My husband once compared me to his mates wife over dinner, and ended up with a bowl of salad on his lap.
It was Victors fiftieth birthday, and I remember that evening as if it were yesterday, though so many years have passed now. The house was quiet except for my own fussing in the kitchen, laying out the tableware. Victor wandered in, eyebrows raised in disapproval.
Why are you using this dinner set again? I specifically asked for the one Mum gave us for our anniversarythe one with the gold trim. It looks far more dignified. He pulled a face as I set a simple plate on the crisp white cloth.
For a moment, I froze, clutching my handful of parsley. I wanted to snap back, to say the gold-trimmed set couldnt be washed in the dishwasher, and after the guests left, I had not the slightest desire to stand at the sink at midnight. But I held my tongue. It was Victors milestone, after all, and I didnt want to spoil the start of the evening.
Theres only four of us, Victor, not twelve. These are deeper plates, better for the roast, I replied, keeping my tone steady as I continued decorating the aspic. Why dont you check if the gin is chilled enough? Geoff and Marianne will be here any minute.
Victor muttered something under his breath and ambled off to the fridge. I watched him go and sighed heavily. That last week Id been living in a whirlwind: my job as an accountant was relentless at quarter-end, and now, thisthe birthday dinner. Victor had refused point-blank to celebrate in a restaurant, insisting no one cooks as well as you, Molly, and why pay silly money for show?
It was flattering, I suppose, that he praised my cooking, but beneath it there was the usual stinginess and a loathing for prices on menus. So Id spent my evenings marinating meat, boiling veg, baking layers for the trifle, and rolling up those aubergine slices he loved so much. My legs ached, my back groaned, I hadnt made it to my manicurejust a lick of clear polish had to do.
I still remember the chime of the doorbell, its suddenness cutting through the hubbub of the oven.
Im coming! Victor called, instantly transforming his mooda welcoming smile replacing the gruffness.
Marianne swept in, gliding through the hallway as though shed just walked off a magazine cover. Geoffs wifeVictors closest matewas always effortlessly immaculate, in a fitted cream dress and carrying a tiny bag from some posh shop. Geoff stumbled in behind her, arms laden with gifts and bottles.
Molly, darling! Marianne pecked my cheek, enveloping me in a cloud of expensive perfume. It smells divine! You always go above and beyond in the kitchenI couldnt, honestly. I told Geoff: if you want a celebration, take me out. I wont go near the stove, not with a fresh manicure!
Instinct made me hide my hands behind my back.
Well, someones got to keep the home fires burning, I smiled, taking Mariannes coat. Come ineverythings on the table.
Dinner started as they always did, toasts for the birthday boy, chatter about giftsGeoff had given Victor some fancy fishing kit hed been harping on about for monthslaughter echoing through the house. I hustled between kitchen and lounge, switching plates, replenishing nibbles, making sure glasses didnt run dry. I only managed a spoonful of potato salad and a sliver of cheese myself.
Victor, fuelled by the first tot of gin, relaxed into the evening. Leaning back, he gave Marianne a look of almost childish admiration as she delicately flaked her fish.
Marianne, youre stunning as ever, he boomed. How do you do it? Eat and never gain an ounce! And that frockshows a woman who really takes care of herself.
Marianne flicked a loose curl.
Oh Victor, youre too kind. Its just discipline, reallygym three times a week, no carbs after six, and oh, I did discover an utterly heavenly face cream.
Discipline, thats the thing! Victor held up his finger as if imparting some ancient wisdom. Did you hear that, Molly? Discipline! Youre always saying Im tired, no time. Marianne works too, and look how she glows!
I was setting down the roast at that moment. Id worked as chief accountant for a large firm, managed our house, the allotment, helped with the grandchildren when the kids dropped round. Marianne, meanwhile, did a receptionists job at a beauty salon, on a rota, and had no children to wrangle.
Lets not compare, Victor, I said gently, not wanting a squabble in front of guests. Everyone has their own pace. Try the roastits a new recipe with prunes.
Victor wouldnt let it lie. The drink had loosened his tongue, and out tumbled grievances, that idiotic masculine bluster.
Forget the roast! Food is just food. But the aestheticnow thats something. Geoff, youre lucky. Come home to your missus, not a cook in slippers, but a fairy. Its a joy for the eyes. What about me? Always those casserole smells, those onions frying. I told Molly to join a gym, get to fitness, but nomy back, my blood pressure. Excuses, if you ask me. Just laziness.
Geoff tried to change the subject.
Victor, come on now. Youve gold in Mollya hostess like no other! This meat is a marvel, mate. Marianne cant cook for toffeewe rely on ready meals or takeaways.
