to help and you get huffy. Mum says a woman must know how to care for her husbands wardrobeits the face of the family. But youre always too busywork, deadlines The house is a tip.
The house is a tip? Charlotte looked about at the spotless sitting room. Will, its clean, laundered, and cooked for. I work as much as you do, and, not to put too fine a point on it, I actually earn more. Am I supposed to take evening classes in Domestic Studies with your mother?
Oh, so its about money now! William winced, as if it hurt his teeth. It’s about care, not cash. Mum always worked, you knowlibrarianbut there was always dinner, cake, a roast every Sunday. And Dad was always looked after. You eh, Char. Ah well, do as you like. Ill go rumpled, everyone can see who Ive married.
He stormed off to their bedroom, leaving Charlotte with her lukewarm iron and that familiar knot of stifled anger. She contemplated packing her bags, simply walking outif only there were somewhere to go. But the flat was hers, inherited from her grandmother years before the marriage. William had arrived with nothing but a suitcase and a clunky old laptop, yet in three years had taken to striding about as Lord of the Manor, always dissatisfied.
The days that followed played out like a silent cold war. William would sigh loudly when a speck of dust appeared on a skirting board, or martyr himself with extra saltwithout even tasting her food. Charlotte retreated into work. Saturday approachedthe day they made their regular pilgrimage to his mothers for lunch.
Saturday dawned in chaos, William darting about, pestering her.
Char, hurry up! Mum hates tardiness. And wear the blue dress, not those jeansMum says you look adolescent in jeans, and youre thirty-eight for heavens sake. Time you looked dignified.
Charlotte, mid-zip in her favourite trousers, paused. Im comfortable, Will. Its a family lunch, not tea at Buckingham Palace.
Its respect! Mums been slaving over the stove, and you want to turn up half-dressed.
In the end, Charlotte wore jeans and a white shirt. William sulked the entire drive, drumming fingers on the wheel of the carthey shared a loan, but it was mostly paid by her salary anyway.
At Margaret’s flat, the smell of pies and roasted beef hung heavy. Margaret, a robust woman with a towering set of curls, opened the door, apron starched and hands busy.
Well, finally! Look at you, Will, wasting awaydoesnt your wife feed you? She enveloped her son in a hug, barely glancing at Charlotte. Come in, Char, guest slippers are there. Careful, Ive just buffed the floors.
Lunch was a well-rehearsed monologue. Margaret piled Williams plate, fussing over his pallor.
Try the duck, Will. Did it with apples, slow-cooked for hours. Not like the younger lot nowjust shove it in some gadget and call it cooking. Might as well feed pigs. Isnt that right, Charlotte?
Charlotte smiled politely, poking at her salad. We all live at different tempos, Mrs Blackwell. Slow cookers are handy time-savers.
Time for what, pray? Social media? Margaret threw up her hands. We managed work, kids, spotless homes, without dishwashers and robot vacuums! Now I visit your place, Charcurtains are grey, window glass sad. Frankly, its a reflection on you. A womans soul is her windows.
William, cheeks bulging with duck, murmured assent. I say the same, Mum! Told her, lets wash them togethershe wants to hire a cleaner. Imagine! Strangers tracking filth in for cash.
Cleaners? Margaret acted as if Charlotte had just proposed a gambling den in her study. Char, are you mad? Lazy! A womans hand must bless every corner. Strange energy in your homeno wonder you havent had a child, and probably quarrel all the time.
The blow landed properly low. Children were a scar; Charlotte and doctors were working on it, but no luck so farand Margaret knew, and never missed the chance.
We dont argue over cleaning, Mrs Blackwell, Charlotte spoke up, calmly setting down her fork. We argue when William compares me to you.
Silence tangled the room. William choked slightly on his elderflower cordial.
Whats so wrong with wanting the best? Margaret sounded honestly baffled. Wills proud of his mother. He wants his wife to match. Instead of backchat, Char, take out a notebook, copy my recipes while you can. Wills been raised to expect a certain kind of loving care.
