I still remember the night I saw the gift my husband had bought for his colleague and how it cost me the family dinner.
Hester, have you lost your mind? What on earth do we need so much meat? Were not feeding a regiment, were just having a modest family supper, Victor Whitaker snapped, shoving a pack of pork neck into the checkout belt. You could have taken a chicken cheaper and healthier.
I stood behind him, sighing heavily as I readjusted the strap of my bag. That argument had become a ritual before every holiday. Victor, who liked to parade his achievements at work and dazzle friends, turned into a true Scrooge at home. Every penny was counted, every extra yoghurt was seen as an attack on the household budget.
Victor, its your golden jubilee. Fifty years, I whispered, careful not to be overheard by the cashier. Your parents, my sister and her husband, your mates from the factory theyll be here. I cant serve boiled chicken and potatoes. Theyll think were cheap.
People will understand! Its the company, not the stuffing, that matters, he muttered, leaving the pork on the belt despite the disapproving glance from a woman in line. Fine, take it. But cut back on the salads. No more prawns or avocado. Keep it simple a good old Waldorf and a vinaigrette, thats what everyone likes.
We left the supermarket with bags piled high. I carried two heavy ones; Victor handled a single bag that clanged with bottles of spirits. He always protected his back, citing an old injury from his army days, though hed once hauled cement sacks at his mothers cottage in Devon without complaint.
Back home the usual precelebration hustle began. With two days left until the jubilee, I drafted a timetable: the meat jelly had to set tonight, the sponge cake layers baked tomorrow morning, the cold cuts and hot dishes saved for the day itself. Cooking had once been my joy, but lately it felt more like a duty. Victor never missed a chance to criticize too greasy, not salty enough, why did you move the ingredients?
That evening, while the jelly simmered gently, filling the flat with garlic and bay leaf, Victor retreated to the bedroom to watch the news. I stayed in the kitchen, washing dishes, thinking that I was approaching fortyfive and still wearing the same winter boots Id cobbled together twice. When I asked Victor for new ones, he replied, The seasons ending, well see about discounts in autumn.
The next morning Victor left for work. He was head of logistics at a large trading firm, earning a respectable salary that I rarely saw. Our finances were split, skewed in his favour: he paid the council tax and car insurance, while I, on my nurses pay, bought groceries, cleaning supplies, clothes for myself and gifts for the extended family. The remainder of his earnings he slipped into a hidden nestegg in a locked cupboard for retirement, hed say, or for a dream, never specifying which.
I dusted the hallway cupboard, a place no one bothered to look. On the top shelf lay old hats, scarves and outofseason shoes. Standing on a stool, I reached for the far corner and brushed against something solid hidden behind a stack of sweaters.
It was a glossy, highend jewellery bag.
My heart leapt. Could Victor have decided to surprise me? My birthday was only a month after his jubilee. Or perhaps he was merely rewarding himself for his own celebration, a token of gratitude for my endless patience?
With trembling hands I opened the bag. Inside lay a velvet box of deep navy. I lifted the lid to reveal a gold bracelet, delicate and intricate, studded with stones that resembled topazes. It was clearly expensive at least five hundred pounds, perhaps more.
I pressed the box to my chest, tears welling up. I cursed myself for the earlier irritation, for branding my husband as miserly. He had saved, yes, but he had also spent on this splendor for me. Shame washed over the anger.
At the bottom of the bag I found a folded receipt and a small card. Curiosity won. The card, written in an ornate hand, read:
To my wonderful Hester. May your eyes sparkle brighter than these stones. Happy Birthday, Queen of Logistics! Yours, V.
I read it over and over until the letters blurred into inkstained smudges. Queen of Logistics. That was Elspeth the new deputy who had arrived at Victors firm six months earlier, a sharpeyed blonde in her thirties, always mentioned in Victors business anecdotes: Elspeth proposed a new route, Elspeths savvy will take her far.
The receipt showed a total of seven hundred and fifty pounds. That sum could have bought new boots, covered a bathroom remodel Id asked for three years ago, or funded a longdelayed seaside holiday.
My hands shook. I slipped the bracelet back into its box, the box into the bag, and set the bag among the sweaters. The ringing in my head was deafening.
There was no money left for chicken. No money left for my boots. Yet there was enough for a bracelet for the queen of logistics.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wall, feeling as if a taut string had finally snapped. I recalled mending Victors socks because new ones were a waste of money, dyeing my hair with cheap paint, denying myself a second chocolate bar all for the family, for our supposed future.
He had been stealing from that very future to buy gold for another woman.
Your V. Not Victor, colleague, but Your V.
I rose, grabbed the heavy pot of jelly from the stove, and poured it straight into the toilet. The meat Id spent hours selecting was dumped into the bin, the cake batter followed, and the pork neck Id just bought was shoved into the freezer for later, should I need it.
I then dialed the phone.
Hello, Margaret? Its Hester. About tomorrows jubilee we have to cancel. Victors fallen ill, severe infection, doctors orders strict quarantine. No one needs to come. Please tell Zoe and the others. Thank you.
