He left me sitting alone at the table and dashed off to celebrate with his mates in the garage.
“Are you really leaving now? Just like that? Youre going to walk out the door?” Alices voice trembled, but she fought to keep it steely rather than hurt.
Tom froze in the hallway, one arm already shoved into the sleeve of his battered windbreaker. On his feet: trainers, the kind hed wear if he were tinkering with the car. From the kitchen wafted the heavenly scent of roast duck with Bramley applesa dish that had taken her four hours to prep and marinate. In the lounge, the table gleamed under her best lace tablecloth, glistening with crystal, surrounded by salads Alice had slaved over since dawn, cutting everything into picture-perfect cubes.
“Come on, Alice, dont start,” Tom grimaced as if shed just kicked him in his dodgy molar. “The lads have called Dave’s carburettors packed up again, hes stuck. Needs a hand. Well be quick, promise. Hour, tops. Ill be back and well celebrate. Your duck wont even have gone cold.”
“Daves carburettor mysteriously malfunctions every Friday. At precisely 7pm,” Alice replied coolly, leaning against the doorway. “Tom, its our tenth wedding anniversary. I left work early. I bought your favourite wineit cost more than half my paycheque. I even wore this dress. And youre running off to the garage?”
Tom finally wriggled into his coat, now frantically patting his pockets for car keys.
“Youre blowing this out of proportion. Its just a machineit needs me. Solidarity, you know? If I was in trouble, Daved be round in a flash. Dont be selfish. Its not like were going out to The Ivywere just sorting stuff. Right, dont sulk, Ill be back soon.”
He gave her a quick, dry peck on the cheekon the runand the front door slammed. The click of the lock echoed through the silent flat like a gunshot.
Alice stood there in the corridor. In the mirror, a glamorous woman in an elegant navy dressflattering in all the right places, hair piled highstared back. But her eyes were dull.
She trudged into the kitchen. The oven had just switched off by timer, but inside, the duck was still sizzling in its juices. She hefted out the heavy tray. The duck was perfect: golden skin, apple and spice aroma filling the flat. A culinary masterpiece, now with no audience.
She brought the dish to the lounge and sat at the beautifully set table. Two plates, two glasses, candles she hadnt even managed to light. The flats silence was oppressive. Next door, someones telly droned away with the news, but here: just emptiness.
Of course, he wouldnt be back in an hour. Or even two. The garage was a Bermuda Triangle. Time bent and twisted in there. First, theyd look at the carburettor, then discover that wasnt the issue, then someone would fetch a crate of beer for lubrication, then the bloke from the next bay would drop inmaybe to announce the birth of a grandson, or, in equally tragic circumstances, the disappearance of a catand off theyd go again.
Alice poured herself a glass of wine. Deep red, robust, a bit sharp. She sipped. Then hacked off a legbest bitof duck. She chewed mechanically, the taste lost on her. She didnt feel hysterical. Instead, an icy, heavy clarity seeped through hera curtain, hanging in her eyes for years, just fell away.
Was this even the first time?
Last year, hed been three hours late for her birthdayapparently helping his mum shift a sofa. As if a van couldnt be bloody hired for a hundred quid. But Tom said, Why waste money, Ive got two hands! He arrived sweaty, filthy, knackered, and spent the whole evening moaning about his back.
Or that holiday two summers ago. Booked in advanceand the day before, hed lent half their holiday savings to the same Dave, because hes in a spot of bother with his loan. Hes a mate, hell pay it back, Tom promised. It took Dave six months of trickling repayments, and their trip was a sad affair of Pot Noodles and daytime telly instead of excursions and meals out.
Alice stared at the second, empty plate. Ten years. A tin anniversary, apparently. They say tin is flexiblebut bend it too much in one direction and it snaps.
She finished her duck, ignored the side dishes, then rose, extinguished the unlit candles, and began clearing up. Salads chucked in the fridge, wine stoppered. Dishes stacked in the dishwasher, but she didnt bother pressing start.
