Emily Hartley runs her finger across the screen of her smartphone, checking the balance on her bank card. The figure in the app makes her close her eyes and slowly count to ten.
“Jim,” she calls to her husband, who is fidgeting in front of the mirror in the hallway.
James Hartley is adjusting the collar of his new shirt. “What is it, Emily?” he says.
“Are you going to pay for the taxi to the restaurant from your card?”
He stops tugging at the collar and gives her a guilty look. “Emily, don’t start. There’s only a bit of change left in there. I’ve still got to pay for parking later this week. Can you book it?”
Emily locks the screen.
James is forty today. Forty is a serious age. Six months ago they agreed to mark it quietly, at home, just the three of them — them and their son.
They took out a mortgage on a two-bed flat two years ago. The payment swallows nearly all of James’s salary. Emily covers the utility bills, the food shopping, their son’s after-school clubs and clothes. Her pay as a senior account manager allows it, but there is almost nothing spare.
A month ago, Margaret Hartley stuck her oar in.
The mother-in-law announced that her only son’s fortieth birthday was an event of global importance. It was not right to sit in the kitchen like beggars. They needed to invite the relatives, book a function room in a restaurant and show everyone that James had made something of himself.
When James timidly tried to object that there was no money for a restaurant, Margaret simply said: “Emily earns good money. You won’t go bankrupt for an occasion like this.”
Emily gave in. She found a cosy restaurant with a good kitchen, compiled the menu herself, and paid the deposit herself.
“We’re ordering a taxi,” Emily agrees, slipping on her raincoat.
At the restaurant, the waiters are already bustling. The table for fifteen guests is groaning with starters. Emily deliberately chose a loose, sand-coloured dress so that after a whole day of running around at work and organising this banquet she can feel comfortable.
Guests begin to arrive around six. Margaret arrives last, accompanied by James’s sister, Polly Hartley. The mother-in-law walks to the table as if she is attending a reception at Buckingham Palace.
“Happy birthday!” Margaret announces loudly, handing James a paper bag.
James looks inside and breaks into a grin. “Oh, Mum, thank you! The same cologne!”
Emily glances at the label. That bottle costs a third of their mortgage payment.
“For my darling son, nothing is too good,” Margaret declares proudly, passing her new fur-collared coat to a waiter who has appeared at her elbow.
Then she turns to her daughter-in-law. The smile on Margaret’s face dies at once. “Emily, congratulations,” she says stiffly.
“Good evening, Margaret,” Emily replies evenly.
Margaret scans the room. “Well, what can I say…” she begins, settling into the seat at the head of the table. “It’s dark in here. And the tablecloths are so ordinary. James, I told you about The Manor House in the town centre. The chandeliers in that place!”
“Mum, The Manor House is out of our league,” James says quietly, sitting down beside her.
“Oh, stop playing poor!” Polly cuts in, patting her hair. “Emily earns like a managing director. You could give your brother a proper party just once.”
Emily feels irritation rising in her throat, but she swallows it. This is not the time to have a showdown in front of the guests.
“Help yourself, Margaret.” Emily slides a platter of fish selection towards her mother-in-law. “The food here is excellent.”
Margaret lifts a piece of fish on her fork with a look of disgust. “This salmon looks pale. I suppose they bought the cheap stuff at the market.”
“It’s lightly salted trout from the head chef,” Emily says calmly.
The banquet is now in full swing. Guests eat, drink, make toasts. They heap praise on James — what a brilliant professional he is, what a wonderful family man, how lucky he has been in life.
Margaret never shuts up all evening. She tells stories from James’s childhood, boasts about his imaginary success at work and never once mentions Emily.
For the mother-in-law, her daughter-in-law is service staff: her job is to keep the glasses topped up and not draw attention to herself.
By the time the main course is served, the atmosphere around the table is hot.
Emily is tired. She stands up to ask the waiters to bring tea, and as she turns to go back to her seat, she hears Margaret’s loud voice.
“That dress, Emily.”
Forks stop clinking over the party table. The guests all drop their eyes to their plates, pretending to be completely absorbed in their salads.
Emily stops halfway to her chair. “Sorry?” she asks.
“In that dress you look like an old mare, honestly!” Margaret declares, sweeping her gaze over the silent guests.
James goes red in blotches. “Mum, stop it,” he says uncertainly. “It’s a nice dress.”
“James, you’ve just got used to her, so you can’t see it anymore,” his mother says, waving him off and adjusting the collar of her new silk blouse. “I mean it kindly, love. You’re thirty-eight, and you’ve dressed like a granny on her way to the allotment. No waist, no style. It’s pure bad taste!”
Polly gives a sly smile behind her napkin.
Emily walks slowly back to the table. All evening her mother-in-law has been pulling faces in a theatrical way. The starters are too simple, the restaurant is too cheap, the wife isn’t good enough for her son.
“Well, I like it,” Emily says evenly, looking straight at Margaret. “It’s comfortable.”
“Comfortable, she says!” Margaret snorts. “A woman should be an ornament to her husband. His calling card.”