I called everyone motherinlaw, sisterinlaw, friends and told the same cold, clinical story. My motherinlaw tried to offer home remedies, but I firmed that no one would be allowed in.
After the calls I fetched the old, battered suitcase wed used on a seaside trip to Brighton ten years ago and began stuffing Victors clothes into it shirts, trousers, socks, even the patchedup underwear not neatly, but in a heap. I added a couple of large garbage bags containing his winter coat and boots.
I dressed in my worn boots and coat, took my handbag, and settled into a chair in the hallway, waiting.
Victor returned at seven, humming to himself, apparently looking forward to both his own celebration and the gift for Elspeth.
Im home, love! he called as he entered. Whats that wonderful smell? Oh, must be the jelly
He stopped short when he saw the barricade of suitcases and bags. I sat there, coat still on, my stare unflinching.
What are you doing? Victor asked, pulling off his hat. And whats with the bundles? Are we throwing things away?
Were throwing you out, Victor, I said calmly.
He froze, his jacket halfunzipped, a puzzled expression crossing his face.
Youre joking? Tomorrows my birthday, the guests are coming
The guests arent coming, I cut in. Ive called everyone and told them youre contagious.
Youve gone mad! he shouted, his face flushing. My parents are travelling from the countryside! People have made plans! Did you get hot at the stove?
I didnt get hot. I simply found a gift.
Victors eyes darted to the cupboard, then back to me.
What gift? You were rummaging through my things?
I was dusting. I found a bracelet. For your queen of logistics. Seven hundred and fifty pounds.
Silence fell, broken only by the hum of the fridge. Victor tried to gather his thoughts, his brain scrambling for an excuse.
Its not what you think! It was a collective gift, everyone in the department chipped in. I had a discount card, they asked me to keep it hidden so Elspeth wouldnt see it early. The card was just a joke, a bit of office humour!
A collective gift? I smiled sadly. Victor, dont treat me like a fool. Ten people in the department each would have had to contribute eight hundred pounds for a bracelet worth that much. Your receipt showed a cash payment.
Whatever! Victor snapped, switching to a bosslike tone. Im the manager, I reward talent! Elspeth brings in millions, its an investment in good relations!
Investment? I rose. Your wife walks in patchedup boots. We shop on sale. You skimp on meat for your own jubilee, but you pour nearly a thousand pounds into some other womans bracelet. Thats our money, Victor. The family budget.
Its my money! he bellowed. I work my backside off! You spend yours on stockings and lipsticks, Im entitled to spend mine as I wish!
Fine, I said. If its your money and your right, then go live with your queen or your mother. The flat, remember, came from my grandmother. Youre only on the lease, you own nothing.
Victor paled. He had forgotten that fact; after twenty years of marriage the house had become a shared fortress in his mind.
Youre throwing me out? On the street? In winter? Over a bracelet?
Not over the bracelet, Victor. Over the lies. Over the fact you never saw me as a person, just a resource you could economise on to impress younger women. Pack your things. And dont forget the gift. Elspeth is waiting.
Victor clenched his fists, aware hed overstepped, yet pride kept him from begging. He assumed Id eventually crawl back when the pipes burst or the money ran out.
Fine, Ill leave. But youll regret this. Youll come crawling when you need a hand. He grabbed the suitcase, the bags, and, with a theatrical flourish, retrieved the jewellery bag, slipping it into an inner pocket.
The keys go on the dresser, I said.
He flung the keyring onto the floor.
Off you go, you psychopath. Youve ruined my jubilee.
The door slammed shut behind him. I locked it, then the deadbolt, and leaned back against the cold wood, sliding to the floor.
I did not cry. There was a strange, profound relief, as if I had finally slipped out of a tight, itchy sweater Id worn for years, only to discover spring outside.
I went to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and took out a piece of pork neck. Id let it thaw overnight and would roast it with honey and mustard for myself tomorrow, with a good bottle of wine, and celebrate my own little festival the day I freed myself from greed and betrayal.
The next day my phone rang nonstop. My motherinlaw screamed that Id ruined her sons life, that Victor was staying in a hotel, poor thing. I put her number on the blacklist. My sisterinlaw tried to reason, also blocked.
That evening Victor sent a message: Hester, lets talk. I overreacted. Ill return the bracelet, give you the money. Dont cut me off.
I smiled, deleted the message. Trust isnt a bracelet you can hand back with a receipt.
A week later I received an advance, went to the town centre, and bought a pair of genuine leather boots Italian, sleek, the very ones Id eyed all winter.
Leaving the shop I caught my reflection in the window. The tired woman with dim eyes had vanished, replaced by a confident, selfassured figure who knew her worth.
Victor, as I later learned from mutual acquaintances, now lives in a modest flat on the outskirts. Elspeth accepted the bracelet but never pursued a romance with the ageing manager; she needed prospects, not ballast.
I had the bathroom remodeled myself, choosing tiles the colour of seafoam. Each time I step into that new bath I smile, remembering how costly a mans desire to show off can be, and how cheap he values those who truly stand behind him.
Do not skimp on the ones you love, especially when those beloved are you yourself.
