He just left me sitting there at the set table and ran off to help the lads at the garage.
Are you really leaving right now? Just like that, walking out? My voice faltered for a split second, but I made sure it sounded more resolute than hurt.
Michael froze in the hallway, halfway into his battered old Barbour jacket. He was wearing his scruffy trainers instead of slippersthe ones he always put on when he was heading out to tinker with his car. From the kitchen the gorgeous smell of roast duck with apples drifted through the house, and anyone could tell it wasnt some thrown-together mealitd taken four hours of prepping and marinating alone. Every detail laid out in the lounge: the fancy lace tablecloth, my Grans crystal glasses catching the light, and salads Id been fussing with since morningperfectly diced.
Come on, Beth, dont start, he grimaced, as if Id given him toothache. The lads just rang. Terrys got engine trouble, hes stranded and needs a hand. Well be quick, just an hour or so. Be back before your ducks even cool.
Terrys engine breaks every Friday, precisely at seven oclock. I leaned against the doorway, my voice icy. Michael, its our tenth wedding anniversary. I left work early, picked up your favourite wineit cost half my pay, by the way. I put on that dress you like. And youre off to the garage?
He slid both arms into his jacket, patting for his car keys, obviously impatient.
Youre being dramatic. Its just a car part. Blokes have got to look out for each other, you know that. If I was in trouble, Terry would come running. Dont be selfish. Were not going out anyway, just sorting his car. Stop poutingIll be right back.
He pecked my cheek, quick and perfunctory, then slammed the front door. The clack of the lock shot right through the flat.
I stood there a minute, catching sight of myself in the hallway mirror. A woman done up for a night that wasnt going to happen: dark navy dress skimming over the bits I hated, hair up and makeup perfect, but my eyes were dull and flat.
In the kitchen the ovens ping had long finished, but the duck still sizzled softly in its juices. I hefted the roasting tray out. It was perfectgolden skin, the apples spiced just right. A masterpiece, wasted on no one.
I set it out in the lounge. Two plates, two wine glasses, candles I hadnt gotten around to lighting. The silence pressed in from all sides. You could just about hear the neighbours telly murmuring behind the wall, but in here it felt like a vacuum.
I knew he wouldnt be back in an hour. Or two. The garage was like the Bermuda Triangle: time just vanished in there. Checking the engine first. Then theyd find the real problem. Then someone would crack open a pint for a quick one, and inevitably, another mate would swing by with some saga about a lost cat or a new baby, and that would be that.
I poured myself a glass of red. Thick and dry, just how he likes it. Chopped off a duck legthe best bit. Ate it mechanically, unable to taste anything. No tears or yellingjust a hard, steely clarity rising up. As if a fog Id been living in for years had suddenly burned off.
It wasnt the first time.
Last year, remember? My birthday. He turned up three hours late, helping Mum move a sofa. Delivery wouldve cost barely anything, but no, Michael had to do it himself. He arrived sweaty, filthy, moaning about his back all evening.
The summer before? Wed planned a trip, bought the ticketsthen the night before, he handed half our spending money to Terry who needed help with a loan payment. Were mates, Beth, hell pay it back. Six months it took, and that holiday we spent eating Pot Noodles in the hotel room.
I glanced at the empty plate opposite me. Ten years. Tin anniversary, they call it. Tin is flexible, but bend it the same way long enough and, well, it snaps.
I finished the duck, didnt bother with the sides. Doused the candles, packed up the salads, corked the wine. Loaded the dishwasher but couldnt be fussed to switch it on.
At midnight, Michaels phone was switched off. Two in the morning, it finally pinged online. I didnt call. Just made up the guest bed and lay there in the dark, listening to the lift doors whirring outside.
At half three I heard his key turn. He tried to be quiet, all shuffling and muttered cursing when he kicked the console table. Clothes rustled as he yanked off his jeans. The flat filled with the stench of stale booze, cheap cigarettes and engine oil. That unmistakable garage stink.
He wriggled under the covers and tried to pull me close.
Asleep? he whispered, his beery breath in my ear. Beth, Im sorry, honestly. Whole thing went sideways Terrys engine’s bust, not just a belt. We were elbow-deep in oil, couldnt just leave him. Phone died, no charger
I moved to the absolute edge of the bed.
Dont touch me, I said quietly.
Oh come on, enough. Im back, arent I? Safe and sound. Just a bit late. Well celebrate tomorrow. Well, today. Pick up a cake
He was snoring a minute later. I got up, grabbed my pillow and blanket, and went to sleep on the lounge sofa, which still faintly smelled of ducka whiff of what couldve been a celebration.
He didnt apologise in the morninghe sulked. By noon he stumbled into the kitchen, face puffy, looking for breakfast. I was just finishing my coffee, reading work emails on the laptop.
No breakfast? he grunted, rummaging in the fridge. Hey, salads left. Brilliant. What about the duck?