Exactly! Marianne chirped in, making matters worse. I dont like cooking, thats true. But I always have time for myself. A man should love with his eyes, right, Victor?
Victor grinned at her, looking at me as if comparing a Rolls to a rusty Escort.
Too right! Love with your eyes! And look he shrugged towards me, sitting opposite with my weary hands folded on my knees, Mollys got the dress and the hair, but still looks… worn. Like a spinster aunt, you know? Mariannes eyes are alive, full of laughter. Yoursjust scanning price labels in Tesco.
A heavy silence fell. Geoff buried himself in his plate, Marianne fiddled nervously with her napkin. To me, the words were a slap in the face. I remembered Victor whinging about clean shirts the night before, and me, ironing at midnight so he could sit there now and insult me. Remembered skipping my facial so I could put extra towards his precious fishing rod.
Victor, enough, I said quietly but firmly. Youve had too much.
I have not! he snapped. Im only telling the truth! You know, a friend shows himself in adversity, but a wifein comparison. I see and compare. And in comparison, frankly, you lose. Why can Geoff show off his wife with pride while I have to feel embarrassed? Seen yourself in the mirror lately? Youre falling apart, wrinkles everywhere… and youre the same age!
Were not the same age, Victor, I replied frostily. Mariannes thirty-eight, Im forty-eight. And shes not carrying bags of groceries up five flights when the lifts broken while youre crashed on the sofa.
Oh, here we go! Victor rolled his eyes with theatrical despair. I work! I put money on the table! I have every right to expect my wife to look the part. Youre just a mother hen, chopping up salads. Speaking of which, he jabbed his fork at the salad, even that you cant get right. I had Mariannes at Christmaslight as a feather. Yours is a heavy, mayonnaise-laden mess. Just like you.
That was the last straw. Something snapped inside mea patience that had stretched over a quarter century finally gave out, leaving only numb emptiness and cold anger behind.
I stood up. Victor, oblivious, was still ranting, addressing Geoff as if I werent there.
No, tell me, Geoff, am I wrong? A woman should inspire! Here, its just drudgery. Dressing gown, slippers, soup. Mind-numbing stuff
I picked up the big, deep dish of layered saladfresh, generously dressed, beetroot on topabout a kilo and a half, at least.
I walked round until I stood beside Victor. He finally looked up at me.
What now? he spat. Not enough salt? Not enough mayo?
No, Victor, I replied, voice steady. Theres plenty. Youre right, perhaps all I do is chop salads. If youre so desperate for lightness and aesthetics, you can have thisright where it counts.
And I tipped the salad bowl.
Time seemed to freeze. Geoff gaped soundlessly. Marianne gasped into her hand. The pinkish mass slithered down onto Victors lap, onto his new pale trousers bought specially for the birthday.
*Squish.*
The sound was vivid and wet. Rivers of mayonnaise soon soaked the legs, beetroot stains bloomed over the expensive fabric, chunks of herring graced the crotch.
For a moment, utter stillness. Victor stared, as if unable to comprehend it. Beetroot juice spread quickly, turning his beige trousers into a madcap abstract artwork.
You what have you done?! he bellowed, leaping up, salad plopping onto the carpet, the shoes. Are you mad?! Those were new trousers! You lunatic!
I set the empty dish back on the table.
At least its tasty, Victor. And filling. No chemicalsentirely homemade.
Ill show you! Victor raised his hand, but Geoff jumped up, grabbing his mates arm.
Victor, enough! You pushed her!
Me?! I just said the truth! She chucked food on my lap! Clean it up! At once! Get down and scrub it!
Marianne pressed herself into the chair, pale as a sheet. All hints of a pleasant evening had evaporated.
I looked at Victor, now writhing in outrage, with distastelike one regards a cockroach.
Do it yourself, I bit off. Or hire a cleaner. Youre the man of status here, arent you? Earn enough for that. As for me, Im going out. Ive some self-care to do. Inspiration, as you put it.
I left. Calmly donned my coat and picked up my handbag by the door. Victors shouts and Geoffs muttering trailed behind.
Molly, wait! Marianne ran out, mascara trembling. Dont leave, hes drunk, he didnt mean
He did, Marianne, I looked at her, but there was no anger left, only an odd sense of pity. Hes always thought this. Drink just loosened his tongue tonight. Thank you for coming. You opened my eyes.
I walked into the cool autumn evening. There was nowhere to go, but nowhere I wished to return to, either. I sat on the bench outside our block, called a cab. To Mums, I decidedthe old flat left untouched since Mum passed two years ago; Id never wanted to let it. Now, I realised its worth.
