He left me sitting there alone at a table Id spent all day setting, and dashed off to celebrate with his mates in the garage.
Youre really going to go now? My voice wavered, but I made sure it sounded firm, not hurt.
Mike froze in the hallway, struggling into his battered Barbour jacket. He already had his outdoor trainers on the ones he wore when he was off doing something with his old VW out back. The scent of the roast duck with Bramley apples Id been painstakingly preparing for hours was floating in from the kitchen. On the polished lace tablecloth in the dining room, the crystal glistened, and the salads Id diced into perfect cubes since early morning were laid out carefully.
Oh please, Rachel, dont start. Mike winced as if hed bitten into a lemon. Its just the lads. Pete rang somethings wrong with his carburettor, hes stuck, needs a hand. Well be quick an hour, hour and a half, tops. Ill be back, and well have a proper celebration. The duck wont even have a chance to get cold.
Petes carburettor magically breaks every Friday, precisely at 7pm, I replied, resting against the doorway. And Mike, its our tenth wedding anniversary. I left work early. I bought your favourite wine cost nearly half my paycheque. I even put on this dress. And youre off to the garage?
He finally shrugged on his coat and started patting down pockets for the car keys.
Youre making this a big deal. Its just a car it needs sorting. Its a bloke thing, you know? If I needed help, Pete would be there in a flash. Dont be selfish. Im not running off to the pub, Im just doing what Ive got to do. Cmon, love, dont sulk. Ill be right back.
He pecked my cheek rushed, dry, barely there and the front door slammed shut, the lock clicking in the silence like a starting gun.
I stood in the corridor for a moment. In the mirror, a woman in a beautiful navy dress with an elegant updo looked back at me, her figure flattered by the cut, but her eyes dull.
I walked slowly to the kitchen. The oven had just switched off, but the duck still sizzled inside. I pulled out the heavy tray. It was perfect: crisp skin, the aroma of apples and spices. A little masterpiece no one cared about now.
I carried it through to the dining room, sat down at a table set for two glasses, plates, candles Id never even managed to light. The silence pressed in, broken only by the news announcer mumbling away on the neighbours telly through the wall. In my own flat, nothing but emptiness.
He wouldnt be back in an hour. Nor in an hour and a half. The garage is like some strange Bermuda triangle: time disappears in there. First they look at the carburettor, then its something else, then someone cracks open a beer just to wet the whistle, then some neighbour pops in with a story about a new grandkid or a missing cat and off they go.
I poured myself some wine. Red, heavy, sharp. I took a sip. Then I carved myself a duck leg, the best bit. I chewed mechanically, without tasting. No drama, just the onset of a cold, heavy clarity. It was as if a veil, hanging over my eyes for years, suddenly lifted.
Was it the first time?
Last year on my birthday, he was three hours late because he was helping his mum move a sofa. As if removals companies didnt exist, never mind that a man in his forties shouldnt wreck his back doing daft favours. He turned up sweaty, exhausted, grumbling all evening.
The summer before that? Wed booked a trip away. The day before, he lent half our holiday money again, to Pete, who was up against deadlines on his loan. Hell pay it back, Rach, mates honour, said Mike. Pete took months to cough it up, and our holiday was cheap instant noodles in the room, instead of sightseeing and dinners out.
I looked at the empty plate across from me. Ten years. Tin anniversary. They say tin is flexible, but if you keep bending it the same way, it snaps.
I finished my duck, ignored the sides. Blew out the unlit candles and started to clear up. The salads went in the fridge, cork in the wine, dirty plates loaded in the dishwasher, but I didnt turn it on.
By 1am, Mikes phone was unreachable. At 2, I saw his WhatsApp pop back online. I didnt call. I made up the spare bed, turned out the light but couldnt sleep, listening to the lift whirring up and down outside.
At half three, the key scraped in the lock. Mike tried to be quiet but every rustle and shuffle sounded like cannon fire at that hour. He tripped over the side table, muttered a curse, fought out of his jeans, and finally slid under the covers, reeking of cheap beer, fags, and engine oil. The precise, unmissable scent of a night in the garage.
He stretched his arm round me.
Awake? he whispered, breath sour on my neck. Sorry, Rach. Bit of a saga, you wouldnt believe. Werent the carburettor after all, engine itself was knackered had to take half the thing apart. Up to my elbows in oil, couldnt leave poor Pete like that. Phone died, no charger.
I rolled to the very edge of the bed.
Dont touch me, I said quietly.
Oh come on, love, dont be like that. Im here, arent I? Alive, safe. So I was late. Well celebrate tomorrow. Well, today now. Ill buy cake
He was snoring before the sentence finished. I got up, grabbed my pillow and duvet, and went to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. The scent of duck lingered in the air like a ghost of a celebration that never happened.