Exactly! William chimed, dabbing his mouth. She could be gentler, more homey. Look how Mums house sparkles. Ours? Dust on the skirting.
Something inside Charlotte snapped with a silent finality, like a light flipping from endure to act. She looked at her husbandwell-fed, smug, sure as stone of his own virtue. And his mother, beaming her victory.
Thank you for lunch, it was delicious, said Charlotte with deliberate tranquillity, rising from the table.
Youre off already? Margaret asked, bent on her showstopper cake. At least have a slice of Victoria sponge!
No, were not leaving. I am. I think William will stay for tea. Hell benefit from a little homegrown atmosphere.
Char, what on earth hissed William, snatching her arm in the hall. Sit down, youre embarrassing me.
Im going home, Will. My head aches. Come as you please, taxi or car, your choice. Youve got a key.
Charlotte stepped into the cold London dusk, air sharp and clean, washing years of tension from her skin. By the time she reached her flat, a plan had grownsudden, certain, as if it had always been waiting.
Charlotte didnt rest that Saturday evening. She fetched three of the mammoth suitcases from the closetthe ones from last years trip to Crete. She opened Williams wardrobe and methodically packed it all: shirts, jumpers, jeans, every last sock and tie. Calm, tearless, methodically rolling even that one suit that one should iron through a damp cloth into its carry case.
William returned late, around eleven. He smelled of pastry and felt entirely self-satisfied.
What was that today then? he barked, not even off with his shoes. Mums upset, blood pressure shot up. Had to dose her with medication. Selfish, Char. Think only of yourself.
He trudged to the bedroom and abruptly halted. Three enormous suitcases and a stack of boxes filled the room. The wardrobe gaped, hollow as a ghost.
Are are we going somewhere? he mumbled, lost.
Charlotte sat in her reading chair. She snapped shut her novel, set it on her lap, and met his gaze.
No. You are.
He laughed nervously. Hilarious, Char. Come on, lets put this away. Im wrecked.
Im not joking. Ive packed all your belongingsclothes, shoes, files, your vinyl collection and favourite mug. The moving van comes at nine tomorrow.
His face blazed red, slowly.
Youyoure chucking me out? Of my home?
My home, Will, Charlotte corrected, soft as a lullaby. Lets be precise. This flat is mine, before marriage. We shared it, but it no longer suits you.
Doesnt suit? Ive done everything for you! Always tried my best!
Exactly. Nothings ever good enough: the foods bland, not like Mums; cleanings wrong, not like Mums; ironingbad, not like Mums. Menever quite enough, compared to Mum. Ive realized I simply cant, and dont want to, compete with Margaret Blackwell. Why should I?
Were a family! William pleaded, all bravado gone.
Family supports you, doesnt constantly tell you to be someone elses copy. You seem unhappy here, suffering my subpar stews and dusty corners. And I am unhappy, forever falling short of your standard. So: perfect solution.
Charlotte stood by the luggage.
You can return to paradiseyour mothers. The ideal stew, perfect chocolate cake, gleaming kitchen, and someone wholl dedicate her life to you. Youll be happy there, and for my part, I can finally relaxnot worrying about creases in your collar.
He gaped, speechless. Anger flashed in his eyes.
Ive got rights to this flat, you know! I put up shelves, did the bathroom tiles! Im going to sue you to the House of Lords if needed!
Charlotte smiled, a touch sadly. She was ready for this.
Youve a law degree, even if its dusty. You know the law. The flats my pre-marital asset. As for the bathroom and shelvesI have receipts. All paid from my account. As for the wallpaper and glueyou did buy that, five rolls, cost about a hundred and twenty pounds in all. Im happy to repay you, bank transfer or cash. Your time? Well, its called maintenance; try your luck in court if you’d rather.
He sagged, defeated. His salary as a regional manager barely covered petrol, groceries, and odds and ends; every major expense had always been Charlottes to shoulder, thanks to her much brighter career.
