Oliver, were out of sunflower oil, and theres barely enough washing powder left for one more load Emily stood in the doorway, drying her damp hands on her apron. Well have to make a trip to the shops, the lists a long one.
Oliver didnt lift his eyes from the television, where some tense Premier League match played out. He just shrugged, irritated.
Em, you know the score he whined, still glued to the screen. The factorys been rubbish again. Foreman said no bonuses this month, not a chance. Gave you my last eighty quid the other night. Stretch it if you can.
Emily sighed, soul-weary. That stretch it shed heard nothing but that these past six months. As though the family purse was made of elastic, stretching forever. She wandered back into the kitchen, opened the fridge and gazed gloomily at a lonely jar of chutney and a saucepan of yesterdays thin soup. Soup made on bargain chicken wings, because proper meat hadnt graced their plates in weeks.
Emily worked as the lead nurse at a local GP surgery. Her wage was solid but modest. In the old days, when Oliver brought home decent money, life wasnt just bearable theyd managed a seaside holiday each year, a new wardrobe now and again, the fridge always full. Then, according to Oliver, the company floundered. Wages slashed, bonuses gone, and now he brought home barely enough to cover the council tax and his petrol.
Everything else food, household stuff landed on Emilys tired shoulders. She took extra shifts, worked weekends, just to make ends meet. Oliver Oliver stumbled in after work, collapsed on the sofa, and wallowed in the unfairness of the world, expecting her to magic up a three-course dinner as well.
Stretch it she muttered, staring at the empty butter dish I can barely breathe, let alone stretch.
Next day after work, Emily, out of habit, dashed round to Tesco. She spent an age staring at the steaks, finally grabbed a tray of chicken giblets. Cheap and cheerful. Stewed with cream, they just about did the job. She emptied out her purse at the till, every last pence. Three days to payday, and her wallet echoed now, hollow.
That evening, while the giblets simmered, Emily decided to dust the hall. Oliver was already asleep, full-bellied and dozing after his budget cans of lager (found some coins in the car, hed said). Emily lifted his jacket to hang it up straight, feeling a crumple in the inside pocket. Normally, shed never snoop, but old habits from laundry duty die hard. She pulled out a folded bit of paper.
It was a receipt not from Sainsburys, but a cash machine. Time-stamped for that evening, 18:45. Unfolding it, Emily felt the ground yawning beneath her feet.
Balance: £3,450
She blinked, thinking shed read it wrong. The numbers were clear. Above, the last transaction, in black and white: Salary credit: £780.
Seven hundred and eighty. Hed handed home only eighty. Said it was all he got.
Emily dropped to the pouffe, stunned. She remembered trudging to work in leaky old boots last month, when Oliver had said, Em, just hang on, were skint. Remembered putting off the dentist, soothing her toothache with paracetamol, remembered those endless chicken wings and giblets.
Hurt swelled in her heart, raw and burning. Not even simple hurt betrayal. All this while she scrimped on necessities, hed been quietly hoarding hundreds. For what? A new car? Another woman? Or just selfishness, believing his wife should bear everything?
Emily placed the receipt silently back in his coat. She wanted to storm in and wake him, rub that slip in his face, throw crockery, banish him to the street. But she held. What would a row solve? Hed lie, twist, claim it was a surprise, or some bank error.
No, something else was called for.
She returned to the kitchen, turned off the hob. The finished dish smelt decent, but hunger left her. She packed the dinner into her work bag, not the shared fridge.
If theres no money, theres no money, she thought, a twisted satisfaction blooming.
The next morning, she left early, skipping his breakfast. On the kitchen table: an empty plate and a note, Sorry, nothing left. No money. Have some water.
All day, moving as if underwater, Emily rolled her plan around in her head. At lunch, she enjoyed a full plate of casserole and a bun the first proper meal in ages. After work, she strolled home with empty hands and a straight back.
Oliver met her in the hall, sour-faced.
Whyre you so late? Im starving! Theres nothing left, not even an egg! You didnt shop?
Emily calmly slipped off her coat and shoes.
No, Oliver, I didnt.
Butbut what about dinner?
There isnt any, she sat and picked up a book. Like I said the other day: nothing left. Wages arent in till Thursday. I sipped weak tea at work; you can hold out too. Its the crisis, remember?
Oliver stared, aghast.
But wheres the soup? Or something! You always scrape something up!
Inspirations gone, love. You cant make cutlets from thin air. You said were broke. My money went on bills and the bus. The purse is empty.
He hovered there, mouth opening and shutting. Hed probably thought shed rustle up some miracle, borrow from a friend, or dig out a mythical emergency fund.
Well, what am I supposed to do? he finally asked.
Drink some water. Or go to bed early hungers easier in your sleep.
He flounced, slamming doors, rustling the kitchen cupboards and fridge. Soon, the flat filled with the scent of plain pasta. Emily smirked. Dry pasta, no butter or sausage the perfect meal for a secretive millionaire.
The next day, a repeat. Emily dined handsomely at work, treated herself to a pastry and a cappuccino on a park bench. She arrived home, full and content.
This time, Oliver was angry.
This isnt funny, Emily! Two days of dry spaghetti! Are you trying to torture me? Arent you supposed to run the house?
Im a wife, Oliver, not a wizard. Cant buy food with nothing. Give me money Ill cook, fill the larder, make you a roast. Whats the problem?
I told you, theres nothing! he barked, but his eyes darted nervously. Still waiting on wages!
Well so am I. Means diet time. Good for the health, apparently.
