So, you wont believe what happened at Davids birthday dinner. Id spent all week juggling work and prepping for his big fifties bashhed refused a restaurant, saying, No one cooks as well as you do, Liz, and whats the point throwing money at some fancy place? Sure, Id feel flattered, but really, he just hates to see prices on menus.
Anyway, there I am, setting the table, and David starts moaning: Why are you using this dinner set again? I asked for the one with the gold trimmy mum got us that for our anniversary. Looks fancier! Hes scowling at the plates I just set out on our gleaming tablecloth.
I almost snapped back, honestly. The gold-trimmed set cant go in the dishwasher, and Im not about to stand at the sink midnight after guests leave. But I bit my tonguedidnt want drama from the start. Its his birthday after all.
I tell him calmly, Dave, that sets for twelve and therell just be four of us. These are deeper, perfect for the roast, and anyway, could you check if the vodkas cold enough? Mike and Sophie will be here any moment.
He grumbles and trudges to the fridge. I take a deep breath as I trim the parsley. My heads spinning. Its end of quarter at workbeing an accountant is no joke. And then all this prep. For three nights after my shift Ive been marinating beef, boiling veggies, baking layers for a homemade Victoria Sponge, rolling out his favourite aubergine wraps. My legs ache. I barely had time to paint my nails, went for a clear gloss.
Doorbell rings. Coming! David shouts, his face switching instantly from grump to gracious host.
In sweeps Sophie. Honestly, she glidesno other word for it. Shes Mikes wife, Daves best mate, and shes always immaculate: slim, well-groomed, in the sort of beige dress you only see in shop windows; clutching a boutique bag. Mike lugs in gifts and wine behind her.
Lizzy darling! Sophie air-kisses me, swamped in expensive perfume. Smells divine! Youve outdone yourself, havent you? Gosh, I couldnttold Mike straight: If you want a celebration, we book a place. I never go near the stove, got these nails to preserve!
I instinctively hide my hands.
Someones got to keep the home fires burning, I reply, lightly, taking her coat. Come on in, everythings ready.
Dinner goes off in typical English style. Toasts for the birthday boy, laughter, gifts (Mike brought David this fishing rod hes wanted forever), banter. I dart between kitchen and lounge, swapping plates, refilling nibbles, topping up glasses. I only manage a mouthful of potato salad and a sliver of Cheddar.
After a couple of drinks, Davids relaxed, basking in attention. He leans back, eyes fixed on Sophie, whos daintily picking apart her smoked salmon.
Sophie, you look incredible, he says, a bit too loud. Honestly, I watch you and think, maybe youre a witch! You eat everything and stay so slim. Look at that dress! Its obviousyou take care of yourself.
Sophie flicks her hair, teasing. Oh Dave, its just discipline. Gym three times a week, no carbs after six, and proper skincare. Found a new face cream, its magical.
David, with that Eureka! air, wags his finger: Discipline! Hear that, Liz? Discipline! Youre always on about being shattered or busy. Sophie works, too, and just look at her!
Ive just plonked down a huge tray of roast beef. I work as the head accountant for a big company, run our house, keep the garden going, and when the kids dump the grandkids for a weekend, I help with their homework. Sophie, meanwhile, manages a beauty salon two-on-two-off and never had to wrangle with kids.
Lets not compare, love, I say gently, hoping to avoid a row in front of company. We all have our own pace. Try the beef, its got prunesnew recipe.
But clearly, Davids on a roll, primed by vodka and old grievancesor just laddish showing-off.
Never mind the beef! he waves it away, hacking off half the roast. Foods food. What about style Mike, youve done well! Come home to Sophie, and shes a fairynone of this apron-and-slippers business. But me? Its just pans and onions! I tell Liz, sign up for the gym, go do a fitness class. All I hear is My back hurts, my blood pressure. Excuses. Lazy, really.
Mike winces, tries to change the subject. Come on, Dave! Liz is goldher roast is to die for! My Soph cant cook nearly as well, we mainly eat takeaway or oven meals.
Sophie agrees, trying to smooth things over: Im hopeless in the kitchenno point pretending. But I always have time for myself! A man should be proud to show off his wife, right, Dave?
Now Davids beaming, eyes practically glued to Sophie. Spot on! Proud to show off! But when I look at Lizwell, even in a dress and done hair, you still look teaching assistantish, you know? Sophies eyes sparkle, shes buzzing. You, all I see is grocery receipts.
