Oh, come on, Ellie, dont make a fuss! My husband Pauls voice boomed over the shouts of three burly blokes and the blare of Match of the Day in our lounge. A few mates round for the football, whats the harm? Not seen these lads since sixth form! Why dont you slice some gherkins and that nice salami we saved for a special occasion? Weve got beer but not a crumb to snack on.
Standing in the hallway, keys clenched in my aching hand, I just stared. I’d only just crossed the threshold, practically dreaming of kicking off my shoes (which after nine hours at the office felt specifically engineered for torture), wiping off my makeup, and collapsing with a book on the sofa. What a day: the annual report, my bosss tantrum, and a two-hour drive home through drizzle and traffic. Id looked forward to home like a sanctuary. Instead, Id walked straight into Euston at rush hour.
The air stank of cheap lager and stale fish. My favourite beige hallway rug was smothered beneath piles of enormous, muddy mens trainers. Someones jacket lay in a heap, like a wounded blackbird fallen from the coat rack.
I took a deep breath and steadied my trembling hands before stepping into the living room. There was Paul, sprawled contentedly in the armchair. The sofa was commandeered by Dave, Matt, and some bearded stranger. On my beloved glass coffee tablefreshly polished that morningstood beer bottles, bags of crisps, and a mound of fish scales on yesterdays Evening Standard.
Paul, I said softly. We agreed, remember? No guests on weeknights and not without warning. Im shattered. I just wanted some peace.
He waved me away, eyes glued to the TV as millionaire footballers dashed about a glittering pitch.
Oh, here we go again! he bellowed. Im tired, Ive got a headache, the lot. Ellie, dont start. Lads, tell her!
Come on, love, well keep it down! Dave boomeda voice that could compete with a jet engine. If our side scores, we might even have a dance. Get a pint, join us!
I dont want a pint. My anger, cold and determined, began to simmer inside. I want this place empty and sparkling clean in ten minutes.
For heavens sake, dont embarrass me! Paul finally looked up, his red face scowling. Just go to the kitchen and make yourself useful. Put some pasta on or something. The lads are hungry. Dont just stand there killing the mood.
For a long moment, I just looked at himreally looked. Ten years of marriage. Ten years of trying to be the perfect wife: dinners, tidiness, making our flat a haven. Id put up with his Saturday afternoons in the garage, his mums endless advice, socks everywhere. But tonight, something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the fish scales, maybe it was the order to go cook pasta. Either way, the old Elliethe patient, accommodating Elliewas gone.
I turned and walked out without a word.
Shes off in a huff, someone muttered behind me. No worries, shell cool off and bring snacks. She always does.
In the bedroom, Pauls wallet sat on the dresserhe always emptied his pockets when he got home. Keys, coins, debit cards. Yesterday, his quarterly bonus had finally come throughnot a bad sum, money wed agreed to save for a new boiler or, at least, some winter tyres.
I clocked the golden bank card. The plan appeared, sudden and boldone I never would have dared before. But I needed respect, or at least some compensation for the emotional strain.
Card acquired, I hurriedly packed an overnight bagfresh clothes, silk pyjamas (the ones Paul always called slippery and pointless), my phone charger, toiletries.
From the lounge, the men erupted: GOAL! The house shuddered; someone whooped, feet thumping on the furniture.
I threw on my trench, laced my trainers. Tired eyes, grim mouthmy reflection in the mirror barely looked like me.
Cook pasta, you say? I murmured. Well see.
I slipped out quietlyno one noticed over the din.
Outside, the evening was grey, sodden, but I felt suddenly alive with adrenaline. I ordered a taxiComfort Plus. Actually, why not Business class tonight?
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up. The driver, resplendent in a suit, ushered me in.
Good evening. Where to?
The Royal Grand Hotel, I repliedthe five-star palace of the city, marble floors, doormen in full regalia. Id driven past before, admiring the lights, never imagining Id ever cross its threshold as a guest.
