Harry, were out of sunflower oil again, and theres just enough washing powder left for one more load, Alice called from the doorway, wiping her damp hands on her apron. We ought to do a big shop soon; Ive got quite a list.
Harry, eyes glued to the telly where an intense football match flickered, gave an irritable shrug.
Ali, you know how it is, he said without looking up. Factorys been a mess lately. Foreman reckons therell be no bonuses this month. I gave you my last two hundred quid the other day. Youll have to stretch it.
Alice sighed, feeling the weight of those words, stretch it, which shed heard almost constantly for the past six months. It was as if their household budget was made of elastic, always expected to go further. Silently, she went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared at a lonely jar of pickled onions and a pot with yesterdays chicken-bone broth. Decent meat hadnt graced their table in nearly a month.
Alice worked as a senior nurse at the local surgery. Her wage was steady but modest. Back when Harry was earning properly, life was alright: a trip to Brighton or Cornwall each summer, new clothes when needed, and a fridge stocked full. Then, as Harry put it, things at the plant took a downturn. His pay got slashed, bonuses disappeared, and now what little he handed over barely covered bills and the petrol for his old Mondeo.
So it fell to Alice to handle all the food and household expenses. She picked up extra shifts, worked weekends, anything just to get by. Harry, meanwhile, would come home, flop on the sofa in a huff about how unfair it all was, and expect a proper dinner of three courses.
Stretch it, she muttered at the sight of the empty oil jug. Stretch what, exactly? Till it snaps?
The next day, as usual, Alice swung by Sainsburys on her way back from work. She lingered over the display of pork shoulder, then settled for a packet of chicken livers. Cheap and practicalstewed slowly with a bit of cream, and it almost passed as a meal. At the till, she scraped together every last coin in her purse. Three more days to payday and she was flat broke.
That evening, while the livers simmered, Alice started dusting the hallway. Harry was already asleep, sated by a hearty dinner and a couple of cans of lager, which he claimed hed bought with change hed found around the car.
She lifted his coat, meaning to hang it up properly, and noticed something weighty in the inside pocket. She knew rooting through pockets was frowned upon, but the habit of checking before a wash was ingrained. Her hand found a folded slip of paper.
It was a receiptnot from the supermarket, but from the cashpoint, printed just that evening at 18:45. Alice unfolded it, and her knees almost buckled.
Balance: £3,450.
She blinked, thinking she was seeing thingsmaybe the decimal point was misplaced? No, the numbers were clear. And above them: Last transaction: Salary Credit: £780.
Seven hundred and eighty pounds. Hed brought home two. Claimed it was everything.
Alice slumped onto the hallway pouffe, her mind buzzing. She remembered shuffling about in leaky old boots last month because Harry said, Just hang on, love, theres literally nothing in the kitty. She remembered ignoring her toothache since there was no money for the dentist, popping paracetamol instead. The jars of stock and offal.
The sting in her chest soured into anger. It wasnt just disappointmentit was betrayal. While she scrimped on sanitary towels and teabags, hed been stashing away thousands. For what? A new car? Some other woman? Or just out of sheer meanness, expecting her to feed the family alone?
Quietly, Alice put the receipt back. Confrontation would only bring more lieshe would say he was saving for a surprise, or blame a bank error.
No, she thought, a different approach was needed.
She finished dinner, boxed up the chicken livers, and instead of putting them in the communal fridge, she stashed them in her work bag.
If theres no money, she thought, then theres no money.
Next morning, she left early for work, not bothering with breakfast. She left an empty plate and a note on the table: Sorry, nothing left in the house. No money. Have some water.
All day at the surgery, Alice moved on autopilot, her mind replaying her evening plan. At lunch, she treated herself for the first time in ages to a full meal at the canteenstew, mash, a bun, and a cup of tea. She ate slowly, enjoying every bite.
She walked home that evening without any heavy carrier bags. No groceries. Hands free, head high.