Total silence. Mike stares at his plate, Sophie fiddles with a napkin. I feel slapped. I remember how David whined for clean shirts, and I ironed his one blue one at midnight last night, the one hes now wearing whilst dragging me through the mud. Remember how I skimped on facials to buy his blasted fishing rod, chipping in with colleagues.
Enough, Dave, I say, low but firm. Youve had too much.
I have not! David snaps. Im telling the truth! You find out who a mate is in a crisis, and who a wife is by comparingwell, Mike, you lucked out. And the comparison, bloody hell, doesnt go in your favour. Mike can take his wife anywhere and be proud. Me? I blush. Seen yourself lately, Liz? Youve gone soft, wrinkles He nods at Sophie, youre the same age!
Were not, David, I cut in, frosty. Sophies thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And its not Sophie hauling bags up five flights when the lifts broken because her husband cant move off the sofa.
Oh, here she goes! David throws his hands up, melodramatic. I work! Im the breadwinner! I have a right to expect my wife keeps up appearances. But you just a clucky hen. Best you manage is chopping up salads. Speaking oflook here, at your salad! He pokes at my homemade potato salad. You cant even get that right. Sophies at Christmas was heavenly, light. Yours? Glorified mayonnaise mash. Just like you.
Thats it. Something inside me snaps. Twenty-five years of endless patience drained away, leaving just bitterness and cold courage.
I stand up. David, oblivious, keeps prattling on to Mike:
Seriously, mate, am I wrong? A woman should be inspiring! You come homerobe, slippers, soup. Absolute boredom
I take the massive, deep dish of potato salad. Its freshly made, mayo-heavy, topped with grated beetrooteasily a kilo and a half.
I walk round the table, stand beside David. He finally shuts up and stares at me.
Whats up? he sneers. Not enough salt? Stinting on mayo?
No, David, I say, voice steady. Just plenty of everything. And youre absolutely right. Saladsmy specialty. But since youre so desperate for style and lightness, you must need this more than anyone.
I upend the whole bowl.
Time freezes. Mikes mouth is open, Sophie gasps, hand over lipstick. The pink, gloopy mess lands smack on Davids knees and his brand-new cream trousersbought just for the birthday.
*Splodge.*
Its a squelchy, wet noise. Mayonnaise oozes down his legs, beetroot stains the fabric, and bits of herring stick to his zip.
For a split second, you could hear a pin drop. David just gawps at his knees, unable to process whats happened while the beetroot juice creeps across his beige trousers, making them look like abstract art.
You what have you done?! he bellows, jumping up. Chunks of salad crash to the carpet, to his shoes. Are you mad?! Brand new trousers! Nutcase!
I calmly put the empty dish down.
Well, its tasty, Dave. Filling. And completely natural, home-made.
He makes to lungeMike leaps up, grabs his arm.
Cool it, mate! You brought this on yourself!
I DID? Davids hollering, waving his soiled legs. I told the truth! And she dumps the food on me! Clean it! Do it nowcrawl and scrub!
Sophies gone pale, shrunk back. The evenings finished.
I give David the sort of look you reserve for cockroaches.
You clean it up, I say, crisp. Or hire cleaning. Arent you the one making money? As for me? Im off to look after myself. You know what you said about inspiration?
And I leave the room. Pop on my raincoat, grab my bag in the hall. Davids shouts and Mikes soothing muttering echo from the lounge.
Sophie rushes into the hall, mascara fluttering. Oh Liz, please. Dont go! Hes only drunk, doesnt mean it
Yes he does, Soph. I look her in the eye, and Im honestly not angry at herjust pity. Hes always thought this way, just did a better job hiding it sober. Thanks for opening my eyes.
Out into the chilly autumn evening. Nowhere to go, really, but staying there wasnt an option. I sit on the bench outside, ring for a cab. To mums, I decide. Shes gone two years now, but her flats still emptyI never could decide what to do with it. Turns out, I finally know.
David rings me about twenty times that night. First, full-on screaming, then when hes sobered up. I ignore him. I grab a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar from Tesco Express, head to mums flatit smells of dust and old booksand for the first time in ages, I lie on the sofa without worrying about laundry or tomorrows dinner.
Next two weeks? Hell for David.
I dont come home next day, or the day after. I stay in mums flat, go to work, and in the evenings? I book myself in for a massagebeen denying myself that for three years.
Davids alone, and finds out: food doesnt magically appear in the fridge, nor do socks jump into the wash and return folded in the drawer.
