Pay your own bills, muttered George, halfsmiling over the newspaper.
Poppy stood in the bedroom mirror, smoothing nightcream over her skin. It was a bright July morning, the kind of sweltering day that makes the pavement sizzle, yet the flat stayed pleasantly cool thanks to the airconditioner.
Another cream? George asked, peeking over the paper.
Its the same one we bought a month ago, Poppy replied calmly.
He nodded and went back to his crossword. Their chats about money had become a routine. George liked to keep an eye on the household spending, but he never imposed limits. Everything was pooled, and each of them used what they needed.
Poppy earned a solid salary as an accountant for a large construction firm. George was a machinist at a car plant, earning a little less but still comfortable. Together they lived well enough to afford a yearly holiday and the occasional treat.
From the start of their marriage, Poppy had insisted on paying for her own personal items. Not because George forced her, but because it felt right. Shampoo, conditioner, cosmetics, clothes she bought all of those herself, and George never complained; he thought it was normal.
I’m off to the nail salon after breakfast, Poppy announced one morning.
Enjoy yourself, George said, spreading butter on toast. Ill head to the garage with Tom after work to have a look at the engine.
Their conversation was as ordinary as any couples. Poppy had been going to the nail technician every Friday for three years; she liked to keep her hands tidy for the client meetings she attended. George never made a fuss about it in fact, he was quietly proud of his wellkept wife, who hit the gym twice a week, visited a skin therapist regularly, and dressed in good quality clothes. At thirtyfive she still looked younger than her years.
The first uneasy notes sounded after a visit from Evelyn, Georges mother. She was staying for the weekend, as usual, and was a forceful woman who liked to voice her opinions on everything.
Poppys off to the salon again? Evelyn asked George when Poppy disappeared into the shower.
Yes, to the nail tech, George replied.
Every week? Isnt that a bit much?
Mom, she works, she can afford it, George shrugged.
Sure, but why so often? Ive spent my whole life painting my own nails and I look fine, Evelyn retorted.
George just rolled his eyes; hed never thought about how often Poppy went to the salon.
And those cosmetics! I saw the bottles in the bathroom theyre three hundred pounds each, Evelyn went on.
Mom, what does that have to do with anything? George said, a little irritated.
Everything, because the money is joint. You work hard, you get tired, but then it goes on frivolous things, she said.
The seed of doubt was planted. George started to notice Poppys spending, not because hed set out to spy, but because Evelyns words kept echoing in his head.
Indeed, Poppy bought pricey creams, serums, and masks. Her clothes were not designer, but they were certainly wellmade.
Why three pairs of summer sandals? George asked one day, holding up the latest purchase.
What do you mean? Poppy replied, surprised. Theyre different colours to match different outfits.
You could have bought one versatile pair, George suggested.
I could have, Poppy admitted, but I like these.
George fell silent, a vague irritation bubbling up. Hed never minded her purchases before, but now they seemed excessive.
Another visit from Evelyn only intensified things. She arrived in the height of Julys heat.
Youve spoiled her, Evelyn declared over dinner while Poppy was at the stove. Every week a nail appointment, then a skin therapist. Theres plenty to do at home.
The house is tidy, and Poppy cooks well, George replied.
Theres always enough to do, Evelyn waved her hand. And youre throwing money away. Have you any idea how much you spend on salons each month?
George thought for a moment. Hed never kept track. Manicures cost about twenty pounds a week roughly eighty pounds a month. Skin therapist visits were every two weeks at about thirtyfive pounds each, another seventy pounds. That added up to roughly onehundredandfifty pounds a month on beauty alone.
Thats a lot, George admitted.
Exactly, Evelyn said, satisfied. And you stay silent. She needs guidance, not indulgence.
That night George finally glanced at the family budget. Poppys beauty expenses were indeed sizeable, but she earned almost as much as he did.
Can we talk? he asked after Evelyn left, the kitchen quiet.
Sure, Poppy said, stacking the clean dishes away.
Dont you think you go to the salon too often?
In what sense too often? Poppy asked.
Well, weekly manicures, fortnightly skin sessions Maybe cut back a bit?
Why should I? I enjoy looking presentable, and we can afford it, she replied.
Sure we can, but perhaps we could be a touch more economical, George ventured cautiously.
