My husband compared me to his friends wife at the table and ended up with a bowl of salad in his lap
Diary Entry
Last night was one of those turning points, wasnt it? Typical of David to start the evening with a grumble. Id just set the china downwhite plates with delicate blue roses, the ones Mum gave us for our anniversarywhen he frowned.
Why are you using these again? he sighed, barely hiding his annoyance. I asked for the ones with the gold rim. They look much smarter.
I paused, parsley in hand, biting back the desire to snap that you cant put the gold-rimmed china in the dishwasher, and Im not standing at the sink after midnight, up to my elbows in suds, just because your friends came round. But it was Davids milestone birthdayfiftyand I refused to let his mood spoil the atmosphere before wed even started.
Theres only four of us tonight, love, I said, keeping my voice steady. The gold set is for twelve. These hold morebetter for the roast. Could you check if the vodkas cold? Tom and Emily will be here any minute.
He mumbled something and wandered off, shoulders slumped. I watched him go, feeling the exhaustion settle in. Last week was a marathon: juggling my job at the accountancy firm (quarter end reports, as usual), then prepping for the big birthday dinner. David stubbornly refused to go out, insisting, No one cooks like you do, Lizzie. And whats the point of paying silly restaurant prices?
Its flattering, I supposeto be praised for your cooking. But beneath it, David is just tight with money, and doesnt want to see numbers on a menu. So I spent three evenings after work marinating beef, boiling veg, baking sponge, rolling up little aubergine parcels because he loves them, aching feet and a sore back, and not a second for a proper manicurejust managed a coat of clear polish.
The doorbell rang.
Coming! David called, instantly transformingthe sour look gone, replaced by his best host smile.
Emily swept into the hall, radiant as ever. Never just walks, she really does seem to glide, like shes just stepped out of a magazine. Blonde bob, chic beige dress, a designer bag dangling from her wrist. Tom trailed behind, arms full of gifts and wine.
Lizzie, darling! Emily air-kissed me, enveloping me in cloud of expensive perfume. It smells divine. Youre a miracle worker! I could neverhonestly, I told Tom if he wants a party, he can book a table, I am not risking my nails at the stove.
Suddenly self-conscious, I tucked my hands behind my back.
Well, someone has to keep the home fires burning, I replied, smiling as I took her coat. Come on througheverythings laid out in the dining room.
Dinner started as usual: toasts for David, chit-chat about presents (Tom got him that fancy fishing rodhes been going on about it for months), banter, laughs. I buzzed between kitchen and lounge, replacing plates, topping up snacks and making sure everyones glasses stayed full. Managed only a forkful of salad and a bit of cheese myself.
After the first shot, David relaxed. He leaned back, beaming at Emily as she delicately speared a piece of smoked salmon.
Emily, you look fabulous, as always. Reckon its witchcraftyou eat and never put on a bit of weight. Your dress! You really do take care of yourself.
Emily smiled, flicking her hair. Oh, David, stop. Its all discipline. Gym three times a week, no carbs after six, and plenty of skincare. Ive just found a face creamabsolute magic.
There! David jabbed his finger upward like hed quoted the Holy Grail. Discipline, Liz! Thats what she saiddiscipline! But youre always, Im tired, Ive no time. Emily works too, yet look at hershe glows!
I was putting the roast down on the tableso heavy, my shoulders twinged. I work as a chief bookkeeper at a big firm, run the house, help out with our eldest’s kids when theyre dropped off. Emilys job is two days on, two offfront of house at a beauty spa, no children.
Lets not compete, I said to David, letting it pass for the sake of our guests. We all have our own routines. Try the beef, its a new recipeprunes and mustard this time.
But David was off, loosened by drink and, I suppose, wounded pride.
Stuff the beef! He waved the fork dismissively, hauling up a heap. Foods food. Its the look that matters Tom, youre lucky. You walk in and its not just a cook in a dressing gownshes a goddess. So uplifting. Whereas me? Always pots and pans, always that old fried onion smell. I tell Liz to go to the gymsign up for Pilates. She says, My back, my blood pressure. Just excuses. Plain laziness.
Tom shifted uncomfortably, trying to change the subject.
David, now. Liz is brilliantthis roast, top notch! Emily doesnt cook, honestly, most nights its takeaways or frozen stuff.
Emily chimed in, hoping to ease things, but only made it worse. I dont like cookingits true. But I always have time for myself. A man should feel proud of his wife, dont you agree, David?
David grinned widely at her, his eyes oily with approval.
Exactly! Proud. But look at us.He nodded at me across the table, where Id sat, hands clenched on my lap, worn outLiz, youve dressed up, done your hair, but you still look haggard. Like an old maid, yknow? Emily sparkles with life, you seem weighed down. Those eyesjust supermarket price labels staring back at me.