First three days, hes all bravado. Eats frozen pizza, wears jeans (couldnt get that stain out of his trousers, dry-cleaners refused). Tells Mike on the phone how much of a drama queen I am.
Shell crawl back, he boasts. Wheres she gonna go? Who takes a fifty-year-old woman? Shell cool off, come home. Ill consider forgiving her.
Fourth day: No clean shirts. He cant ironwont even try. Fifth day: Ill from supermarket ready meals. Sixth day: Out of loo roll, forgets to buy more.
The flat starts rotting. That salad stain on the carpet, he tried to soak up with a rag, is now stinking to high heavenmayonnaise, fish. All the cosy habits he thought were just background to life fall apart.
Me? I blossom. No more lugging shopping for a familyjust buying for myself. I eat little. I sleep like a baby. Colleagues notice the difference.
Liz, bit of romance going on? Youre glowing! some tease in the office.
Falling in love, ladies, I grin. With myself. Finally.
After two weeks, David waits outside work; he looks truly roughcrumpled shirt, stubble, hangdog eyes. A sad bunch of three carnations wrapped in cellophane.
Liz he shuffles, nervous.
I look him in the eyecalm, indifferent.
What do you want, Dave?
Oh, come off it. Jokes over. Time to come home. The house someones got to water the plants. Even the cat misses you.
We never had a cat.
Im not coming back, David, I say simply. Ive started divorce proceedings. Papers are at the solicitors, youll get a letter.
His jaw drops, gobsmacked.
What divorce?! Youve gone mad! Over a salad? A couple of words? Weve spent twenty-five years together!
Exactly. Twenty-five years of me as a convenient add-on. Cook, cleaner, laundry service. Never quite a person. You wanted a fairy, David? Go find one. Sophies busyMike would have your head. Find someone else, someone wholl waft around smelling nice and never lift a finger. Just remember: fairies dont scrub toilets or cook stews.
Liz, please! he whimpers, grabbing my sleeve. People on the street look over. I was stupid, I said the wrong thing! Was just drunk! How about a new coat, then? Or that gym membership you wanted?
I genuinely laugh: bitter, but it feels freeing.
Gym? You want me looking like Sophie, just so youre not embarrassed being seen with your wife? No, David. I gonowfor me. And if I want a new coat, Ill buy it myself. Turns out my salary goes a long way, when Im not treating you and your friends to fishing rods and fancy food.
But what about me? he falters. Ill be lost. Cant even work the washing machine, all those buttons
Theres instructions online, David. Or pay a cleaning lady. Im done being your wife. No redundancy package.
I pull my arm free and stride to the tubehead high, step light.
David stands there ages, clutching dead carnations. Keeps thinking back to that eveningthe roast, the warm rooms, and that moment, the salad sliding down his leg.
Idiot, he whispers, not quite convinced. What a idiot
Back home, in his empty and smelly flat, with dishes piling high and everything congealed, he knows who the real idiot is.
He calls Mike: Hey mate, mind if I pop over? Got anything proper to eat?
Sorry, pal, Mike sighs. Me and Soph had a row. I suggested she make homemade pasta just once, and now shes livid, accuses me of wanting a maid. Said, Look at Daves Liz, and where did that get her? Salad on the trousers. No thanks. So Im stuck with instant noodles.
David hangs up, stares at the beetroot stain on the carpet. It looks like a heart. A dirty, broken, beetroot heart.
Six months pass.
The divorce is quiet. Our kids, grown up, try a bit to patch things up, but seeing me happyeven radiantand David grumbling all the time, they side with me.
David never really learns to cook. Hes thinner, greyer, pays extra for shirt ironing at the launderetteexpensive, but needs must. He tries dating but always finds fault. One cant even fry an egg, another expects fine dining every night, the next asks about his earnings and pulls a face.
Me? I turn forty-nine surrounded by mates in a cheerful café. New dress, new haircut.
Liz, any regrets? a friend asks. All those years, after all.
I swirl my coffee, smile.
I regret not tipping that salad on his head a decade earlier. Wasted too much time being perfect for someone who never valued it.
I look out as couples stroll down the street, some happy, some not. But I know: my happiness isnt about the thickness of sliced ham or how flashy my mates wife looks. My happiness is in my own hands. And these hands dont smell of onions anymorethey smell of freedom and posh hand cream.
And the salad? Now and then, I treat myself to a small one from Marks. But only when I actually fancy it.