At 1am, Toms phone was unavailable. At 2am, status changed to online. Alice didnt call. She changed the bedding, went to bed, lights off. But sleep never came. She listened, wide awake, to the distant whirr of the lift in the hallway.
At half three, a key fumbled in the lock. Tom crept in, but at that hour, the faintest movement thundered. He tripped on the chest of drawers, swore quietly, rustled around yanking off his jeans. The room filled with the unmistakable perfume of cheap fags, engine oil, and garage-grade alcohol fumes.
He slid in beside her and tried to cuddle.
“You awake?” he muttered, exhaling beery breath in her ear. “Look, Alice, Im really sorry. Daves engine was knackered, ended up having to pull half of it apart. I couldnt leave him, not with both arms elbow-deep in oil. Battery died on my phone too.”
Alice edged as far as she could to her side of the bed.
“Dont touch me,” she whispered.
“Oh, come off it. Im home. Safe and sound. So I was lateno big deal. Well celebrate tomorrowwell, todayget a cake”
He started snoring within a minute. Alice got up, grabbed her pillow and a blanket, and went to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. There was still a faint whiff of duck in the airthe scent of a party that never happened.
The morning didnt bring apologies but complaints. Tom ambled in at noon, crumpled and red-eyed. Alice was sipping coffee, scanning her work emails on the laptop.
“No breakfast, then?” he grunted, peering into the fridge. “Ah, some salad left, ace. Wheres the duck?”
“In the fridge, in a container,” replied Alice, eyes on her screen.
“Can you warm it up? My heads splittingI need something hearty.”
Alice slowly closed the laptop.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I wont. Youve got hands—the same golden ones that rebuilt half of Daves car last night. Use those.”
Tom looked utterly shocked. Normally, after a spat, Alice would sulk for a bit but still do all her wifely duties: serve, tidy, fetch. An age-old routine: he cocks up; she sulks; he brings a chocolate bar or a few kind words; all is forgiven.
“Alice, you seriously still hung up about last night? I explainedtotal emergency. You know what they sayfriends in need. Youre a smart woman, you should get it. You cant just keep a man on a leash!”
“Im not,” she replied calmly. “Youre completely free. And so am I. From looking after you in your post-emergency state.”
“It wasnt a bender, it was repairs!” he protested, pulling out salad and eating it out of the bowl with a spoon. “Honestly, youre getting wound up over nothing. Maybe you need some vitamins. Or is itwomens problems?”
Alice fixed him with a long, thoughtful stare. As if seeing the bloke she married for the very first time: a man shovelling potato salad and spraying crumbs aboutthe man shed trusted with her life. This flat, she recalled, was her late nans; Tom only had his name on the bills. The renovations were joint, but truthfully, most of it had come from her. Tom always had some reason: “no jobs on,” “tools broke,” “must help my mum.”
“Tom,” she said very quietly, “wheres the money we set aside for new windows?”
He choked on his salad.
“What do you mean? In the cash tin, obviously.”
“It isnt. I checked this morning. Its empty. Fifty thousand gone.”
He looked away, ears turning bright pink.
“Oh, that. I ertook it. Last night. For Daves carneeded urgent parts. Gave him a loan out of ours. Hell repay from his wages.”
“You just nicked fifty thousand quid from our savings on windowswithout asking. After we saved for six months so we wont freeze in winter?”
“Why freak out over a bit of paper?” he snapped, shoving the spoon down. “Hell pay it back! He promised. Anyway, Im the man of the house. I sort out financial matters. What, am I supposed to run every screw past you?”
“When you dip into joint savingsespecially when I fill them up seventy percentyou should ask.”
“Throwing money in my face, are you?” he snarled. “Low blow, Alice. I thought you were better than that. Getting real cold and calculating lately. Never used to be like this.”
He stomped out, chair clattering, and promptly switched on the telly, the volume jacked upto show how little he cared, obviously.
Alice sat in the kitchen and felt the last frayed thread holding this rickety thing called family snap. She realised right then: the windows would never get fixed. Dave would never repaynot with his loans and child support and whatever else. And Tom would play white knight, on her dime, while she scrimped on lunches and mascara.