Victor called twenty times that night, first to shout, thenonce sober. I didnt answer. I bought a bottle of wine and some chocolate from the corner shop, arrived at Mums place, thick with dust and the scent of ancient books, and for the first time in years just lay down without worrying about laundry or tomorrows breakfast.
The next fortnight was a nightmarefor Victor.
I didnt come home the next day, nor the day after. I lived in Mums flat, went to work, booked myself a massagethe very one Id denied myself for three years.
Victor was left alone. Suddenly, food didnt appear by magic in the fridge, socks didnt leap into the washer, or return neatly paired to the drawer.
He tried swaggering for the first three days. Ate freezer food, wore old jeans (the stains on his birthday trousers wouldnt budgelaundry refused to promise success). Rang Geoff, moaning that Molly was a shrew.
Shell come crawling back, he swaggered. Shes fifty now. Let her streamitll pass. Then Ill decide whether to forgive.
But by day four, the clean shirts ran out. He hated ironing, and didnt know how. By day five, his stomach twisted from frozen meals. Day six, the loo paper was gone, and hed forgotten to buy more.
The flat started to stink. The salad stain hed scrubbed into the carpet began to smell like old fish and spoiled mayonnaise. The comfort he took for granted melted away.
But me Well, I bloomed. No more lugging shopping, cooking only for myselfa modest eater, finally getting enough sleep. Ladies at work took notice.
Molly, you look radiant! Fallen in love? they teased in accounts.
With myself, girls, I replied. Finally, with myself.
Two weeks later, Victor lay in wait outside my officehis shirt crumpled, his face gaunt, clutching a pitiable bouquet of three carnations, wrapped in cellophane.
Molly he stammered, shifting his feet.
What do you want, Victor?
Oh, come now. Jokes over. Time to come home. The um the houseplants need watering. And the cat misses you.
We didnt own a cat.
Im not coming back, Victor, I said simply. Ive filed for divorce. The court papers are on their way.
His jaw dropped.
Divorce? Are you daft?! Over a salad? A few words? Twenty-five years together!
Just so. Twenty-five years as the household functioncook, launderer, cleaner. Never the person. You want a fairy? Go find oneMarianne, maybe. Or anyone else willing to float and smell of perfume and do nothing. Trouble is, fairies dont scrub toilets or stew casseroles.
Molly, Im sorry! he begged, grabbing my sleeve. Passers-by began to stare. Honestly, I was a fool, said things I shouldnt! The gin took over! Want me to buy you a fur coat? Or that gym membership you fancied?
I laughed. It came out bitter, but genuine.
The gym? So I can look more like Marianne, give you someone to be proud of? No, Victor. I already gofor myself. And Ill buy my own coat if I want one. My wages go further now, not spent on your whims, fishing rods, or treats for your mates.
But what about me? he pleaded. Ill be lost. I cant work the washing machineall those buttons
Instructions are online, Victor. Or employ a housekeeper. I resign as your wifewith no severance pay.
I slipped my sleeve from his fingers and headed for the tube. Straight-backed. Light-footed.
Victor stood there, clutching his wilted carnations, recalling that eveningthe delicious roast, the warmth of the lamps, and the salad, sliding down his legs.
Fool, he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. The real fool, as he realised when he got back to his stinking, empty flat, was himself.
He phoned Geoff.
Geoff, mate, can I come over for a home-cooked meal?
Sorry, old chap, Geoff sounded strained. Marianne and I had a row. I asked her to boil some dumplingsshe accused me of wanting a cook, said Look at Victor! Molly cooked and where did it end? Salad in the lap. She wants no part of that. Im living off instant noodles now.
Victor hung up and studied the stain in the carpet. Its shape resembled a heartthough one smashed, filthy and beetroot-stained.
Six months passed.
The divorce went quietly. Our grown-up children tried to patch things up, but took my side when they saw me glowing and him forever moaning.
Victor never learnt to cook properly. He lost weight, looked shabbier, sent his shirts out to be pressed at the cleanersexpensive, but he had no choice. He tried dating, but all the women seemed not quite rightone couldnt fry a chop, another demanded fancy dinners, a third asked his salary then scowled.
I celebrated my forty-ninth birthday in a cozy little café with my friends, sporting a new dress and haircut.
Regrets, Molly? a friend asked. After so many years together?
I stirred my coffee and smiled.
I do, I admitted. I regret not tipping that salad over his head ten years earlier. I wasted too long trying to be ideal for a man whod never value it.
I gazed through the window, watching couples stroll byhappy or otherwise. But I now knew: my happiness depended not on how finely I chopped sausage or how effusive a man made another mans wife feel. My happiness was in my own hands. And now, those hands no longer smelt of onions. They smelt of freedom, and a good hand cream.
As for salad now, I buy mine from the deli. When I fancy it, and only then.