Economical? What would I be saving on? Pints with the mates? Fishing trips? New tools for the garage? Poppy snapped, cheeks flushing.
Thats different, George muttered.
Whats different? she pressed.
Just mens things, I guess, he stammered.
And my things arent things? Poppys tone grew colder.
Its not that theyre not needs, its just, George faltered.
Fine, Poppy said, turning back to the sink. Lets drop it.
The conversation lingered, leaving a sour taste. George kept hearing his motherinlaws words, and slowly he began to point out every new lipstick, every fresh nail polish, every extra pair of shoes.
Another salon? hed ask when she pulled on a fresh coat.
Yeah, Poppy would answer shortly.
And the council bill is still unpaid.
Pay it then, Poppy replied, puzzled.
Wheres the money? You spent it on beauty.
Its a manicure, its only twenty pounds. The council bill is about ninety, George retorted.
Spending on trivialities, he growled.
Trivialities? Poppy repeated, softly.
Not trivial, but maybe we could do without, he suggested.
She walked away, bag in hand, while George pretended hed scored a victory. The triumph was hollow. Poppy grew withdrawn, answered in monosyllables, and stopped asking for salon money altogether. George initially felt relieved, then uneasy.
Where have you been? That fresh manicure looks new, he asked one evening.
Ive been here, Poppy said.
On what money?
My own, she replied.
Your own? Our money is shared.
So its not entirely shared, Poppy said calmly.
George didnt grasp the nuance, but he let it go. The bigger issue was that Poppy started refusing to pay for anything he deemed unnecessary. When George asked her to transfer funds for the skin therapist, she shook her head.
I wont transfer money for rubbish, she said.
What rubbish? George asked, confused.
You called it rubbish yourself, she replied.
You meant my salon visits! he shot back.
No, I meant your massage therapist, Poppy said evenly. Hes three hundred pounds a session, twice a month.
George blinked. Hed been seeing a physiotherapist for six months after a back injury; his doctor had recommended regular massages.
Thats medical, George protested.
My skin therapist is also medical, Poppy countered. Problematic skin needs professional care.
Its not the same! George argued.
Why not? Poppy asked, genuinely curious. You treat your back, I treat my skin. Whats the difference?
George felt his logic slipping away. He persisted, Theyre different things.
Fine, Poppy said, then you pay for the massage yourself.
From then on she refused to funnel money into anything she considered nonessential. New headphones for George? Hed have to buy them. A coffee catchup with friends? On his tab.
Whats happening to you? George asked after yet another refusal.
Nothing special, Poppy replied. I just dont want to waste money on nonsense.
Nonsense? Socialising is normal!
And a manicure?
George fell silent, slowly realizing she was holding up a mirror to his own arguments.
The climax came one evening in late July. George was fiddling with his brandnew smartphone, bought the day before. The old one still worked, but he wanted something sleeker.
How much did it cost? Poppy asked.
Thirtyfive pounds, George said, scrolling through settings.
That’s steep. Why replace it? she replied, chewing her salad.
It was lagging. This one is faster, he answered.
She nodded and kept eating.
The next day George tried to pay with his card at the shop, only to discover his account was empty.
Poppy, where did the money go? he asked, bewildered.
Which money? Poppy replied, genuinely puzzled.
The joint account. There should have been fortyseven thousand pounds left.
Should have, she said slowly. But my mum always said you should pay your own bills. Im not the one to cover that.
Georges jaw dropped. The words sounded like an echo of something hed muttered months ago.
What did you just say? he asked, incredulous.
Im saying exactly what you told me, Poppy replied, finishing her meal. Mum told you to settle your own expenses. Im not responsible for that.
Which mum? George stammered.
My mum, she said matteroffactly. Just like your mum told me to pay for myself.
George felt the floor give way beneath him. Hed never imagined his own phrasing could be turned back on him.
But thats not the same thing! he protested.
Why not? Poppy lifted her eyes from the plate. A thirtyfivepound phone is a necessity, a onehundredandfiftypound beauty budget is a waste, right?
The phone is for work! George retorted.
The manicure is for work too. I meet clients, sign papers, and look presentable.
He realised he was outargued. He tried to smooth things over.
Poppy, lets not fight over this trivial stuff.