Harry met her at the door, looking put out.
Ali, why so late? Im starving. Theres bugger-all in the fridge, not even any eggs. Did you go shopping?
Alice quietly took off her coat, slipped off her shoes and went into the lounge.
No, Harry, I didnt.
What do you mean, didnt? So what are we having for dinner?
Theres nothing for dinner, she replied, settling down with a book. Told you the other dayno money left. Paydays not until Thursday. I had a cup of tea at work, thatll do. Youll have to manage as well. Thats the crisis, isnt it?
Harry gaped at her.
Youre joking, right? Wheres the soup? Wheres my main? You always sorted something out!
My creativitys used up, love. Cant make cutlets out of thin air. You said yourselfno money. What little I had went on bills and bus fare. Thats it. Budgets dry.
He stood in the middle of the room, opening and closing his mouth. Perhaps, Alice mused, he expected her to borrow from a mate, dip into some secret stash every woman supposedly hasor just magic dinner out of thin air.
Well, thats just great, isnt it? he sighed. What am I meant to do then?
Have a glass of water, she suggested. Or get an early night. Less chance to feel hungry while youre asleep.
Harry stomped off to the kitchen. Alice heard the clattering of cupboards and the fridge, the shuffling of pasta packets. Soon the smell of boiling starchy water filled the flatplain pasta. The gourmet meal of a millionaire with three grand stashed away.
The same routine played out the next day. Alice ate well at work, treated herself to a takeaway coffee and a bun, which she ate on a park bench, breathing in the quiet. She got home feeling full and peaceful.
Harry now greeted her with anger instead of confusion.
This isnt funny, Alice! Two days now Ive had nothing but dry spaghetti! Are you winding me up? Whos running this house, anyway?
Im your wife, Harry not a magician, she shot back. I cant buy food without money. Give me some, Ill shop and cook. Whats the issue?
I told you, I havent got any! he snapped, eyes darting. Wages are late!
Me neitherso were on a healthy diet, it seems. Good for you.
That evening Harry stormed out and returned an hour later, reeking of doner kebab. Alice said nothinghe had money for kebab, apparently. He brought nothing home.
A week went like this. The atmosphere was brittle and cold. Alice stopped cooking for him, stopped washing his plates (he kept leaving them, but she let them pile up), and even stopped doing his laundry.
No powder, shed reply calmly when he complained about his crumpled shirts. All used up. Nowhere near enough for more.
Harry whinged, sulked, tried talking her round, tried guilt.
Youve gone hard as nails! he shouted one Friday night. I work all day, get back to this pigsty! Nothing to eat, shirts wrinkled! Whats the point of a wife, eh?
And whats the point of a husband? she fired back, looking him square in the face. One who cant provide a loaf and a box of soap powder? I work too, Harry. Im just as tired. But why are groceries and chores all my headache?
Because youre the woman! Its your job!
My job is to love and care when I get it back. But Im done playing this one-way game.
On Saturday morning Alice woke to the smell of frying. Sausages and eggs. She walked in to find Harry tucking into a plateful, with toasted rolls and a mug of coffee in front of him.
He nearly choked when he saw her, but quickly covered it.
Oh, youre up. Have some, if you like. Iumfound a bit of change in my winter coat, popped to Tesco.
Alice sat down. On the tablepremium sausages, a block of mature cheddar, large free-range eggs. A bit of change, she thought wryly.
No thanks, Im not hungry, she lied. She wanted to see where hed go with this charade. You tuck in. Youll need the energy.
Harry ate, avoiding her gaze.
Look, Alice, he said at last, brushing crumbs away. Shall we stop this nonsense now? I borrowed a fiver off Mike. Herego get groceries and make a proper dinner. Cant carry on like this.
He slapped a crisp five-pound note onto the table. Alice picked it up and turned it over in her hands.
You borrowed from Mike, did you? Very generous. And how will you pay him back without a wage coming in?