Morning didnt bring apologies, but complaints. Mike shuffled into the kitchen near noon, bleary, still in yesterdays boxers. I was quietly working through emails over coffee.
No breakfast? he mumbled, rooting about in the fridge. Oh, theres still salad. Great. Wheres the duck?
In the fridge, in a Tupperware, I replied, eyes on the screen.
Warm it up, would you? My heads splitting.
I closed my laptop softly.
No.
What dyou mean, no?
I mean, heat it up yourself. Youve got hands. The very same hands that rebuilt Petes engine last night. Use those.
He stared, puzzled. Normally, post-argument, Id fume for an hour or two but cave and carry on my wifely duties: cooking, cleaning, serving. Hed mess up, Id sulk, hed buy chocolates or say something nice, Id let it go.
Rach, are you still going on about last night? I explained. These things happen. Mates help each other in a pinch. You cant keep a bloke on a lead.
I dont, I answered calm, steady. Youre totally free. And Im free. Including from cleaning up after your hangover.
That wasnt a bender, it was repairs! he snapped, sitting to eat what was left straight from the salad bowl. You know, youve gone a bit nuts lately. Maybe you need more vitamins. Or its the time of the month.
I studied him, really looked. This man, wolfing down potato salad and scattering crumbs was he really my husband? The man Id trusted my life with? The flat we lived in had been my Nans, gifted to me before we married, not his. Sure we redid the place together, but, lets be honest, Id paid for most of it. Mike always had some excuse: work was slow, needed to help his mum, tools broken.
Mike, I said, almost in a whisper. Wheres the money for the new windows?
He choked.
Money? Its in the tin where else?
Its not. I checked this morning. Its empty. Two thousand pounds we saved gone.
He averted his eyes, ears going red.
Oh, right I took it. Yesterday. For Pete. Needed pricey parts in a hurry. Hell pay it back from his wages.
You just took two grand from our savings, didnt even ask me, and gave it to Pete to patch up his useless old banger? When weve been scrimping all year so we dont freeze again this winter?
Look, its just money! He threw the spoon in the sink, scowling. Hell pay it back! Swear. Anyway, Im the man in the house financial stuffs my job. What, you want me to run every little purchase past you like a child?
You should ask when you take money from the joint pot. Especially since Im the one whos put most of it in.
Oh, here we go. He glared. Throwing money in my face. Thats low, Rachel. Wasnt like this before. Gone all calculating you have.
He stormed off, slamming the door as the TV blared to show he was unfazed by my nagging.
I sat in the kitchen, feeling something snap the last slender thread holding together this wobbly structure called our family. I suddenly knew wed never get those new windows. Pete was never paying that money back he always had some drama. And Mike, my so-called hero, would keep throwing our savings around for his friends while I sacrificed lunches and my own little treats.
A week of silent standoff followed nothing but clipped conversations about bins or milk. Mike swanned about like the injured party, while I was cast as the shrill wife nagging for no reason. Hed stay out late, eat whatever leftovers he found and turn his back to me in bed.
On Thursday, he came home early looking cheery, clutching a bunch of sorry-looking chrysanthemums the kind sold by pensioners outside the Tube.
Cmon love, lets not sulk any longer! He presented the flowers. We good?
I put them in a vase by the window.
Were good, I told him, cool and flat. Id already made up my mind.
Brilliant! He beamed. Cant keep on like hermits. Um, listen you havent forgotten, its my birthday on Saturday, right?
Nope, havent forgotten.
Well, Im over the whole restaurant thing too dear and not fun, really. Lets do it at ours! Ill have the lads round: Pete and his wife, Tony six or so of us. Youll do your usual? That roast you do, the salads, your amazing spreads. They all talk about your cooking!
I studied his face he didnt doubt for a second that after all this, I’d jump up to feed him and his friends. That Id just cook myself silly for another party while he basked in it.
Alright, I said, giving a strange little smile he didnt notice. Invite whoever you like. For two in the afternoon, yes?
Thats my girl! He tried to hug me but I ducked away, fussing with the tablecloth. I’ll get the food in, want me to make you a list?
No need, I replied. Ill sort it myself. I want to surprise you. You like surprises, dont you?
Love em! He grinned. Grand Ill go ring everyone.
Friday was quiet. I did head to the supermarket and came back with bags. He tried to peek inside but I laughed and told him off. I spent all evening in the kitchen, clattering about, but kept the door shut. The smells coming out were odd. Not the usual baking, but something bland, boiled. Mike figured it was some elaborate dish.
Saturday. He woke up excited. I was up first neat, smart suit, make-up done, but businesslike.
Didnt know we were getting all formal! he joked. Thought youd wear that red dress.
Im comfortable like this, I said. Guests nearly here?
