“Brilliant idea, you suggesting separate finances. In that case, I’ll simply keep all of mine for myself.”
When my husband pushed aside his dinner plate with the air of a man served not shepherds pie but a court summons, I knew a lecture was on the way. Simon adjusted his napkin, cleared his throat, and stared fixedly at the wallas if he were gazing into a shining capitalist future.
“Laura, I’ve been doing the sums,” he began solemnly. “Our budget is bursting at the seams thanks to your financial illiteracy. From tomorrow, were switching to separate finances.”
Any suspense fizzled out immediately, though a thick fog of idiocy settled in the roomas ripe as the smell of burnt toast. I slowly put down my fork.
“Great idea, Simon,” I replied, flashing him the same smile a fox gives a particularly trusting chicken. “I’ll just keep all my money for myself, then.”
Simon blinked. In his headwhich closely resembled a snooker table, where thoughts clacked together only occasionallymy response clearly didnt fit the game plan. Hed expected tears, accusations, maybe even a bout of drama, but certainly not cheerful acceptance.
“Thats the spirit,” he nodded condescendingly, already mentally spending the savings he supposedly wouldnt have to spend on me. “Im putting money aside for status. A man needs status, Laura. As for youwell, you’ll have enough for your tights.”
My husband, Simon Anthony, is a man of many surprises. He possesses the rare talent of believing himself a business shark, despite being a middle manager at a company selling double glazing. His idea of status usually boils down to splashing out on gadgets whose functions he comprehends about three percent, and stuffing his head with motivational quotes from the internet.
“Deal,” I said, tilting my head. “Will you be finishing your pie? Or is that not in the budget anymore?”
He ate the rest. For free. For the last time.
The first week of the new financial policy was marked by pride. Simon strutted around the flat like a cock pheasant, ostentatiously not asking the cost of washing powder. He bought himself a “premium” faux-leather diary and started jotting down expenses with an intensity worthy of a Chancellor.
By Wednesday, he brought home a sad plastic carrier bag containing two cans of cheap lager and a box of budget frozen pasties. Meanwhile, I was unpacking a delivery from a good supermarket: salmon fillet, avocado, cheeses, fresh veg, a lovely bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc.
Simon propped himself in the kitchen doorway, the picture of a weary martyr. “Living it up, are we?” he sneered, nodding at the salmon. “Thats why weve got no savings. Reckless spending.”
“Not we, Simon. Me,” I corrected, slicing a lemon. “Youre saving for status now, remember? Oh, and have you claimed a shelf in the fridge? Your spots the bottom drawer, veggie compartment. Should be just the right climate for your assets.”
He grunted, fetched out his pasties, and started boiling them in my saucepan.
“Gas,” I said over my shoulder.
“What?”
“Gas, water, wear and tear on the saucepan, cost of washing up liquid. Were splitting everything, right?”
“Oh, Laura, dont be petty!” He waved a hand, lordly as ever. “Youre above that sort of pettiness.”
“Its not petty, Simon. It’s free-market economics.”
He tried to laugh, but a hot pasty caught on his palate, leaving his expression somewhere between a sulking pug and a child whos swallowed a lemon.
“Youre just miffed that Ive cut you off from my card,” he muttered, peeling congealed pastry from his teeth. “Women always lose the plot when they lose control.”
On Saturday, Simons mum, Anne, stopped by. My mother-in-law is a woman of fierce sense and subtle shades of disapproval. She loves me just about as much as she despises her sons idiocy. She was once head accountant at a major firm, and respected spreadsheets more than people.
We were having tea with a tray of patisserie. Simon sat opposite, gnawing on a dry scone (his own, bought on special offer), looking every bit the tragic victim of austerity.
“Mum, can you believe it? Lauras even hiding loo roll now!” he whinged, hoping for some maternal sympathy. “Weve got cheap cardboard stuff in the bathroom, meanwhile shes got triple-ply with a peach scent! Its discrimination!”
Anne placed her teacup down with delicate precision.
“Simon, dear,” she began sweetly. “When you announced this discrimination, what were you thinking with? The place toilet paper is meant for?”
