Where did you put the napkins? I asked you to get out the ones with the silver trim; they match the tablecloth better, Mary Goodwin called out, not breaking her steady rhythm of slicing lemons into almost translucent arcs.
Ordinarily, her husband Richard would be settled before the television by now, waiting for the Christmas Eve concert to begin, but tonight he still hadnt returned. Mary muttered to herself as she busied about their snug kitchen, the house aglow with polish and soft candlelight. The roast goose, filled with Bramley apples, was browning nicely in the oven; a family recipe, handed down through centuries and jealously guarded. Three hours to midnight. The Christmas tree sparkled with coloured baubles and fairy lights, and a certain quiet anticipation simmered in Marys chesta belief in miracles that doesnt fade, even at fifty.
She wiped her hands and glanced at the clock. Richard was late. Hed said he had to swing by the office to fetch a forgotten present for her, and then vanished into the night. She smiled to herself. He was probably fussing over something special. This year marked their silver anniversarytwenty-five years of happy marriage. Theyd decided to spend Christmas Eve quietly, just the two of them, with no raucous parties or children (who now had their own homes and families).
Suddenly, the lock in the entryway clicked. Mary hurriedly patted her hair, cast aside her apron to reveal her emerald velvet dress, and went to meet her husband.
Richard, where have you been? The goose is nearly
Her words faltered. Standing at the door, Richard was not alone. Beside him, brushing snow from an expensive mink coat, fidgeted a young womanstriking, brazen, with a wild mop of fiery hair and lips painted scarlet. In her arms, she clutched a bag brimming with satsumas, while Richard forced a smile, clutching a bottle of sparkling wine as though it might shield him.
Mary, look whos come to join us! Meet EmmaEmma Collins, our new chief accountant!
Mary froze, the warmth draining away. Her gaze shifted from Richard to their guest, then back again.
Good evening, she managed. We… werent expecting company, were we?
Emma, entirely unflustered, extended a gloved hand.
Oh, Mary, so glad to meet you! You wouldnt believe the night Ive had! Honestly, something out of a film. Richardoh, Mr Goodwin, I meanhes rescued me!
Richard, struggling to remove his boots, avoided his wifes eyes.
Mary its like thispopped by the office, found Emma in tears. Complete mess. Burst pipes at her place, the flats flooded, no electric, cold as the devil, plumber cant come till the fourth. No family in London, not a soul she can turn to on Christmas Eve. What was she meant to dowait it out at Charing Cross? So I said, Emma, youre coming with me. Mary will have enough food for an army, she wouldnt let you freeze.
Mary listened to the rambling explanation, feeling her cosy world tremble. Twenty-five years. Shed planned a romantic evening: candles set, wine chilled, everything perfect. Now here was this delight in mink, upending it all.
Well, come in, she said, her voice brittle. Since youre here.
Emma wafted in, her perfume cloying, immediately overwhelming the gentle aromas of roast goose and pine.
Oh, how quaint! she trilled, eyes darting everywhere. Such a… vintage look. My gran had a dresser like that. Its all so atmosphericlike a museum of British life.
Mary gritted her teeth. The dresser was Italian oak, bought new at ridiculous cost, but she saw no reason to explain this to a girl nearly young enough to be her daughter.
Richard, help your guest with her coat, she instructed, retreating to the kitchen to steady herself. Her hands were trembling.
Richard skulked in after a moment.
Mary, please, dont start. Shes in real trouble. Its Christmas! Be generous. Shell eat, drink, then Ill call her a cab or sort the sofa in the lounge. Come on, lovedont make a scene.
The sofa? Mary swung round, knuckles white on the ladle. Are you mad? We wanted an evening for ourselves, Richard. Youve brought in a strange woman, cheeky as you like, and shes mocking my home from the moment she walked in. Museum, is it?
She meant nothing by it! Shes just… unfiltered. Look, dont put me in a bindshell tell everyone I threw her into the street. Ive got to work with Emma.
Mary stared at him. Was this really the man shed built a life with? In his place now stood a faded charmer, eager to put on a show for his young colleague at his wifes expense.
Fine, Mary said at last. She can stay. But if she says one more thing about my home
She wont, I promise! Richard said, brightening and trying to plant a kiss, which Mary deftly avoided.
Go and amuse your honest guest. Ive preparations to finish. Ill set another place.
Dinner began in a strained hush. Mary laid out the plates in silence. Emma, now radiant in a skin-tight, plunging dress utterly at odds with the domestic setting, sat back languorously, swirling her glass.