Yeah, Pete and his lot are on their way. Ill hop in the shower.
While he scrubbed up, I laid the table. By the time he reappeared, smelling of aftershave, the bell was going and in trooped the gang, arms full of noisy carrier bags of booze.
Happy birthday, mate! Pete shouted, backslapping. Right, show us what Rachels made cant even smell anything. Got a new extractor fan?
They barrelled into the dining room and stopped dead.
The table was laid out on the finest cloth. Cutlery, plates, napkins all there. But the food
The centrepiece was a heap of bargain frozen supermarket dumplings, lumpy and stuck together on a platter. Around it were bowls of plain, pot-noodle noodles, now congealed and soggy. For savoury cuts there were thick slices of the cheapest supermarket sausage, and in glass bowls sat dry breadsticks and open tins of value-brand pilchards in tomato sauce still in their tins.
Whats this? Mikes voice cracked, his hand sweeping the display. Rachel, is this a joke? Wheres the roast? Wheres all the food?
Silence fell. Pete glanced between the dumplings and me, his wife pursing her lips.
I stood tall, words coming smooth and steady.
This, Mike, is a proper garage-style spread. Since your true love is hanging about in the garage with the boys even on our anniversary I thought Id bring the spirit home. This is what you deserve. Enjoy, all of you.
Are you mental? he hissed, crimson. Youre embarrassing me! Get this off the table and bring real food! I saw you cooking last night!
I cooked my food. Its in the fridge for next week. This is for you on your tab, actually, what was left after you raided our savings.
Pete cleared his throat.
Er, mate, maybe we should leave. Bit awkward
Sit down! snapped Mike. No ones going anywhere. Rachelll sort this wont you, love? Youll get proper food, apologise, and well forget this. If not
If not, what? I replied, soft but with an edge.
If not, I cant promise I wont lose my rag. You forget whose house youre in, woman. My guests.
My house? I laughed, dry and cold. Lets clarify: this flat was gifted to me by my nan before we even met. Its mine. Youre just on the tenancy. You have zero legal rights, just the right to sleep here nothing more.
Mikes bravado faltered. Hed never heard me speak so unequivocally usually it was recipes and holiday wishes.
What rubbish. I put the tiles up myself!
No, you carried two bags of grout. I paid a tradesman with my bonus. Most of what you contributed came from my account, and youve consistently drained our joint funds for your mates. If you want a fight, go to a solicitor youll be lucky to get a payout, let alone a share.
Shove off! he blurted, flustered. Ill call the police tell them youre being aggressive!
Do it, I shrugged. But first, here are your things.
I brought in two packed suitcases from the bedroom.
Everythings there. Clothes, shoes, your tools. Even your lucky mug though it was my set.
The guests began edging out; Petes wife already had her boots on, dragging him out the door.
Well wait outside, Mike, Pete muttered, vanishing with the others.
Mike stood by the cold dumplings and suitcases, suddenly lost.
Youre actually serious? Hed lost his anger now. Alright, okay, look Im sorry. Ill make up for it, I swear. Just dont kick me out. Where am I meant to go my mums?
Not my problem, Mike. Youve got mates. Youve got the garage. Sort yourself out. But not here.
Youll regret this, Rachel! He tried a last snarl. Whos going to want you at thirty-eight, eh? Ill find some twenty-four-year-old in a week and youll be stuck here with the cats!
Ill take my chances, I replied, and held the door.
He grabbed the suitcases, face twisted. Cow! Ill sue for half the furniture. The tellys mine!
The TVs on finance in my name, all paid by me. Got the statements. Get out, Mike. And leave the keys.
He hesitated, then flung the keys on the side.
Stuff your bloody flat!
He stormed down the hall with his things. I locked the door twice, and put on the chain for good measure. I leaned against the cold frame, letting the tension drain away. My heart hammered, my hands shook, but I didnt cry. Instead, I felt lighter like Id just dropped the boulder Id dragged around for ten years, thinking it was marital happiness.
I went back in, scooped up the tablecloth with the dumplings, pot noodles, and sausage, dumped it all in a rubbish bag. Didnt even sort it just chucked the lot. Opened the window to clear the fish and cheap aftershave smell.
Then I took the bottle of wine the one left from our anniversary and poured myself a glass. I sat back in the armchair.
My phone pinged a message from Mum: Hows the celebration going, pet? Mike pleased?
I typed back: It went perfectly, Mum. Best birthday he ever had. And the first day of my new life.
Tomorrow, Id change the locks. Monday, Id file for divorce. Thered be drama, shouting, maybe even arguments about forks and spoons. But that didnt matter anymore. Tonight, for the first time in years, I wasnt having dinner alone. I was eating with myself a clever, strong, free woman who was finally learning to respect who she was.