A week went by in Cold War mode. They spoke in terse, practical sentences. Tom did the martyr act, skulking in late, raiding the fridge, and falling asleep with his back to her.
On Thursday he came home unexpectedly early, in a suspiciously good mood, clutching a bunch of supermarket chrysanthemumsthe kind only bought from grannies outside Tesco.
“Come on, Alicelets not sulk for ever,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her. “Peace?”
Alice slid the flowers into a vase.
“Peace,” she replied, flat as a pancake. She really didnt care anymore. Her plan was complete, crystal clear.
“Brilliant!” Tom beamed. “Enough of skulking around. Listen, Saturdays my birthday, right?”
“I remember.”
“I dont fancy the pubtoo dear, a bit rubbish. Lets do it at home? Ill invite the lads, Dave and his missus, Tony, maybe six or seven of us. Youre a cracking cook, Hostess with the Mostestyoull whip something up? A bit of French-style roast, some of those showstopper salads, a good spread. The boys always rave about your cooking.”
She looked at him. He had not a glimmer of doubt. After ruining their anniversary, filching the window fund (which, incidentally, is theft), and giving her the silent treatment all week, he was genuinely expecting her to leap with joy at the idea of sweating over his party menu.
“Alright,” Alice smiled. It was a funny sort of smile, but Tom didnt notice. “Invite whoever you want. Two oclock Saturday.”
“Thats my girl!” He tried to hug her, but she slipped away, supposedly to straighten the tablecloth. “Knew youd come through! Want me to do the shop? Send a list?”
“No need,” she waved it off. “Ill get it all myself. Got a little surprise in mind. You like surprises, dont you?”
“Love ’em!” he grinned. “Ill let everyone know.”
Friday was peaceful. Alice did indeed pop out shopping, came back with bulging bags. Tom tried to peep in, but she playfully slapped his hand: “No peeking, its a secret.” All evening she clattered about in the kitchen, pots and pans galore, but kept the door shut. The smells were odd. Not her usual baking aromasomething much blander, boiled, uninspiring. Tom figured she was doing starters, prepping up for a culinary masterpiece.
Come Saturday. Tom woke up buzzing for his bash. Alice was already dressedsharp business suit, made up, hair tidy.
“Going formal, love? Was hoping for that red number.”
“This is more practical,” she said. “Your guests arriving soon?”
“Yeah, within an hour. Dave phonedtheyre on their way. Ill go for a shower, get spruced up.”
While he lathered up, Alice set the table. By the time Tom emerged smelling of aftershave, the first guests were on the buzzer. He opened the door, and in swept a cheerful crew with clinking bags.
“Happy birthday, mate!” Dave bellowed, thumping Tom on the back. “Whats Alice rustled up, then? Dont smell much, extractor must be ace!”
They minced into the lounge, and froze.
The table, same fancy cloth, all best crockery and glasses set out. But the food…
Towering in the centre: a steaming, gluey mountain of bargain-bin “Happy Shopper” dumplings, fused into one. Around it, bowls of soggy, cold instant noodles. The charcuterie platter? Thick slabs of the cheapest bologna, still clinging to bits of its wrapper. Salad bowls holding packets of dry croutons and open tins of sardines, straight from the can.
“Whats this?” Tom croaked, gesturing at the table. “Aliceis this a joke? Wheres the roast? Wheres the salads?”
A heavy silence fell. Dave flicked his eyes between Tom and the dumplings; Daves wife pursed her lips.
Alice strode into the room, shoulders back, calm, almost regal.
“This,” she declared, “is the Garage Gourmet Birthday Feast. Since you so love spending time in the garageeven swapping our anniversary for itI thought Id recreate the atmosphere you clearly adore, right here for your pals. So eat up, gentlemen! A club menu, for a true gentlemens club.”
“You nuts or something?” Tom hissed, purple-faced. “Youre humiliating me in front of everyone! Clear this up and bring out the real food! I know you were cooking yesterday!”
“I wasfood for myself, for the week. Its in the fridge. But thisthis is for you lot. And, by the way, this all came out of whatever was left after you raided our savings.”
