Claire had arrived home early with bundles of treats from her parents. Shed meant it as a surprise for her husband, but Tom, instead of a warm embrace, sent her straight to the shops. The consequences were utterly unexpected.
Her bags dragged so heavily on her shoulder that Claire let out a soft yelp. Her back was an old companion latelythese past two months, it stuck to her like a haunting refrain. She gingerly set her bursting carrier bags down on the pockmarked paving stones of the bus stop.
Claire exhaled deeply. The little one in her belly twitched in protest. Six months nowa serious business, not for laughs. Especially when youre trying to be all romantic and come back from your parents’ trip three days early. Shed missed Tom so much, she found herself literally counting telegraph poles out the window on those last hundred miles.
What could Tom be doing now? He probably had no clueshe was only ten minutes walk from home. The road to their block of flats seemed interminable. The bagsjars of homemade jam, a slab of bacon, heavy applesseemed to weigh a ton.
After fifty paces, Claire knew: she couldnt carry on. Her back was bound to give out.
She took out her phone and rang her husband.
Tom, darling, hi, she whispered when he finally picked up.
Claire? Whats happened? Everything alright? Toms voice crackled with worry.
No, alls fine. Im here! Im at our bus stop outside the flats. Please come meet me. The bags are impossible, Mums loaded me down
A strange hesitation blanked the line. Claire checked her screen, wondering if the call had dropped.
Youre at the bus stop? Toms voice swung high with surprise. Right now? Why didnt you warn me? You said Thursday!
I wanted it to be a surprise, Claire sulked. Arent you pleased? Im knackered. Please, just come out!
Wait! he suddenly barked. Dont come up. I mean, do, but Claire, listen, theres not a scrap of food here. Ate it all yesterday. Lookjust nip to the twenty-four-hour offie round the corner. Get some beef, good stuff. I took the day off, want to make a proper lunch for you, welcome you back properly.
What beef, Tom? Claire blinked, baffled. Are you hearing me? Im six months pregnant, stood on the roadside with two great bags!
My back! Beef? Weve got potatoes and eggs in, just fetch me home, I need food and bed.
You dont get it, Tom rushed out, speaking over her. I want it to be perfect. Please. That shops a stones throw. Get some beef, some fresh potatoesthe ones weve got are shrivelled. Ask someone to help you, or bring it in bits, just please! Its for us. Ill get everything ready here.
Claire looked down at her stinging hands. Something bitter burned in her chest.
Are you alright in the head, Tom? Her voice trembled. You want melike thisto the shops, for beef, because you fancy cooking lunch?
Cant you just come down and help?
Ive started, er the prep! If I go now, everything will fall apart. Claire, for me, please. Get 800 grams of beef. Small net of potatoes. Im waiting! And with a click, the call ended.
Claire stared at the dark phone screen, dazed. She wanted to sob right there under the streetlamps cold light. Instead of a hug and a warm duvetshe was trudging to the butchers. Maybe, she thought, he really did have something incredible planned? She sighed, heaved her bags and limped toward the corner shop.
Inside, Claire wheeled her trolley among the shelves, meeting the weary cashiers pitying stare.
The beef weighed a ton, the sack of potatoes nearly floored her. By the time she stumbled out, her hands were numb, her fingers mere useless hooks.
Again, her mobile trilled.
Got it? Tom chirped.
Got it, Claire bit out. At the door now. Open up.
Wait! Tom yelped. Dont come up! Sit on the bench. Give me ten minutes. Just ten.
Are you joking? Claire snapped, her words loud in the near-empty street. Ive got swollen ankles, Tom! I can barely stand!
Surprise isnt done! If you come up, its ruined. Just sit a second, please, Claire! Five minutes, promise! Gotta go! Or I wont finish!
She collapsed onto a wooden bench by the entrance. The bags crashed down beside her. She wondered about flinging that wretched beef straight through the window of their flat on the third floor.
Ten minutes ticked by. Then twenty. Claire sat, heat bubbling up inside. She imagined going in to find what? A sea of flowers? Pancakes and candles? A fiddler in the corner? No surprise on earth was worth leaving her outside in this state after such a weary journey.