In a container, in the fridge, I said, eyes on the screen.
Heat it up, will you? My heads banging. Need proper grub.
I quietly shut my laptop.
No.
What do you mean no?
I mean you can heat it up yourself. Those marvellous hands you used yesterday for Terrys entire engine should manage a microwave.
He stared in disbelief. Normally after a row, Id carry onfeed him, tidy up, make peace. That was our routine. Hed mess up, Id sulk, hed buy me a chocolate bar, say something flattering, and Id forgive him.
Beth, youre still going on about last night? Seriously. It was an emergency. Proper mates help each other. You cant keep a bloke on a leash.
Im not, I said, cool as anything. Youre completely free. And so am I. Free not to nurse you through your hangover.
It wasnt a piss-up, it was repairs! he snapped, digging the salad out and shovelling it in. You have got a bit edgy lately, you know. Maybe you need vitamins or something? Or is it your time of the month?
I looked at him, long and hard, as if seeing him for the first time. This man, wolfing down salad and dropping crumbs everywherethat was my husband. The man I trusted with everything. The flat we lived in, passed down from my nanhed only ever been a guest there, really. We split decorating costs, but honestly, most payments came from me, one way or anotherMichael always had no work right now, or tools broke, or Mum needs help again.
Michael, I said quietly. Wheres the money wed saved up for the new windows?
He choked on his salad.
What dyou mean? In the box, same as always.
Theres nothing in the box. I checked this morningfifty grands missing.
He looked away, the tips of his ears burning red.
Oh, yeah Took it yesterday. For Terrys spares, needed them fast, urgent. I lent him the lot. Hell pay me back next payday.
You took fifty grand out of our savings, didnt even tell me, and handed it to Terry to fix his rustbucket? We saved up for months so we wouldnt freeze in here all winter.
Its only money! Hell get it back to us, promise. He threw down his fork, irritation bubbling up. Im the man of the house, I deal with money stuff. What, you want to approve every bolt I buy now?
What you should do, I replied, is ask before you take money out of our joint savings. Especially when I put in most of it.
Oh, so now youre going to throw who-earns-what in my face? he sneered. Low blow, Beth. Thought you were better than that. Not like you, getting all materialistic.
He banged back his chair and stalked into the living room, cranking the telly up so Id know how little he cared for my opinions.
I sat in the kitchen, feeling something inside me snap for good. That one last string propping up our so-called marriage. I realised right then, those windows would never get replaced. Terry would never pay us backalways more loans or a broken-down ex or a sick dog. And Michael would keep playing the saviour with my money, while I scrimped on lunch and beauty products.
One cold-shoulder week later, we exchanged brief sentences necessary for lifenothing more. Michael acted like the wronged party, while I was the nag whod lost all sense of humour. He started staying out late, coming home, raiding the fridge in silence, sleeping with his back to me.
Thursday, surprisingly, he arrived home in a good mood and early, holding a bouquet of those cheap supermarket chrysanthemums, the kind pensioners sell outside the station.
Come on, Beth, truce, yeah? handing me the flowers. Peace?
I took them and put them in a vase.
Peace, I said flatly. Didnt care anymore. My plan was already coming together.
Brilliant! He beamed. Weve been like hermits. So, listen My birthdays Saturday, remember?
I remember.
Ive been thinkingI dont fancy going out for it. Too pricey and awkward. Why not stay in? Ill invite the lads, Terry and his wife, Tonysix or seven of us. Youre the hostess with the mostestdo your thing? Your French roast, salads, the works? Theyre forever on about your cooking.
I watched him. Not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He genuinely thought after ruining our anniversary, cleaning out our savings, and ignoring me for a week, Id jump for joy and cook up a storm for his mates.
All right, I replied, managing a smilethough not a natural one. Invite away. Be home by two on Saturday.
Knew you were a diamond, he crowed, trying to hug me; I dodged him, pretending to fix the tablecloth. Leave you a shopping list, yeah? Ill pick it all up.
No need, waving him off. Ill do it. I want it to be a surprise. You love surprises, dont you?
Love em! he grinned, and went to call the lads.
Friday I did go shopping, genuinely, and came home with bags. If Michael tried to peek, I jokingly slapped his hands away: No peeking, its a secret! Most of the evening I banged about in the kitchen with the door closed. The smells were oddmore school canteen than my usual roast dinners or cakes, but Michael clearly decided it was some challenging recipe.
Saturday morning comes. Michaels up, all excited. Im already dressedsmart, business-like, hair and makeup done, not the party dress hed hoped for.
Bit formal, arent you? Thought youd wear the red one.
More comfortable like this, I said. Guests nearly here?
Yeah, Terry and co are on their way. Quick shower for me.
While he was sprucing up, I finished laying the table. The bell rang; Michael ushered his lot in, arms full of supermarket bags and bottles.