Richard dear, why not open the bubbly now? So we can toast the night aheadoh, Im absolutely dying of thirst.
The Richard dear nearly made Mary drop the salad. She banged down the bowl of beetroot-cured herring.
In this house, we open champagne at midnight, as tradition dictates, she said crisply. For now, youll have some homemade cranberry cordial.
Emma pouted.
Cordial? How darling. But I dont do sweetI must watch my figure. Got any brut? Half-sweet is for people who, you know, lack taste.
Richard leapt up.
I can fetch the cognac, Emmaexcellent stuff, vintage. Shall I pour you some?
Maybe just a spot. It is a bit cold in here, isnt it? Rationing the heating, are we?
Mary sat opposite them, feeling utterly alien at her own celebration. Richard took every opportunity to fawn over his guest, pouring drinks, loading her plate with salmon roe, and regaling her with stale jokes. Emma laughed far too loudly, tossing her hair.
So, Mary, do you work? Emma suddenly asked, pausing with a half-eaten canapé.
I do, Mary replied smoothly. Im the lead food technologist at the confectionery company.
Really? Emma raised pencilled brows. You seem so homey. Like the sort of woman who just makes endless stews and waits for her husband at the door. Richard said youve got magic hands. Although, to be fair, he sometimes says youre a bit dulltoo focused on the house, but thankfully make great pies.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the ticking clock and the distant blare of the television. Richard choked on his cognac, red-faced.
I never said that! he spluttered, thumping his chest. Emma, youre mistaken.
Mary put down her fork with care. Something snapped inside herthe slender filament of patience holding the evening together snapped like an overwound string. Nothing to talk about, was it? Dull and domestic?
Do go on, Emma, Mary said frostily. What else has Richard told you? Id love to know.
Sensing shed gone too far, Emma tried to recover, only making things worse.
Oh, please dont be upset! Menwell, they always want a bit of excitement, dont they? Richard was the life of our office party last weekdanced the rumba like a pro. Said, Cant do that at home, the wifes always too tired, her feet hurt.
Mary eyed her feet beneath the table. They didnt hurt. Except, perhaps, after three days work cooking this cursed feast for a beloved husband.
Richard sat ashen, catastrophe looming.
Lets toast, he blurted desperately. To peace on earth!
Wait, Marys gaze never left Emma. What exactly happened with your pipes, Emma?
My pipes? Oh, right! Burst. Water everywhere, absolute nightmare. I was in tears, called Richardwell, Mr Goodwinhe truly saved me. Not like my ex.
Funny, mused Mary. Its minus five out there. If youd had a flood and no electricity, you wouldnt be here fresh as a daisy, flawless hair, perfect nails. Youd reek of damp plasterwork. But all I smell is a hair salon and the urge to steal another womans husband.
Emma flushed.
How dare you! Im a guest! Richard, say something!
Richard squirmed.
Mary, dont Maybe she had time to change
Quiet, Richard, said Mary softly but firmly, standing. Ive closed my eyes to your little slip-ups for twenty-five years. The lingering gazes at passing skirts, your endless late nights. I thought you valued family; I thought we were partners. Turns out Im just the housewife you humour with pie and ignore.
She strode to the window, yanking back the curtain to reveal the dark street, fireworks popping distantly.
Thats enough, she said, turning back to the table. The shows over. Miss Collins, gather your satsumas and leave.
Emma looked ready to protest, but one look at Mary silenced her. In the eyes of the lady of the house glistened such implacable resolve that Emma felt suddenly very small.
Richard! Are you going to let her throw me out at Christmas? Emma squeaked, clutching at the last shreds of hope.
Richard, emboldened (or perhaps foolish from drink), banged the table.
Mary! Stop this! This is my house too! Emma stays. Well celebrate together decently, not like
Like what? Mary prompted.
Like a shrew! he burst out.
Mary nodded serenely. Then she went to the dresser, pulled out a large holdalloriginally packed with presents for the children for Boxing Dayand upended it, scattering boxes of chocolate across the polished floor.
Your house, is it? she said, tossing the empty bag into Richards lap. Perhaps. But heres the catchthis home belonged to my parents. Youre only here on paper. On the second, when the solicitors open, Im filing for divorce and having you removed from the deeds. For now for now, both of you can leave.
What? Richard paled, sobriety returning in a rush. Mary, where are we supposed to go?