Over silly things like stew youll throw away a marriage? He all but whimpered. Char, I do love you. I’ve just got this way, Mum If you want, I wont compare you anymore.
A week? A month? Charlottes reply was tired. It isnt the stew, Will. Youve never grown up; youre still a mummys boy, not a partner. What I need is an equala grown man. Were just too different. I want to come home to rest, not to live through exams every night.
They slept in separate rooms that night. She locked herself in the bedroom; he tossed and turned on the couch. The next morning, at nine sharp, the removal van arrived. Porters loaded everything up.
William hovered in the door, small in his coat. Char, dont. Mum will go mad if I turn up suitcase in hand. What should I say?
Tell the truth: Im not up to her standards, so youve gone back. Shell love itshe always said I wasnt a proper match. Now her wish is real.
The door shut behind him. Charlotte turned the bolt two times, leaned her brow against the cool brass, andlaughed. Not shrilly; quietly, giddy with freedom. The flat was silent at last. No murmuring, no criticism, no demands.
A week passed, and Charlotte revelled in her solitude. She hired a cleanermiraculously, the flat sparkled and no evil spirits appeared. She bought ready meals from a delicatessen or met friends at cafés for dinner. In the evenings shed wallow in the tub with bubbles, read novels, or binge Netflixno worry about shirts to iron.
The phone rang one Thursday. On the screen: Margaret Blackwell. Charlotte sighed, but answered.
Charlotte! What is this nonsense? Margarets voice rattled in rage. Why did you throw my son out? Hes driving me up the wall!
Good evening, Mrs Blackwell. I didnt throw him out; I returned him to his family, where hell be cared for much better. You always said my home was dirty, food unpalatable, atmosphere miserable. Yours is ideal. I agreedWilliam deserves the best.
Dont get smart! screeched Margaret. Hes a grown man! He lies on my sofa barking for cutlets and scattering his socks! My schedules upside down! Im not young! I need peace! He keeps calling Mum, fetch, Mum, do, Mum, press my shirt. I told him, Go back to your wife! and he says, Charlotte doesn’t appreciate me.
There you have it, Mrs Blackwell. He needs the coddling you taught him. I cant provide it; I work full-time.
Sheesh! A wifes place is with her husband! Take him back! Yesterday he said my soup was salty! SALTY! Me!
Charlotte struggled not to laugh. Sorry, Mrs Blackwell, but I wont. Well be filing for divorce. Let him live there, or he can rent a flatlearn to manage for himself.
Divorce!? The pause hung like a curtain. Char, think. Who will want a forty year old divorcée? Whereas Will Will is still a catch!
Exactly. A man with an ideal mother is jackpot for someone else. As for meIll manage. Good night, Mrs Blackwell.
Call ended, she blocked Margarets number. After a moment, she blocked Williams as well.
A month later, they met at the registry office. William looked crumpled, shirt badly pressed, shadows beneath mournful eyes.
Char, maybe we could try again? he pleaded, eyes on the floor. Mum Its impossible living with her. Shes always fussing. I thought she loved me, but she just wants someone to boss around. I realise now what I had with youpeace and quiet. So what if the stew was bland? You didnt drive me mad.
Charlotte looked at him with a little pity but no regret.
You only start to appreciate me when youre in my shoes. But youre not after love, just somewhere comfortable. Im not a cushion; Im a person.
Ill rent my own flat! Do everything myself!
Do. Learn. Grow up, Will. But not with me. Im used to not being compared to someone else, and I like ittoo much to let it go now.
They emerged from the registry office strangers. William trudged to the bus stop, shoulders hunched. Charlotte climbed into her Mini, where a travel agency brochure waited on the seat. Shed long dreamed of visiting Italy, but William claimed it was too expensive and always insisted they spend summers at his mothers in Kentvegetable plots and a muddy stream.
No more allotments now. Just Charlotte, her own life, her own choices. She started the engine and turned the radio up. Ahead lay a whole world, and it promised to be flavourful, strange, and entirely herseven if someone somewhere thought it would be better with a bit more salt.