Excellent choice, he nodded.
As we drove, my phone buzzed with Pauls name flashing uplikely realising the TV adverts were finished and his stomach rumbling for that pasta. I set my phone to silent. Let him ring. Let him wonder if Id just nipped for milk.
At the Grands entrance, the foyer smelled of expensive perfume and fresh flowers. The chandelier cast a thousand crystal stars. The receptionist smiled flawlessly.
Good evening. Do you have a reservation?
No. I placed Pauls golden card down. I need a suite. With a jacuzzi, if possible. And a river view.
She didnt even flinch, her fingers dancing across the keyboard.
We have a beautiful Executive Suite on the seventh floor. Breakfast and unlimited spa access included. That will be £280 per night. Shall I book it in?
£280a third of Pauls bonus, or half my monthly salary. The frugal side of me squawked, but I stomped its protest flat.
Please do.
Passport, please?
Card beeped. Payment successful. I could imagine the message pinging through to Pauls phone, beer and crisps in hand: £280 spent at ROYAL GRAND HOTEL. Would he even notice? Not tonight. Footballs king.
A porter showed me up. When we entered, I was breathless. This wasnt a roomit was a palace: a cloudlike king bed, a sitting room with velvet chairs, a bathroom clad in marble, and a panoramic view over London sparkling below.
Kicking off my shoes, I padded across the soft rug, then opened the minibar. A single mini-bottle of champagne cost as much as the crate of lager being guzzled in my home.
To hell with it, I said aloud, popping the cork.
I poured a glass, sank into an armchair, and switched on my phone. Fifteen missed calls. Several texts:
Ellie, where are you?
Did you go to the shop? Grab some mayo!
Whereve you got to? Were starving here!
Not a hint of concernjust demands. I sipped the fizz, feeling better by the second.
Then came another text.
Ellie, some strange charge just popped up£280! Was that you? My cards missing. Did you take it? Call me ASAP!
Ah. Hed noticed. I smiled and dialled room service.
Good evening. Could I order dinner to my room? Yes, I know its late, but Im absolutely famished. Seafood salad, a medium-rare steak, tiramisu, and a bottle of decent red. Just charge it to the room, please.
I filled the bath with lavender salt. The phone started up againPaul calling, calling, endlessly.
I picked up just as I slid into the golden bubbles.
Hello?
Ellie! Are you mad?! Paul roared down the linethe background suspiciously quiet. His mates must have clocked this wasnt going well. Where are you? Whats this charge for? £280! Did you buy a fur coat at midnight?!
No, darling, I replied tranquilly, utterly relaxed. I bought myself silence and a little respect. Im at the hotel.
At a hotel? Why?
Because our house stinks like a fish market. Because, as you may recall, Im exhausted. I asked you not to bring guests. You didnt listen. You told me to cook pasta. So here I am, having steak and a bath instead.
Are you drunk?! he spluttered. Come home this instant! Thats our money! We need it for the boiler!
The boiler can wait. My mental health cant. By the way, brace yourself for the dinner bill. Shouldnt be more than £80.
£80 for dinner?! Ellie, have you lost your mind? Theres pasta in the freezer!
Bon appétit, Paul. Maybe Dave or Matt can boil it up. Friend in need, after all.
Ellie, stop this nonsense! Come home! Theyre leaving now.
Oh, are they? And the smell? Is the mackerel vanishing on its own? Ive paid for a full night. I fully intend to get my moneys worth. Ill book myself a massage tomorrow too. Just so you know, their spa comes highly recommended.
A massage?! Thatll cost even more! Ellie, this is highway robbery! Come home, Ill clean up! Ill mop everything myself!
Delighted to hear youve discovered a domestic streak. Enjoy practising. Ill be home tomorrow around lunch. Threaten me and Ill stay another night. Ive got the card, after all.
I hung up and switched my phone off.
