“Are you serious?” Edwin’s voice wavered, but not from surprise—from the effort of holding back words he’d regret. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched sushi takeaway he and Emmeline had ordered. “You actually bought yourself a Jaguar?”
“Not a Jaguar, an I-Pace. Electric. You could at least get the name right if you’re going to lecture me,” Emmeline replied, not bothering to glance up from her phone. Her Instagram feed showed colleagues at a conference in Edinburgh, all in blazers sipping champagne. Typical.
The flat smelled of wasabi, irritation, and the recently scrubbed loo—Emmeline had wiped down the tiles on autopilot before Edwin arrived, though she knew it wouldn’t help.
“I just don’t get why you need a car like that,” Edwin sprang up, pacing the kitchen. “You’re not a racer. Not a millionaire. Do you think people will respect you more if you’re driving some… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the middle of nowhere—there are proper charging spots. And, shocker, I won’t sit in traffic because the I-Pace has adaptive cruise. It’s not about showing off, Edwin. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—my money.”
“Did you hear what Dad said?” Edwin pressed, as though reciting a line he’d rehearsed all night.
“Unfortunately, my hearing’s fine,” Emmeline finally put her phone down. “He said a woman shouldn’t drive a car like that because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement in male company.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s old-school.”
“He’s fossilised, Edwin. And you’re heading the same way if you don’t say something remotely supportive right now.”
Edwin opened his mouth, then shut it again. Like a telly with the sound on but no picture.
“Couldn’t you have discussed it with me? We’re family. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Ford Focus like your mum’s? Or talked me into some ‘granddad-approved’ estate car?”
He gave a joyless smirk. “Cheers for the trust.”
Emmeline sighed, eyeing him like a wobbly stool—technically still standing, but risky to sit on.
“Edwin, have you ever felt like you could do what you wanted? Without worrying about opinions, expectations, tantrums?”
“I don’t make what you do, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Not about money. About freedom. Inside.”
He shrugged, as if the words gave him hives.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were getting into.”
“I hoped they’d at least start respecting me. Or that you would.”
The silence thickened, denser than last night’s dodgy takeaway curry. Edwin slumped back onto the sofa.
“They just think you should be… you know, more feminine.”
“Ah, right. Preferably licence-free, opinion-free, and eternally grateful for a wedding ring?” Emmeline’s smile was bitter. “Sorry, love. I’m not an accessory. I’m my own person.”
He looked away. Then, absurdly, a knock came—too confident for a delivery driver, too quiet for a neighbour.
“It‘s Mum,” Edwin exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by, see how we’re living.”
“‘Happened’ to be nearby, did she? Or is there a tracker on my car now?” Emmeline arched a brow, smoothing her blouse.
“Just… go easy, yeah?”
“I’m already shower-gel soft. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Margaret swept in with a Waitrose bag, looking less like a guest and more like an inspector.
“Hello, dears. Brought you a wholesome salad—no nitrates. Could do you good.” Her gaze flicked over Emmeline’s heels. “All dressed up? Off to a ball?”
“I always am. Can’t afford to look like a pensioner on maternity leave.”
“Who’s that meant for?” Margaret frowned.
“Abstract concept. But if the shoe fits…”
“Edward, are you letting her speak to me like this?” Margaret turned to her son, ignoring Emmeline like an unplugged printer.
“He’s not my keeper. Or your translator,” Emmeline walked past, grabbing the sushi. “Fancy tea? Or shall we skip to the bit about my ‘unbecoming’ car?”
“At least you’re self-aware.” Margaret smiled. “Your father and I need a car like that—trips to the cottage, visiting family. What’s it for you? A status symbol?”
“Mm. And revenge. On you.” Emmeline said it softly, like a surgeon delivering bad news.
A pause. Even Edwin seemed to grasp the weight of it. Emmeline set the sushi down.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending any of this is normal.”
“‘This’ being what?” Margaret blinked.
“All of it. You dropping in like a shift supervisor. Edwin mute as a monument to his childhood. Being told how to live, dress, spend. I’m done.”
She kicked off her heels like shedding armour and walked to the bedroom. Edwin stood gaping; Margaret turned to him, fury brewing.
“She humiliates me in front of you, and you just stand there sniffing your socks! This isn’t living!”
“It won’t be,” Emmeline’s voice cut through the door. Calm. Steel beneath.
***
Emmeline woke to a sound like an earthquake—or at least a lift breaking. The wardrobe rattled, shaking the old building to its pipes. Edwin was rummaging for documents. Not his, of course. Hers. The car.
“Are you serious?” Her voice was hoarse, yesterday’s row still clinging to it.
“Where’s the V5C?” Edwin didn’t turn. He wore those stretched-knee joggers he usually reserved for Wi-Fi fixes or microwaving rice.
“Where your bollocks are. Buried under layers of parental fear.” Emmeline strode past him, ignoring his search. “Won’t find it. Left it with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s solely mine. No transfers. No permissions. No your dad.”
“You can’t do this! We’re family!”
“And you can root through my things because your masculinity’s in crisis and Mummy’s advice is itching in your ear?”
He straightened, staring as if seeing her for the first time. The confusion in his eyes almost stirred pity. Almost.
“Dad said you’re acting like… like some feminist.”
“How dreadful!” Emmeline clutched her chest mockingly. “Did he faint? Need smelling salts?”
“They’re just concerned. Want things proper. Respectful. A proper wife!”
“Proper? What’s that? Hand-embroidered hankies? Serving bangers and mash on command? Edwin, I’ve got a career, business trips, people relying on me. I’m not a debutante. I’m a logistics director.”
“I don’t care! I want you home! Not jet-setting, buying tanks!”
“It’s not a tank. It’s a ship. And I’m the captain. You’re not at the helm.” She glanced out the window, where her silver I-Pace gleamed, outshining the neighbour’s Fiestas.
He stepped closer. His face was unfamiliar—mouth tight, eyes dark.
“You think you’re better than us? My parents, me? You married into this family!”
“Right. Except your ‘family’ is a bloody obstacle course. I’m an add-on, not a person. I don’t even have a name anymore. Just ‘her,’ ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.’”
He grabbed her wrist. Not lovingly—like a man backed into a corner.
“Edwin. Let go.” Ice in her tone.
“We’re going to my parents. Today. Talking this out. Properly.”
“First, you let go. Then, you leave. Then—if I’m feeling generous—I might text you. Or not.”
He released her, jerking back as if burned.
“You’re mad. You’re ruining everything!”
“‘We’ had two years, Edwin. One good, one under your mother’s surveillance. You think I don’t hear your hallway whispers? Her tips on ‘handling a difficult woman’?”
“Who the hell do you even think you are?!”
“Someone who chooses how to liveShe drove away in the I-Pace that evening, the hum of the engine quieter than the weight of her freedom, and never looked back.