Happy birthday, mate! Terry clapped Michael on the back. Go on then, whats the missus cooked up? Cant smell much
They stormed into the loungeand stopped dead.
Table: same fancy tablecloth. Plates, cutlery, napkins, all beautifully arranged. The food though
Right in the middle: a mound of bog-standard frozen supermarket dumplings, stuck in one huge solid lump. Bowls lined the sides, each with a different flavour instant noodles, already swollen and congealed. Instead of a selection of nice cold cuts, there were thick hunks of the cheapest ham, barely unwrapped from the packet. Crispy snacks from a bag, and tins of sardines in tomato, still in the cans, surrounded by ketchup rings.
Michaels jaw dropped. Is this a joke, Beth? Wheres the roast? Where are the salads?
The room was silent. Terry was gawping, his wife pursed her lips.
I stepped forward, tall and calm and strangely proud.
This, Michael, I said, is a proper Garage Banquet. You clearly prefer garage nights with your mates over time with me, so why not recreate the whole vibe? Eat up, everyone. Its exactly what your club of gentlemen deserves.
You mad?! Michael hissed, his face dark red. Youre humiliating me! Clear this lot and bring out the proper dinnerI saw you cooking!
I was making food for myself for next week. Its boxed up in the fridge. This is for you. Paid for, by the way, with what littles left from our drained savings.
Terry coughed, awkwardly. Er, reckon we might just head out, Michael. Bit awkward, this.
No ones going anywhere! Michael barked. Beth, youll sort this out now. Go get the actual food, apologise to everyone, and well forget this ever happenedor else.
Or else what? I asked, mildly interested.
Or I wont be responsible for what I do! Dont forget this is my house, my guests.
My house? I laugheda dry, stinging laugh. Lets go through the details since we have witnesses. This flats in my name, left to me by my gran years before we married. So, as English law stands, property owned before marriage or inherited/received as a gift remains with the original owner. Youve only ever been a lodger, really.
He stared at me. Id never spoken like a solicitor beforeI usually talked about recipes and day trips.
Dont talk rubbish! I worked on this place, laid tiles!
That tradesman who did the tileshired with my Christmas bonus. Saved the receipts. Your input was two bags of grout, and celebrating with beer for a week. If you wanted to take it to court, youd get a cash settlement, maybe, for work done, but no ownership. And seeing as you spend our joint money on your mates, good luck.
Go to hell! he hollered, utterly lost. Ill call the police, say youre kicking off!
Call them, I shrugged. While you do, heres your stuff.
I brought out two chunky suitcases from our bedroom.
Its all in there. Clothes, shoes, random tools from the balcony, even your precious mugfrom my set, by the way.
The guests were already shuffling towards the front door, Terrys wife hissing, Lets go, now.
Michael, well just wait for you outside, Terry muttered, and the rest dashed out after him.
Michael stood there, surrounded by cold, clumpy dumplings and suitcases.
Youre serious? he said quietly, all bluster gone. Beth, come onweve just both overreacted. Want me to get on my knees? I know I messed up. Ill get the money back, I promise. Dont chuck me out, where am I meant to go? Mums tiny flat?
Not my problem, Michael. Youre a grown man, with mates, a garage, a freshly tuned-up car. Do as you please. Just not here.
Youll regret this, Beth! He was getting worked up again, seeing his pleas werent working. Whod want you at thirty-eight, eh? Bet I find someone young by next week, and youll be stuck here with ten cats!
Ill take my chances, I said, perfectly calm, and opened the front door. Go on, out you get.
He grabbed his suitcases. His face was twisted with rage.
You bitch! Greedy cow! Ill sue you for half the furniture! The tellys mine!
Tellys in my name, on my card, all paid for by mebank statements ready. Off you go, Michael. Leave the keys on the side.
He faltered, but at my look, flung the keys to the floor with a muttered curse.
Choke on your flat, then!
He dragged his bags out. I slammed the door and turned the locktwice, for good measureand slid down against the cool metal, heart pounding. But there were no tears. Instead, there was a flying sense of relieflike dropping a ten-year burden Id been calling wedded bliss.
I chucked out the tableclothpiled high with dumplings, Super Noodles, and hamstraight into a bin bag, didnt even look it over. Flung the windows open to air out the sardine and aftershave reek.
From the fridge I took out the anniversary winenow my liberation toastpoured myself a glass and sat in my chair.
My phone beeped. Mum: Hows the party, love? Michael having a nice birthday?
I texted back: It was perfect, Mum. Best birthday of his life. And the first day of my new life.
Tomorrow, Ill change the locks. Monday, Ill file for divorce. It wont be simpletherell be tantrums, threats, attempts to split forks. But it doesnt matter. What matters is tonight I wasnt dining alone for the first time in years. I was eating with myself: clever, strong, finally-respected me.