A quiet knock. Dinner arrivedsilver service, goose-breast steak, proper tiramisu. I sat in a terry robe, gazing at the city lights, relishing every mouthful.
For the first time in ages, I didnt feel like background staff. I felt like a womana thrillingly expensive one. Even if I had to love myself, and even if it cost the family budget.
I slept better than I had in years. No snoring husband, no one tugging the duvet. I woke to sunlight and a clear mind.
The next few hours? Bliss: pool, sauna, massage. The therapist pressed into my rock-solid shoulders and tutted, Youre carrying a lotlook after yourself, love.
From now on, I will, I promised, feeling lighter at last.
Two oclock. I switched my phone back on. Dozens of missed calls and one final message from Paul: Ive scrubbed everything. Im waiting. Lets talk.
Home by taxi (Comfort Plus again, obviously). I unlocked the door. The scent of bleach and lemons, and something elsea guilty husband.
Paul sat at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea. The place shone. No trace of last nights rampage. The rug was clean, the bowls washed, even the hob wiped down.
He stood as I entered. He looked battered, dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, his night had been nothing like mine.
Youre back, he breathed. Ellie youve gone and done it. Nearly gave me a coronary! Do you understand how much you just spent?
I dropped my bag, fished out the golden card, and set it on the table.
I do. £385.50. Thats the price of my peace and your lesson.
Paul groaned. Nearly four hundred quid For one night! Ellie, thats half the boiler!
Why not tally up how much a cleaner, a chef, and a therapist would cost over ten years? I sat opposite him, meeting his eyes. You take me for granted. You think Ill put up with it allyour mates, your mess. My no means nothing to you. Yesterday showed me just how little you cared about my boundaries.
He tried to defend himself, then faltered.
I didnt mean the lads just turned up
And you cant say no? Or are your mates more important than your wife? My voice was calm but each word landed like a brick. Paul. If this ever happens again, I wont go to a hotel. Ill leave for goodand believe me, a divorce settlement will cost a lot more than four hundred pounds.
He looked at the card, the kitchen, me. The realisation seemed to dawnthis wasnt the complacent, compliant wife he knew. No, this was someone new: composed, refreshed, and not one to be trifled with.
Right, he muttered, lost for words. I get it. I went too far. Dave as well Ive told him not to drop round unannounced.
Good. I stood. Im starving. Any pasta left, or did you lot finish it?
He shot up.
No! I mean I made soup. Chicken. From a tin, but with fresh potatoes. Will you have some?
I nearly laughedsoup from a tin. Baby steps.
Yes, please.
We ate in silence. Paul eyed me warily, as if expecting the sky to fall. I spooned my salty, hot soup and thought that £385.50 was the best investment I’d ever made in our marriage. Sometimes, to be valued, a womans got to become a distinctly expensive prospectquite literally.
That evening while we watched tellyhe even let me choose, so we watched a romantic film he usually dubbed old toshPaul snuggled closer and put an arm round me.
Ellie
Mmm?
Was it really that amazing? The hotel?
It was. Jacuzzi, a view of the river, the softest robe
Maybe maybe one day we could go together? An anniversary or something? Once weve saved up?
I rested my head on his shoulder.
Well go, love. But next time, keep your card on you. You never know when Ill fancy steak at midnight.
He laughednervous, but sincereand squeezed me tight.
Ill start learning to cook steak myself. Cheaper in the long run.
Six months have passed. Guests now only appear with prior agreement, and only at the weekend. Miraculously, Paul cleans up after himself these days. Turns out, the memory of The Royal Grand and a four-hundred-pound dent in the account was a better motivator than a lifetime of polite requests.
And I opened a separate savings accountmy Emergency Fund. I squirrel away a little from every paypacket, just to know that should I ever need it, theres enough for another night in an Executive Suite. Knowledge more comforting than any fireplace.
If you relate to this tale and believe in self-respect, do like and share your thoughtsId love to hear them.