Go chase your excitement. Go and dance the rumba at Emmas. Shes got that flood, remember? You can help out, real man that you are. Its dull here, in this museum.
Mary, please! he stammered, toppling his chair as he lurched up. Im sorry, Im a fool! Emma means nothinglet her go, well stay.
Mary looked at him with nothing but contempt. Only moments ago he’d defend Emma, but now, realising his position, he abandoned her without a thought.
No, Richard. The salads spoiled, along with our marriage. Pack a bag. You have five minutes.
Emma, seeing all was lost, stood abruptly and headed to the hallway to don her fur coat.
Madwoman, she muttered, fastening her buttons. Richard, Ill book a cab. You can sort yourself out. Ive no time for a real man with baggage.
The front door slammed. Emma was gone, leaving behind a trace of perfume and something uglier.
Richard remained, cradling the empty holdall.
Mary he whimpered, shes gone. Lets forget all this. Look, the goose is growing cold.
Mary moved to the oven, withdrew the roasting tray. Spiced apples and cinnamon wafted outthe scent she once adored now soured in memory.
Forget? she answered. You brought a mistress into our home on Christmas Eve, our silver anniversary, no less. You mocked me with her. You let her humiliate me in my own kitchen.
She hefted the heavy ceramic tray.
Go, Richard. Im not bluffing. If you dont leave, Ill ring the police and say youre drunk and threatening. And believe me, theyll believe me.
Realising there was no bluff, Richard slunk off to the bedroom, banging drawers and hurling things into the bag. Soon, he emerged, coat pulled hastily over mismatched clothes, shirt sleeve askew.
Youll regret this, Mary! he yelled from the doorway, clinging to a scrap of pride. Youll be alone! Wholl want you at fifty?
I will, she replied, closing the door firmly. The lock turned, twice.
Silence fell over the flat. Blessed, spacious silence. Mary leaned against the door, sliding to the floor. She expected to cry, but no tears came. Instead there was a curious emptiness, as though old, cumbersome furniture had been carted away and suddenly the air tasted sweet and new.
She rose, walked to the kitchen. The table remained set for three. Salads, salmon, goose. All of it looked like props from a play abruptly cancelled.
Mary took Emmas platestill marked with a smear of red lipstickand flung it into the pedal bin. Smashmusic to her ears. Richards plate followed. Smash.
She tidied away the third setting, leaving only her favourite plate with the gilt rim. She filled herself a tall flute of icy champagne.
On television, the Prime Minister appeared for his address. The chimes were moments away from midnight. This year had stolen her illusions, but had restored her dignity.
Happy Christmas, Mary, she raised her glass to her reflection in the dark window-pane.
She carved herself the loveliest piece of goosethe crispy legadded a spoonful of salad, perfectly rested, not spoiled at all.
Her phone bleeped. A message from her daughter, Claire: “Mum, happy Christmas Eve! We love you (and Dad too)! See you with the grandchildren in a week!”
Mary smiled. Real life endured: children, grandchildren, home, her work, her pride. What was gonewell, it had only been dead weight.
She sipped the champagne. The bubbles stung her nose, growing giddy with hope. For the first time in years, she wasnt fussing, serving, or making sure everyone elses glass was topped up. She simply enjoyed the moment.
From next door, the neighbours were cheering, setting off fireworks. The world was celebrating. And Mary, too, was celebrating: her own freedom.
An hour later, she boxed up the leftoversthere was more than she could manageand would bring it to Auntie Val the caretaker and Michael the porter tomorrow. Good people, deserving a treat.
And the goose? Shed finish that on her own. Shed earned it.
Before bed, she stood before the mirror and wiped off her make-up. The woman gazing back was attractive and cared for, her eyes a little sadbut alive. Not some drudge in curlers.
Craving excitement, was he? Mary chuckled softly. Well, Richard, youre in for all the excitement you can handle now. Find somewhere to live, divide up the property, face the children.
She spread herself star-like across her king-sized bed, for the first time unshared by a snoring husband. The linen smelt of lavender and newness.
The sun woke her the next morning. Her first thought was not must make Richards breakfast, but I fancy coffee and pastries at that new café round the corner. And it was a wonderful thought.
She didnt know what would come nexta divorce, awkward meetings, legal wrangling. But that was for later. Today was hers: peaceful, delicious, her own. And never again would anyone dare to call her house a museum, or her life dull.
If this story moved you, please follow and leave a comment below. What would you have done in Marys place?