Dave coughed, embarrassed.
“Er, Tom, maybe we should go. Bit awkward, this”
“Dont you dare!” Tom barked. “No ones going anywhere. Alice will put this right. Wont you, Alice? Youll go in that kitchen, bring normal food, apologise to everyone, and well forget this nonsense. Or else”
“Or else what?” Alice enquired, interested.
“Or else I cant be responsible for what Ill do. Youre losing it, woman. My house. My guests.”
“My house?” Alice actually laughedsharp and cold. “Lets clarify, in front of witnesses. This flat is mine, legallygifted from my nan three years before we got married. UK family law says property gained before marriage or inherited during is solely mine. Youre just registered here. Use is not the same as ownership.”
Tom looked thunderstruck. Hed never heard Alice speak like this beforenormally it was Nigella recipes and travel deals, not legalese.
“What, are you serious? I laid the tiles in the kitchen!”
“Hired a tilerpaid from my bonus. I still have the receipts. Your contribution amounted to hauling two bags of grout and drinking to your efforts for a week. Even if you try taking it to court, youd get financial compensation at most, not a slice of the property. Especially since you repeatedly bled the family budget for personal emergencies.”
“Oh, off your trolley! Im calling the policeyoure making a scene!”
“Go on, then,” she nodded. “By the wayhere are your things.”
She wheeled out two giant suitcases from the bedroom.
“All packed. Clothes, shoes, your tools that were gathering dust on the balcony. Even your favourite mugfrom what used to be my dinner set.”
The guests backed rapidly towards the door. Daves wife started yanking on her boots, tugging at Daves sleeve.
“Erm, Tom, well wait downstairs, yeah?” Dave mumbled, making an exit. The rest followed, grateful for the chance.
Tom stood alone, surrounded by cold dumplings and suitcases.
“Youre serious?” he mumbledno longer shouting. All the bravado had gone. “Look, Alicelets not be daft. Want me to beg? Fine. I was a fool. Ill put it right, earn it back. Dont chuck me outwherell I go? Back to my mums box room?”
“Thats your problem, Tom. Youre a grown-up. Youve your mates, youve your garage, youve your car with its shiny new parts. Live as you wish. Just not here.”
“Youll regret this, you willmark my words!” he started up, seeing that pleading wasnt working. “Whos going to want you at thirty-eight? A washed up divorcee! Ill find a nubile blonde within the weekand youll be left with nothing but a pile of cats!”
“Ill risk it,” she said serenely, opening the front door. “Off you pop.”
Tom grabbed his suitcases. Face contorted with rage.
“Witch! Greedy cow! Ill get half the furniture in courtall mine! That tellys mine!”
“Bought on credit. In my name. Paid exclusively by me. Statements printed out ready. Out, Tom. And leave the keys on the hall table.”
He hovered, but her determined look made him fling the keys onto the floor.
“Stuff your stupid flat!”
He dragged his bags out. The door clicked shut.
Alice double-locked, put the chain on, leaned her back against the cold steel, and closed her eyes. Her heart beat like mad, hands shook. But not a tear. Instead, a miraculous feeling of lightnessas though shed shrugged off a bag of building bricks shed carried for ten years, mistaking it for marital bliss.
She swept the dumplings, noodles, and discount sausage into a big bin bag. Didnt even try to sort itjust lobbed the lot. Flung the window open to freshen the lounge from the lingering stench of sardines and aftershave.
Then she fetched the bottle of wine from the fridgethe one left over from the non-anniversary. Poured a glass and plopped into an armchair.
Her phone pingeda message from her mum: “Lovely, hows the birthday bash? Tom pleased?”
Alice typed back: “The party was perfect, Mum. Best birthday of his life. And the first day of mine.”
Tomorrow, shed change the locks. And Monday, shed file for divorce. Thered be shouting, threats, maybe even battles over teaspoons. But none of it mattered now. Because tonight, for the first time in years, she wasnt eating alone. She was dining with herselfa clever, resilient, free woman she was finally getting to know and, really, rather starting to like.
