Splendid that you suggested separate finances. In that case, Ill simply keep whats mine.
When my husband pushed his plate away at dinner, looking as if Id served him a court summons instead of shepherds pie, I sensed he was gearing up for a big speech. Simon adjusted his napkin, cleared his throat, and, gazing somewhere past me undoubtedly toward his bright financial future declared, Laura, Ive done the maths. Our budget is in tatters thanks to your lack of financial discipline. We are moving to separate finances. As of tomorrow.
The suspense died before it was born, but the whiff of foolishness in the room suddenly grew as unmistakable as burnt toast. I set my fork down deliberately.
Splendid idea, Simon, I said, offering that tight-lipped smile a python reserves for a rabbit on a silver platter. Ill just be keeping everything of mine, then.
Simon blinked. In his mind rather like a snooker table where the balls of thought only collide with a deafening clunk this was not the response hed expected. He must have hoped for tears, accusations, maybe even a right scene, but certainly not calm agreement.
Good girl, he nodded loftily, already tallying up the money hed no longer waste on me. I need to save for status. A man needs status, Laura. As for youwell, youll manage with hosiery.
My husband, Simon Johnstone, is an extraordinary man. He possesses a rare gift for believing hes a business tycoon, even though he works middle management at a double-glazing firm. His notion of status usually meant splashing out on the latest gadgets (the majority of which he barely used) and quoting leadership mantras found online.
All settled then, I nodded. Are you going to finish the pie, or is that not in your personal budget anymore?
He ate. For free. For the last time.
The first week of our new economic policy was a triumph for his pride. Simon strutted around the house like a prize cockerel, ostentatiously not asking what washing powder cost. He treated himself to a premium faux-leather diary in which he began tracking his finances.
Midweek, he came home with a carrier bag clinking with two cans of cheap lager and a pack of value-range sausages. At the same time, I was unpacking a Waitrose delivery: trout, avocados, brie, fresh veg, a nice bottle of Chablis.
Simon loitered in the kitchen doorway, leaning with the air of a worn-out warrior. Living the high life, are we? he said, nodding toward the fish. Thats why we never had any savings. Reckless spending.
Not we, Simon me, I corrected, slicing a lemon. Youre saving for status now, remember? By the way, have you claimed a shelf in the fridge? Yours is the bottom one the salad drawer. Much the right temperature for your… assets.
He gave a grunt, dug out his sausages, and put them into my saucepan.
The gas, I said, without turning.
What?
Gas, water, wear and tear on the saucepan, and the washing-up liquid. Arent we dividing things now?
Oh, Laura, dont be petty, he waved me off like a lord shooing away a stable boy. Thats small-mindedness.
Not at all, Simon. Just good business sense.
He tried to laugh, but a piping hot sausage stuck to his palate, twisting his features into an expression more pitiful than a bulldogs after biting a lemon.
Youre only bitter Ive stopped you rinsing my card, he declared, picking pastry from his teeth. Women always lose it when their control slips.
On Saturday, Simons mum, Anne Johnstone, popped in. Anne is one of a kind she likes me precisely as much as she despises her sons stupidity. Once a chief accountant at a major factory, she respects a column of numbers more than most people.
We sat with tea and cakes. Simon, opposite, munched on a stale scone hed snagged at half-price, looking as martyred as an exiled king.
Mum, would you believe it Laura hides her posh loo roll now! he grumbled, fishing for maternal sympathy. Theres an industrial roll in our loo, sandpaper practically, but shes got triple-ply, peach-scented stuff in her cupboard! Its segregation!
Anne set her tea gently in its saucer. Simon darling, she cooed. When you announced your precious segregation, what were you thinking with your bank balance or the part that loo rolls actually for?
Mum! Im being prudent! I want to buy a car.
A car? Annes eyebrow shot up, nearly vanishing beneath her fringe. With the pennies youre hiding from your wife? Son, youre saving on toilet paper to buy an old banger and play the king of the A-roads?
Its an investment! Simon squawked.
No, investment is Laura, putting up with you in her own home, Anne quipped. By the way, Laura, this cake is divine.
Simon eyed the cake hungrily. My hand, holding the butter knife, gently but firmly stopped him.
Thats five pounds, Simon. Or stick with your scone.
Youre joking? Charging your own husband? In front of Mum?
The market’s a cruel place, love. And the forks rental is another pound.
He floundered, blushed, grabbed his scone, and dashed out of the kitchen.
Drama queen, Anne observed. Just like his father squirrelling away capital until I sent him packing to his mums with nothing but his underpants. Hold firm, love. Now hell start the Im offended, Ill cut off my nose to spite my face stage.
Two weeks in, and Simons grand experiment was crumbling. Hed lost weight, looked worn out, but pride kept him from surrender. He wore crumpled shirts (since he wouldnt touch my washing detergent, and his own soap was beneath him), reeked of bargain deodorant, and eyed me like a stray mongrel still convinced of its wolfish dignity.
The denouement came that Friday night. I got home from work tired but happy Id received a bonus. On the table: a wilting bunch of carnations and a bottle of the cheapest prosecco.
Simon sat beaming. Laura, have a seat. We need to talk. Ive decided we can soften things a bit. Im willing to put… he paused for drama … fifty pounds a week into the joint food budget.
I looked at him, at the mournful flowers, at the fizzy wine that would only bring on heartburn.
Fifty pounds? I repeated. Thats saintly of you, Simon. But theres a catch. I took a folder from my bag: inside, an immaculate Excel spreadsheet.
Whats this? he asked, wary.
A bill, dear. For your stay. See: rent for a double room in central London (with unrestricted use of sitting room and kitchen) £500 a week. Utilities (given your marathon showers) £100. Cleaning services (I tidy, you never do) £60. Total monthly: £1,200. For the past fortnight, thats £600. Not including appliance depreciation.
Simon paled. You… youre charging me to live in my own wifes flat?
In the flat of a woman with whom you have separate finances, I corrected, softly. You said: ‘Whats mines mine.’ This flat? Mine. So youre a tenant. And since we have no lease, I can boot you out with twenty-four hours notice.
Thats mercenary! Its low! Im the man!
Youre a man who tried to save money at his wifes expense but forgot hes living off her, I said quietly, each word heavy as a brick. You want to be partners? Then pay your share. Or go find somewhere status comes cheaper.
He spluttered, opened and closed his mouth like a landed trout, waving his hands about.
Youll regret this! he managed at last. Im leaving! Ill find someone who appreciates me, not my square footage!
Good luck, Simon. Dont forget your sausages in the freezer. Your assets wouldnt want to take whats not mine.
He stormed about, shoving clothes in a holdall, shouting how mercenary and cold I was, that Id killed romance, that he was plunging into the darkness…
Best ring your mum to get the spare room ready, I called, pouring myself a glass of the real wine. And call an Uber, economy. Save your status.
He slammed the door so hard he mustve hoped to shake a shred of guilt loose in me, but he only woke the neighbour.
The quiet in the flat was sweeter than honey. I sat in my armchair, gazing out across the citys lights, feeling a delicious lightness. My phone buzzed: a message from Anne Hes here. Angry, hungry, demanding justice. I told him justice costs, and he cant afford it. Charged for supper and the bed. Let him get used to the marketplace. How are you holding up?
I smiled and replied, All good here, Mum. Thinking of getting new curtains with my savings.
Its never worth spelling out to someone why theyre being an idiot. Far more enlightening and satisfying to let them pay in full for their own folly. If a man offers you independence, make sure hes prepared for what that actually means.