Ill manage! snapped Harry. Whats it to you? Just go shopping.
Alice looked him in the eye. Fine. But Ill only buy what I need. You can eat at Mikes, since hes so generous.
Whats that supposed to mean?! Harry shot up, knocking over his chair. Thats family money!
Family money? Alice got up as well, voice shaking but firm. And whose was it when you got £780 three days ago? Private money? The three-and-a-half grand in your accountwhats that for? Husbands Emergency Fund?
Harry froze, skin turning waxy-pale, then flushed red blotches.
Youwent through my pockets? he spat. You spied on me?
I wasnt snooping, Harry. I found the receipt cleaning up. And do you know whats worst? Not that you hid the money. That you watched me scrabbling for coins, denying myself everything, sloshing through puddles in worn-out boots, and still let me buy dinner with my own pay. Arent you ashamed?
I was saving! Harry bellowed, hammering the table with a fist. Saving up for a car! The old banger barely runs! I tried to surprise you, but all you care about is money!
Surprise? Alice gave a bitter laugh. A surprise is buying a car after we agree to scrimp, not while you leech off me for months. Thats not saving, thats freeloading.
What do you even understand? Im a bloke, I need a decent motor! Better than living off chicken scrapswhats one month of economising? Youre still alive, arent you?
Alive yes, Alice nodded. But something inside mes died. My respect for you. My trust.
She laid the fiver back on the table.
Keep your money. Buy yourself a ticket.
A ticket? Where to? Harrys face was blank.
To a better future. Or your mums, or a bedsitI dont care. Im done living with a man who sees his wife as the help and a fool.
Youre throwing me out? Over money?
Its not about the money, Harry. Its about respect. Pack your things.
He didnt leave straightaway. There was a long, exhausting rowhe shouted, accused, tried to make peace, promised to buy her a fur coat (with the savings, of course), then shouted some more. Alice stood firm. She looked at him as if seeing a stranger for the first timea tight-fisted, petty, angry man.
By evening, he packed a bag.
Youll regret this! he shouted at the door. Whos going to want you now, eh? Mid-forties and alone! Youll end up with just the cats. Ill find a proper woman who values her husband!
Good luck, Alice replied, closing the door behind him.
She slid down to the floor, spent. No tears, just a ringing emptiness.
The kitchen table still displayed the forlorn packet of fancy sausages Harry had bought. Alice tossed it in the bin, then opened the fridgeperfectly tidy, apart from her container of chicken livers, forgotten in all the drama.
No matter, she said out loud. At least now I know exactly where my money goes.
A month later.
Alice ambles back from work under a dazzling May sky. The lilacs are in bloom, their scent filling the air. She pops into Waitrose, leisurely browsing the aisles.
A pot of red caviar lands in her basket (special offer, but still!), a wedge of blue cheese, a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc, fresh veggies, a fillet of trout.
At the checkout, she taps her card, safe in the knowledge theres always money now. Living solo turns out to be a bargainbills are lower, less water and electricity, groceries last longer, no more beer runs, endless lend me a fiver, or just for petrol.
At home, she turns on her favourite playlist, pan-fries the trout, pours herself a glass of wine, and settles by the window to watch the sunset.
Just then, her phone vibrates. A message from Harry.
Hi Ali. Howve you been? Maybe we could talk? Ive realised a lot. I was in the wrong. Didnt even buy the new car, still got the money. Lets try again? I miss you.
Alice takes a sip of wine, staring at the screen. She remembers his face, the shouts about chicken bits, the humiliation of begging for soap powder money.
She deletes the message and blocks his number.
I missed you too, she says to her reflection in the darkened window pane, the real me. And I wont let anyone take that away again.
Next day, she treats herself to a new pair of bootssoft Italian leather, expensive, comfortable. And books a two-week seaside holiday. Her spare salary was just enough.
Life doesnt end after divorce, she thinks. It gets tastier. And so much more honest.