Trivial? So when I limit your spending its a principle, but when you apply the same rule to me its nonsense? she asked, setting down her fork.
George was speechless. Poppy cleared her plate, put the dishes away, and retreated to the bedroom.
The following day she called in sick and stayed home, but instead of relaxing she opened her laptop and started digging through paperwork. First up: the sale agreement for their flat. It was in Georges name, but the £120,000 deposit had been paid by Poppy, and the mortgage repayments were split, though her higher salary covered the bulk.
Next, receipts for the fridge, washing machine, sofa, and kitchen units almost every major purchase had been funded by her. Even the renovation costs new windows, plasterwork, contractor fees were on her card. George helped with the heavy lifting, but not the bills.
Its a clear picture, Poppy muttered, stacking the documents.
That evening George tried to bring up money again, but Poppy gave a oneword answer and went to bed early.
The next day she phoned a solicitor she knew, Victor Harper, a familylaw specialist of fifteen years.
Victor, I need advice, she said. About marital assets.
Victor arranged to meet her the following morning.
He examined the paperwork and said, Legally youre in a strong position. Even though the property is in your husbands name, you contributed the majority of the purchase price and all the furnishings. The court will recognise that.
What does that mean? Poppy asked.
You could claim a substantial share of the property or a cash settlement, Victor replied. If you want to live separately, the court may order your husband to provide alternative accommodation or compensation.
Poppy nodded, the plan forming. Prepare the claim, please.
Victor cautioned, Maybe try mediation first.
She snapped, Mediations over. Its time for action.
Two days later the papers were filed, and copies were sent to George.
George found the summons on his kitchen table that evening, thinking it a mistake. When he read it, his heart sank his wife was seriously moving toward divorce.
Poppy! he shouted, bursting into the bedroom. Whats this?
She was calmly packing a suitcase. Divorce papers, she said, unflinching.
Why? What for? George waved the documents. We can sort this out!
Sort it out? Poppy turned to him. Remember how you told me I was spending on frivolities? Now its my turn.
But this is different! I was just reviewing the family budget, George protested.
And Im reviewing the family life, Poppy replied.
Panic set in. Hed never imagined it would come to this.
Youve ruined everything! he blurted.
She stopped, looked him straight in the eye. Ive stopped paying for humiliation, she said calmly.
Humiliation? George asked, bewildered.
When you can splurge on anything, but Im told I cant even buy what I need. When my needs are called rubbish, yours are essential. When Im told to save, youre never held to the same standard, she explained.
George opened his mouth to argue, but found no words.
We can fix this! We can go back to how it was, he pleaded.
How was that? Poppy asked, zipping her suitcase. When I funded the household and you decided what I could spend on myself?
We didnt
The house is ours, but the money look at the numbers, she said, pointing to the spreadsheet. Who contributed what?
She walked to the door. Where are you going? George asked, helpless.
To a flat until the court decides who gets what, she replied.
How will you afford that? he asked, desperate.
I have the money I didnt waste on nail polish, she said with a small smile.
The door clicked shut, leaving George alone in a flat that suddenly felt foreign.
The court case lasted three months. Victors assessment proved correct the paperwork was indisputable. Poppy was awarded twothirds of the propertys value or an equivalent cash sum; she chose the cash.
George tried to fight, hired his own lawyer, but the bank statements, receipts, and transfer records left no doubt about Poppys financial contribution.
At least we were a family, he told the judge.
Yes, but a family should be equal, not a dictatorship, Poppy replied.
After the divorce, George stayed in the flat, now paying the mortgage alone. Without Poppys salary, life became tighter. He cancelled the massages, cut back on evenings out, and sold the new phone.
Poppy moved into a modest flat in central London. The settlement money let her live comfortably. She returned to her regular salon visits, signed up for a professional development course, and refreshed her wardrobe.
One afternoon, by chance, they bumped into each other in a shopping centre. Poppy looked refreshed and upbeat; George appeared tired and a bit older.
How are you? George asked, awkwardly.
Fine, Poppy replied shortly.
Can we talk? Ive realized my mistakes, he said.
She paused, then said, You know, George, now we each pay our own way. I pay for my freedom, you pay for the consequences.
She turned and walked away, leaving George to mull over how easy it is to lose someone you never truly valued.