“Mum! I am economising! I want to save for a car!”
“A car?” Her eyebrow shot almost under her fringe. “With the pennies youre stashing from your wife? Youre scrimping on loo roll just to buy some battered second-hand junker and act like the king of the A-road?”
“Its an investment!” Simon squealed.
“An investment is Laura, for putting up with you in her flat,” Anne replied crisply. “By the way, darling, that cake is divine.”
Simon made a feint for a slice. My hand, calmly clutching a butter knife, gently blocked his way.
“Ten pounds, Simon. Or eat your scone.”
“Are you serious? Charging your own husband? In front of my mum?”
“The market is ruthless, darling. And fork rentals another quid.”
He flinched, blushed, grabbed his scone, and stormed out.
“Histrionic,” observed Anne. “Just like his father. The old man kept stashing capital, too, until I packed him back off to his mothers with nothing but pants and a bruised ego. Brace yourself, love. Next comes the Im hurt so Ill spite myself stage.”
Two weeks passed, and the experiment reached breaking point. Simon grew gaunt, haggardhis pride, though, wouldnt let him fold. He wore crumpled shirts (my washing powder and softener were off limits; he scorned his own bar soap), reeked of cheap deodorant, and gazed at me like a stray mutt who still fancied himself a wolf.
The breakthrough arrived on a Friday evening. I came home from work, tired but happyI’d just received a bonus. On the table: a slightly wilted bunch of carnations and a bottle of budget Cava.
Simon was beaming at the table like a polished coin. “Laura, lets talk. Ive decided we can relax the rules a bit. Im prepared to contribute,” he paused theatrically, “a hundred quid, towards food.”
I eyed him, then the flowers, which looked like a botanical artefact from the Seventies, then at the Cava, which gave me heartburn just looking at it.
“A hundred? So generous, Simon. But theres a catch.” I reached into my bag and slipped out a neatly printed Excel spreadsheet.
“Whats this?” His face tensed with suspicion.
“Your bill, darling. Rent for a room in a city-centre flat (given your access to the living room and kitchen): £500. Utilities (including your forty-minute showers): £100. Cleaning fees (I tidy, you dont): £60. Thats £660 a month. For the last two weeks£330. Plus your share of appliance wear and tear.”
Simon went sheet white.
“You youre charging me to live in my wifes flat?!”
“In the flat of the woman you now have a separate budget with,” I said gently. “You said: Whats mine is mine. The flats mine. Youre a tenant. And since weve no formal contract, I can ask you to leave within 24 hours.”
“Thats so calculating! Thats low! Im the man!”
“Youre the man who tried to save money by skimping on his wife, forgetting he lives off her generosity,” my voice was quiet but each word landed like a hammer. “You want independence? Pay your way. Or find somewhere status doesnt cost so much.”
He gasped, tried to protest, opened and closed his mouth, waving his arms like a confused pigeon.
“Youll regret this!” he finally shouted. “Ill leave! Ill find someone who values me, not just the square footage!”
“Best of luck, Simon. And do take your box of pasties from the freezer. Your asset, not mine.”
He scrambled around the flat, shoving things into a bag, shouting that I was a “money-grabbing cow” and a “heartless witch” whod “murdered love” and that he was off into the bitter night.
“Ring your mum, ask her to make up the sofa,” I advised, pouring myself a glass of that nice Sauvignon. “And book an Economy taxiprotect your status.”
He slammed the door so hard I suppose he hoped my conscience might finally be jarred free, but the only thing he woke was the neighbour downstairs.
The silence in the flat was as sweet as honey. I curled up in my chair, gazed over the soft lights of the city, and felt lighter than air. My phone chimedAnne again: “Hes arrived. Hungry. Demanding fairness. I told him fairness is expensive, and hes skint. Charged him for dinner and a bed for the night. Time he got the hang of the market. How are you holding up?”
I smiled and texted back: “Fine, Mum. Planning to buy new curtains. With what Ive saved.”
Never bother explaining to someone why theyre being foolish. Its far more instructive to let them pay the full price. After all, if a man serves you independence on a silver platter, make sure he knows how to fend for himself when its served right back.