She straightens her shoulders. “Look at me,” she goes on. “I’m retired, but I keep up standards. Because you have to respect yourself, not drag on the first sack you find in a charity shop.”
The guests exchange awkward looks. James’s uncle stares into his wine glass, pretending to study the bubbles in the mineral water.
“Emily, sit down, don’t start,” her husband whispers, tugging at her sleeve.
That is typical. James has always preferred to keep his head down while the women sort things out. Ideally Emily would just keep quiet and take it.
But today Emily is not about to keep quiet. She is tired of carrying the mortgage, paying for her mother-in-law’s whims and being publicly humiliated at her own expense.
“Margaret,” Emily says, resting her hands on the edge of the table. “Where is that blouse on you from?”
“What does my blouse have to do with anything?” Margaret flounders, thrown by the sudden change of subject.
“It has everything to do with it,” Emily says coolly. “Italian blouse. Pure silk. And leather shoes — I noticed them when you came in. And that new coat of yours is hanging in the cloakroom, with the fur collar. Nice things, aren’t they?”
“They are,” Margaret agrees uncertainly. “I know how to choose quality.”
“You certainly know how to choose,” Emily agrees. “And who pays for it?”
Someone coughs nervously at the table. James reddens and tries to get up.
“Emily, enough,” he mutters through his teeth.
“No, James, not enough.” Emily stops him with a gesture. “Since we’re talking about appearance and self-respect, let’s be honest.” She raises her voice so everyone can hear.
“That Italian blouse, those shoes and that smart coat — you bought them all last month, Margaret. With the two thousand pounds I transferred from my quarterly bonus.”
Margaret’s face lengthens.
“Because, in your words, ‘there was nothing decent to wear to the GP surgery, it was embarrassing in front of the nurses.’” Emily says each word clearly.
The vivid lipstick on Margaret’s lips suddenly looks ridiculous. She darts her eyes around the table hoping for support, but the relatives have suddenly developed a deep interest in the cooling meat.
“I asked my son!” Margaret shoots back.
“But it wasn’t your son who paid,” Emily cuts in. “Because your James’s salary just about covers the mortgage, his petrol and his business lunches.”
Polly tries to interfere. “Emily, why are you counting other people’s money? Really!”
“I’m counting my own money, Polly,” Emily says, putting her sister-in-law in her place. “And this banquet you’re sitting at right now, criticising the restaurant and my clothes, is paid to the last penny out of my pocket.”
An awkward silence fills the room, broken only by the clatter of dishes from the other tables.
“And that expensive cologne you gave your son today was bought with the money I gave you for your dental treatment last week,” Emily adds, looking straight into Margaret’s eyes.
Margaret goes red in patches. “How dare you…” she mumbles.
“So,” Emily says, drawing herself up. “I can walk around in a potato sack if I like. Because I bought that potato sack myself, with my own money!”
She reaches for her glass of juice.
“And when you’ve learned to dress on your own pension, then we’ll talk about my clothes. Enjoy your meal!”
Emily sits back down calmly.
Margaret gasps. She waits for her son to come to his mother’s defence, to tell his wife off for overstepping the mark. But James just sits there, head down, prodding a piece of roast potato with his fork.
There is nothing left to do. The mother-in-law crumples her linen napkin, throws it on the table and stands up sharply.
“I will never set foot in your house again!” she announces, addressing no one in particular.
She turns on her heel and strides towards the exit. Polly, throwing Emily a withering look, scrambles up and runs after her mother.
The rest of the evening passes in a subdued mood. The guests finish their main course quickly, drink their tea, say stiff goodbyes and drift away.
Emily and James drive home in silence.
A week passes. Life goes on. Margaret conspicuously does not call. James walks around with a wounded expression for a few days, trying to blame his wife for being too harsh, but he cannot find any real arguments.
On Saturday morning, Emily is making coffee when a message pings on her husband’s phone. James, sitting at the table, glances at the screen and hesitates.
“Emily,” he begins in an appeasing tone. “It’s Mum. Her fridge has broken down. The repairman says it’s going to be expensive.”
Emily takes a sip of hot coffee from her mug. “What a nuisance,” she says evenly.
“We should help her.” James scratches the back of his head. “Could you transfer five hundred? I’ll pay you back from my next pay cheque.”
“No, Jim. I’m not transferring anything,” Emily says, setting down her mug.
“What do you mean? All her food will go off!”
“I mean exactly that.” Emily looks at her husband. “Your mother made it perfectly clear that I’m a walking fashion disaster and I don’t respect myself. So I’ve decided to take her wise advice.”
She goes over to the cooker and turns off the hob.
“Yesterday I booked myself in at the salon for a haircut and a colour. And this weekend I’m going to the shopping centre to buy some new dresses. I’ll be keeping up standards!”
James blinks in confusion. “But the fridge…”
“The fridge, my love, is now your problem,” Emily says, smiling. “Take on some extra work, or ask for an advance. You’re family, after all. I’m sure you’ll cope.”
She picks up her mug and heads into the living room, leaving her husband alone with his thoughts and Margaret’s broken fridge. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it…
And what would you do in her shoes? Leave your thoughts in the comments and hit like!