At thirty-five minutes, the door squealed open. Tom hurtled out, looking both triumphant and ridiculousT-shirt inside-out, beads of sweat on his brow, hair spiked all directions.
Oh, you waited! he beamed, scooping up her bags. Why the face? Look at this weatheroh, right, lets get going.
What happened to you? Claire squinted, struggling to stand using the handrail. And why do you smell of bleach?
Youll see! he said cheerily, skipping ahead to press the lift button.
Upstairs, Tom flung open the door, standing aside like a West End star. Claire walked into a sharp, overpowering tang of bleach and cheap “sea breeze” air freshener.
She passed through the lounge. Into the kitchen. The bathroom. The flat was spotless. Oddly empty, too. The usual clutter had vanished from the chairs, the carpet was hoovered (still patchy with damp swipes), shelves dusted. Her little figurines cowered in the corner.
Well? Tom was radiant, like a new pound coin. Surprise!
Claire turned slowly.
Thats it? she asked softly.
What do you mean, it? Tom half-knelt in disbelief. Claire, look! I spent three hours at this! I washed the floors everywhereeven under the sofa! I scrubbed the dishes, the loos sparkling! I wanted you to come home to cleanliness, no chores, nothing! All while you well, shopped.
A knot swelled in Claires throat.
So just for this you made me tramp to the shop? she choked, struggling not to weep. I stood at the bus stop, pregnant and weighed down with bags, and youwhat, you washed the floor instead?
Tom threw up his hands. I was trying to do a good thing! You always grumble I dont help around the house. So, I thought Id prove you wrong. If youd arrived Thursday like you said, Id have finished everything! I only stalled you so I could get it all done. And you just stand there as if I slipped something in your porridge.
Oh for goodness sake, Tom! Claires voice cracked. I couldnt care less about clean floors right now! My back is knackered, my hands are raw! Im carrying your child! All I needed was you to take my hand and bring me in, not to mop the bloody skirting boards!
Tom flushed scarlet and hurled his cleaning cloth in the sink.
Here we go! he exploded. Nothing I do is good enough! Been up since five, cleaning for you, planning a surprise, and you start shouting! Cant you see how spotless it is? Cleaner than our wedding day!
I dont care! Claire shouted back, breathing hard. You left me on a bench for half an hour! My feet are dead! You made me carry meat and potatoes when I could barely stand! This isnt a surprise, its cruel!
Cruel? Tom stalked around, gesturing wildly. Sorry for not being Mr. Perfect! Some wives would be thrilledtheir husband cleaned and planned a meal. But youoh no, its all my back, my swelling…! Maybe Im tired too! I was up all night, thinking how to make you smile!
Claire covered her face with her hands.
You dont understand at all she sobbed. Youd rather have a shiny skirting board than care how I feel.
Its not about skirting boards! Tom yelled. You came back early! You ruined my surprise! If youd stuck to your day, everything would have been grand! Instead, you turn up, blame me for everythingand act so thankless! Thats what you are, Claire. Ungrateful.
He stormed from the kitchen, slamming the bedroom door.
Inside, the little one jostled again. Claire slumped onto a chair and stared at the bag of beef Tom hadnt put away. Her stomach churned with nausea.
Ten minutes crawled by. The kitchen door creaked.
So should I cook the beef? Tom muttered angrily. Or are you going to ignore food just to spite me now?
Dont bother, Tom, Claire replied softly, not turning. Leave me alone. I need sleep.
Fine! Have it your way! he snapped, vanishing and slamming the door once more.
Claire dragged herself to the bathroom. She caught her reflection: pale, with dark rings, her hair wild. She remembered the bus ride: picturing Tom hugging her, whispering, “Thank God youre home.” Of course. A proper hug.
When Claire left the bathroom, another argument flared over some pointless detail. She left in whatever clothes she had on, not even bothering to change, and set off back to her parents.
Everyone tried to dissuade her: Toms parents, his sister, distant relatives. Tom called, begged her to return, swore he understood now. But Claire had made up her mind. She didnt need a husband who valued gleaming floors more than his own childs well-being. Divorce was certain, and she felt oddly lighter for it.