That evening he stormed out, returning later smelling of takeaway kebab. Hed suddenly found a few notes, clearly. But brought back nothing.
A week escaped like this: the flat rang with chilly silence. No more dinners from Emily, no dishwashing after him (she left his dirty plates sprawled on the table), no laundry for Mr. Oliver.
Theres no powder left, she coolly replied when he moaned about rumpled shirts. No money to buy more.
Oliver raged, sulked, tried guilt, then shame.
Youve gone cold! he bellowed one Friday. I slave away, drag myself home its a pigsty! Nothing to eat, creased shirts! Why am I even married?
Why should I bother with a husband her voice was steady, unblinking who cant keep the family in bread or soap powder? I work too, Oliver. Im just as tired. Why should all the worry be mine alone?
Because youre the woman! Its your duty!
Its my duty to care, when someone cares for me too. Im done playing solo, Oliver.
Come Saturday, Emily awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. She padded to the kitchen. There was Oliver, tucking into a proper breakfast with posh sausage and seeded bread, piping hot coffee at hand.
He coughed, saw her, composed himself.
Oh, youre up. Sit down, if you want. I, er, found some change in my winter coat, nipped to the shop.
Emily sat, surveying the expensive sausage, the cheese, a dozen fancy eggs. Found some change, did you? she mused.
Thanks, but Im not hungry she lied. You eat up. Youll need your strength.
Oliver chewed, eyes fixed anywhere but her.
Listen, Em swallowing lets end this farce. I borrowed a fiver from Dave. Here. Go shopping, make some dinner. Cant live like this.
He slapped a crisp £5 note on the table. Emily twirled it thoughtfully.
Borrowed from Dave? Thats generous of him. Howll you pay him back, with no wages?
Ill sort it! he snapped. What do you care? Just go to the shop.
She took the note, weighed it in her palm.
Fine. Ill go. But Ill only buy my own stuff. You eat at Daves, if hes so generous.
Whats that supposed to mean?! Oliver flew to his feet, chair tumbling. Thats family money!
Family money? Emily stood too, her voice bright and taut as a piano wire. And when you got that £780 the other day, whose money was that? Yours alone? That £3,450 in your account whats it for? Husbands famine fund?
Oliver froze, colour draining in patches and then returning as angry splotches.
You You went through my things? Youre spying on me?
Dont change the subject, Oliver. I found the slip when straightening your coat. And you know whats worse than you hiding cash? Watching me count coppers, seeing me walk in tatty boots, still eating food bought with my pennies. Arent you ashamed?
I was saving! he exploded, fist thudding on the table. Saving up for us, for a car! My old wrecks knackered! I wanted to surprise you! You just care about money!
Surprise? Emily barked a bitter laugh. Surprises are when you buy a car without forcing your wife to starve. Surprises are when you agree together to save for a goal. What you did thats just being a rat, Oliver. You lived off me while your salary sat untouched. You leeched off me.
What do you know? Im a man! I need a decent car, not to look a fool in front of the lads! So we scrimped a bit you didnt die, did you?
No, I didnt die, she nodded. But something did. My respect for you. My trust.
She pushed the £5 note back towards him.
Take it, Oliver. Buy yourself a ticket.
To where? he sputtered.
The bright future. Or your mums. Or a little bedsit somewhere. I dont care. Im done living with a man who treats me like a maid and a mug.
Youre chucking me out? Over money?! For him, it was incomprehensible. So hed squirreled some away wasnt it for their own good?
Not over money, Oliver. Over respect. Pack your things.
Oliver didnt leave that instant. A long and sour row followed shouting, blaming, then begging and promises of a fur coat (from the saved money), then back to rage. Emily was unbending. For the first time, she saw him as he truly was miserly, petty, a stranger.
By evening, he had his suitcase.
Youll regret this! he called over his shoulder. Wholl want you at forty-five? Youll be nattering to your cats! Ill find someone who knows how to look after a man!
Good luck said Emily, and closed the door firmly on him.
She slid down the door, sapped. Tears wouldnt come, only emptiness.
Emily wandered to the kitchen. There, forlorn, lay his fancy sausage. She tossed it in the bin. The fridge was clean, apart from her Tupperware dinner shed forgotten.
Well she said to nobody at least now I know exactly where my money goes.
A month passed.
Emily ambled home from work, the May air thick with lilac and newness. She popped into Waitrose, dawdled through the aisles.
In her basket: a little tin of red caviar (on offer but still special), a wedge of blue cheese, chilled Chablis, salad greens, a fat salmon steak.
She paid by card always in the black, now. Living alone was blissfully cheap. Council tax lower, barely any food to buy, no more lend us a tenner for fuel, Em, or I need smokes. Gone were the beers and the snacks.
Home, music drifting, Emily cooked, poured herself wine, sat to watch the sunset.
Her phone buzzed: Oliver.
Hey Em. How are you? Can we talk? I messed up. Didnt get the car. Still got cash. Lets start over? Miss you.
Emily looked at the screen. Sipped her wine. She saw him yelling about chicken giblets, remembered the shame of asking for washing powder money.
She deleted the message, then blocked the number.
I missed you too she told her reflection in the windows twilight The real me, and my good life. And Im never giving that away again.
The next day, Emily bought herself new boots; dear ones, soft leather, Italian-made. And a spa break in Cornwall, two weeks of sea and quiet the money shed saved with her new, freer life.
Turns out, life after divorce doesnt end. It tastes better. And its honest.
