Where do you suppose shell go, then? Listen here, Victor, you need to understand a wifes like a leased car. As long as you fill up the tank and pay for servicing, shell go wherever you want. My Emily, I paid for her, lock, stock, and barrel, twelve years ago. I pay the bills, so I call the tune. Simple, you see. No opinions of her own, no headaches for me. Shes soft as silk, is my Emily.
Graham was speaking loudly, waving a barbecue fork, fat sizzling and dripping onto the fiery coals. He was as sure of himself as he was that Monday would follow Sunday. Victor, my oldest mate from university, just grunted. Emily was by the open kitchen window, knife in hand, slicing tomatoes for the salad. The juice ran down the board as that smug phrase echoed in her ears: My money, my music.
Twelve years. For a dozen years shed been not only his wife, but his shadow, his rough draft, his safety net. Graham fancied himself a legal mastermind, a star at the solicitors firm. Hed win tough cases, come home with thick envelopes stuffed with sterling notes, throw them on the sideboard with the air of a champion.
Whenever Graham fell asleep, worn out, Emily would quietly take the documents from his briefcase the ones hed been wrestling with all week and start to edit. Shed fix glaring errors, rewrite his awkward phrasing, hunt down new legal amendments hed missed in his confidence. In the morning, shed mention,
Graham, Ive had a glance at your papers. Perhaps reference the Housing Act? Ive left a note.
Hed usually wave her off.
Always with your womanly suggestions. Ill look, all right.
That evening at their cottage, Emily didnt start a row, run out to the garden, or throw over the barbecue. She simply finished the salad, dressed it with cream, and set it on the table. Youre calling the tune, are you? she thought, watching her husband chew meat, not tasting a thing. Well then, lets listen to the silence.
Monday morning, as ever, Graham dashed madly round the flat searching for his lucky blue tie.
Em, wheres my lucky tie? Got a meeting with the developer.
In the wardrobe, second shelf, she called from the bathroom.
Her voice was measured, so calm it was almost cold. When the door slammed behind him, Emily did not return to her coffee or the morning telly. She opened her old address book. Boris Peterson, their old boss from Grahams first firm together, hadnt changed his number in twenty years.
Hello, Mr Peterson? Its Emily Smith. Yes, Emily. Grahams wife. No, he doesnt know. Im calling for myself. Do you still need anyone in the archive department? Or just someone for sorting impossible messes?
There was a pause on the line. Boris remembered Emily: her top grades, her sharp mind, her knack for cutting through rubbish. He had once told her, twelve years back, Youre wasting your talent as a housewife.
Come in, he muttered. Theres a job no one wants. If you manage, Ill put you on staff.
That evening, Graham returned in foul humour. The developer had been stubborn, the meeting a disaster. He dropped his jacket on the hall chair and shouted,
Em, anything to eat? I could eat a horse. And by the way, iron me a white shirt for tomorrow.
Silence. He wandered into the kitchen. Not a pan or pot in sight, not even a whiff of cooking. The worktop was spotless. On the table, a note: Dinners in the fridge, there are frozen pies. Im exhausted.
What? Graham stared at the note as though it were written in Mandarin.
Just then, the front door lock clunked. Emily entered, carrying a file of papers. She wore a smart suit Graham hadnt seen since their sons primary school graduation and shoes with a decent heel.
Where have you been? he blurted. Whats with the get-up?
At work, Graham. She calmly took off her shoes and walked past him. At your firm, actually in archives. Mr Petersons taken me on as a junior assistant.
Graham laughed, edgy and bitter.
You, working? Dont make me laugh. You havent held anything heavier than a ladle for twelve years. Youll be gasping for air under all that dust in two days.
We shall see.
She poured herself some water.
What, so I’m meant to choke down pies now? I bring home the bacon, I keep the family.
Well, now I earn too. Not much yet, but enough for pies. And you can iron your own shirt irons where its been the last ten years.
That was the first warning shot. Graham assumed it was some sort of midlife crisis for his wife hormones, or whatever it is women get. Let her play at it for a week, shell tire herself out and come home. Shell realise money isnt easy, shell be meek as ever. He chewed the rubbery pie, convinced shed come round.
But a week passed, then two her crisis didnt. Home changed. It was no longer the invisible, self-running machine Graham was used to. Socks stopped appearing as pairs in his drawer, piling up dirty in the bathroom instead. Dust that hed never noticed now blatantly covered the shelves. Shirts he had to iron himself and he was surprised at what a fiendish task it was; a crease here, a wrinkled sleeve there.
But worst of all, Emily stopped being his shoulder to cry on. He used to come home and moan for an hour about nutty judges or stingy clients. Shed listen, nod, make him mint tea, and most importantly give him advice, the kind hed later pass off as his own. Now, when he tried,
Imagine, that Jenkins threw out my claim again! I told him, you know
Emily didnt look up from her laptop, surrounded by legal books.
Graham, can you keep it down? Ive got a check on a bankruptcy case tomorrow complete mess.
Who cares about your bankruptcy case? he exploded. Ive got deals on the line!
I care. I need my job for my own dignity.
Graham fumed. He felt the ground slipping under his feet. Without her daily consultations, he started making mistakes tiny, but noticeable. Missed a filing deadline, mixed up surnames in contracts. The bosses were giving him side-eye. Boris Peterson started to frown during meetings at Graham, then, much to his horror, started nodding approvingly at Emily.
Shed cleaned up that unsolvable archive mess in three days. Found documents thought lost. Moved out of the basement into a proper office, seated opposite a trainee. Graham saw her back every day upright and proud. She even walked differently not the shuffling tired gait of a put-upon wife but clicking heels, confident and sharp.
The storm hit a month later. The firm landed a dream client: Annabelle Whitcombe, owner of a string of private clinics. A formidable woman with an iron grip and no patience. She was suing her former partner for half her business, claiming his documents were forgeries. The case was given to Graham his shot at redemption after his slip-ups.
Ill have her sorted, he crowed at home, slicing ham straight onto the worktop, no clean board to be found. Its straightforward. Well get an expert, bring in witnesses.
Emily was silent, reading.
Did you hear me? He nudged her. I said the case is in the bag. Ill get a bonus, buy you a fur coat. Maybe then youll come back to normal?
Emily lowered her book, eyes unreadable.
I dont want a fur coat, Graham. I want you to stop strutting like a peacock. Whitcombe wont stand bullying. Shes old-school. You cant batter her with experts. You need to talk to her.
Oh, give it a rest armchair psychologist.
On the critical day, the meeting room had an air so thick it could be cut. Annabelle Whitcombe sat at the head of the table a tiny, grey-haired woman with drill-bit eyes. Graham paced, tossing legal jargon, waving charts.
Well freeze their accounts. Well make them crawl.
Youre not listening. I dont want revenge. The mans my godson. Yes, hes wrong, but I wont see him imprisoned. I want my business back and for him to disappear quietly, without press scandals. And what do you offer?
Graham choked on his own words.
But, Mrs Whitcombe, its the law. If we look weak
Youre off the case, she said quietly. Picking up her bag, she turned to Boris Peterson. Im disappointed. I expected professionals, not bulldozers.
Peterson paled losing this client meant a massive hole in the budget. Graham stood stock still, red as a beetroot. Just then, the door opened and in came Emily, carrying a tray of tea. The secretary was off sick and juniors had been roped in to help. Emily took in the scene Annabelles retreating back, Grahams panic. Anyone else in her shoes would have smirked: Asked for music, now do the dance. But Emily was a true professional the pro inside her was finally awake, after twelve years.
Mrs Whitcombe.
Emilys voice was quiet, but authoritative. Whitcombe stopped by the door.
Im sorry to interrupt I brought the thyme tea you like, Emily continued. Youre right about your godson. There was a case just like this in 98. They managed things quietly, settled out of court with a clause for confidentiality and a gift of shares. Both sides kept their dignity.
Whitcombe turned slowly, drilling her gaze into Emily.
How do you know? That case was closed.
I studied the records.
Emily set the tray down, hands steady.
And, if I may, theres a flaw in the bills of exchange not with the signature, but a formal error. One requirements missing. Its a technicality. No need for criminal charges. Your godson just made a mistake. Hell keep his liberty, youll keep your clinic and your peace.
Stunned silence. Graham stared at his wife as if shed grown a second head. Did he know about that technicality? Not at all hed never even looked at the actual documents, just charged in for the kill.
Whitcombe returned to the table. Sat down.
Thyme tea, you say? She finally smiled, her face softening. Pour us a cup, love, and tell me more about this technical error. And you, she nodded at Graham, eyes averted, sit and learn.
For the next two hours, Emily took the lead. Graham sat silently, fiddling with his pen, listening as his convenient wife unpicked the case in plain language. She didnt bully, she listened and offered solutions.
When Whitcombe left, contract signed for long-term service, Boris Peterson shook Emilys hand.
Mrs Smith, formal and respectful, come see me tomorrow to discuss a promotion. Enough of the archives for you.
Graham and Emily drove home in silence. The radio played some pop song. Usually, hed switch to news, but tonight he didnt dare move. His comfy, fathomable world where he was king and his wife an accessory it was gone. And in its place stood a stranger: strong, clever, beautiful. The worst part? Shed always been that woman. Hed simply been blind.
They stepped into the flat dark and silent. Their son wasnt yet back from school. Graham took off his shoes and wandered into the kitchen, sitting at the empty table. Emily went to change in the bedroom. He stared at his hands, a hot wave of shame washing over him. Not for botching the case that happens but for that phrase in the garden: I pay.
Emily returned, fresh-faced and tired but with bright eyes. She opened the fridge, grabbed some eggs, and silently set a pan to heat.
Em
Grahams voice faltered. She didnt reply, cracking an egg with purpose.
Ill do it.
He rushed over, clumsily trying to take the spatula from her.
Please, sit. Youre worn out.
Emily let go, sitting at the table, watching as he bungled the eggs, the yolks running, muttering curses under his breath. He put a wonky, burnt fry-up in front of her. A culinary disaster.
Im sorry, he managed, staring at the table.
Emily picked up her fork.
But it looks edible enough.
I realised today he fumbled for words. Youve always saved me. Not just today. I remember you fixing my drafts at night I took it for granted. Got too big for my boots.
He looked at her, fear in his eyes. Fear that shed stand up and just leave because now she could. She had a job, her bosss respect, money. She wasnt tied to him anymore.
Im not leaving, Graham, she said, answering his unspoken question. Not yet, anyway. Weve more than property binding us after twenty years. But the rules are changing.
How? he asked quickly. What must I do?
Respect.
She took a bite of bread.
Just simple respect. Im not your silk wife Im a person. Your partner. At home and at work. We share life equally. Not helping the wife doing your part. Understood?
Understood, he nodded.
And it was the truth.
So, shall I eat? Graham even smiled as he took his fork.
The eggs were unseasoned and burnt, but nothing had ever tasted so good. Dinner was no longer a service it was a meal between equals.
What did I learn from all this? Never make the mistake of confusing comfort for respect. A marriage isnt won with accounts paid and dinners on the table, but with partnership, appreciation and realising its never too late to see the person right beside you.