The silence was suffocating. Tom twisted his napkin, Emily picked at her nail. I felt slapped, humiliated. Memories flooded back: how last night David had whined for clean shirtsId ironed them past midnight, only for him to sit here and belittle me. The money Id saved skipping facials to buy him that bloody fishing rod.
David, enough, I said quietly, but firmly. You’ve had too much.
I have not! he snapped. Im just telling the truth! You know a wife truly by comparing. And let me tell youToms got it sorted. Im stuck. Have you looked in the mirror, lately? Gone soft, full of wrinkles And youre the same age!
Were not, David, I answered coldly. Emilys thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And she doesnt lug shopping up three flights when the lifts broken and youre lying on the settee watching football.
Oh, here we go! David rolled his eyes. I work! I bring home money! I have every right to expect my wife to keep up her end. But youjust a dull house hen. All you do is chop salads. And that, what do you call itRussian salad? Emilys was gorgeously delicate at Christmas. Yours is just bland mayonnaise mush. Like you.
Something snapped, deep inside. The patience that held our marriage together for twenty-five years simply ran dry, leaving cold emptiness and a sharp, clear anger.
I stood. David barely noticed, yammering at Tom, Am I wrong? Women should inspire! Instead of coming home and sinking into miseryslippers, dressing gown, dull stew nothing but boredom.
Very slowly, I picked up the large bowl of Russian Saladfresh, thick with mayo, topped with grated beetroot. Weighed a good kilo and a half.
I made my way around the table and stopped right beside him. Now he looked up.
What now? he barked. Not enough salt for you? Skimped on the mayo?
No, David, I replied, almost serenely. As you say, making salad is my only skill. And since you seem to want lightness and aesthetics, I suppose this is just what you need.
And with that, I upended the bowl.
Time froze. Tom gasped silently, Emilys mouth dropped open, hand to lips. The saladpalely pink, creamy, denseslithered down onto Davids lap, onto his fresh beige trousers, bought specially for his birthday.
Splat.
The sound was almost satisfyingwet, heavy. Mayo streaked his legs, beetroot instantly blotched the cloth, flecks of herring stuck to his fly.
A deathly hush. David stared down, dumbstruck. Beetroot juice crawled across the fabric, turning smart trousers into a lurid mess.
What have you done?! he roared, jumping up. The salad plopped onto the carpet and his shoes. Are you crazy? he screamed. These were new! You lunatic!
I set the empty bowl gently onto the side.
Well, David. Tasty, filling, andnotecompletely natural. Handmade, no nasties.
He raised a fist, ready to explode, but Tom leaped up and grabbed him.
Calm down, mate! You pushed her too far!
Oh, so its my fault? David bellowed, waving his sticky legs. I speak the truth and she dumps food on me! Clear this up! Get down and clean itimmediately!
Emily, pale as ghosts, shrank back into her chair. The night was ruined.
I looked David up and down, with a curl of disgust.
Clean it yourselfor call a cleaner. Youre the man of status with the income, after all. As for me, Im going out. Time I took care of myself. You said I ought to be inspiring.
I left the room. In the hall, I put on my coat, grabbed my bag. Davids shouts and Toms muttering drifted out of the lounge.
Liz, pleasedont go, hes drunk, didnt mean it Emily rushed after me, blinking furiously.
He did, Em, I replied, meeting her eyes without resentmentjust pity. Hes always thought it, just held his tongue while sober. Thanks for coming round tonight. You opened my eyes.
Outside, the autumn air was crisp. There was nowhere to go, truth be told, but I couldnt stay. I sat on the bench by the flats, called a taxi. To Mums, I decided. Shes gone now, but the place is still oursId never managed to rent it out, and tonight, it felt like shelter.
David tried ringing twenty times. First, ranting, thenafter hed sobered upwhimpering. I ignored every call. I bought wine and chocolate at the 24-hour shop, let myself into Mums old flat, with dust and the smell of old paperbacks. For the first time in years, I stretched out on the sofa without worrying about laundry or breakfast.
The next weeks were hell for David.
I didnt return the next day. Or the one after that. I stayed at Mums, went to work, and in the evenings booked myself in for a massage. The luxury Id denied myself for years.
Back at home, David discovered food doesnt simply appear in the fridge, socks dont leap into the washing machine all by themselves, or fold themselves neatly away.
For the first few days, he showed off, eating ready meals, living in jeans (the trousers never came cleandry cleaners couldnt promise a thing), ringing Tom to rant about what a nightmare I was.
Shell be back, just wait. Whats a woman in her fifties going to do? Shell sulk then come crawling. Ill decide if I take her back.
By day four, he ran out of ironed shirts. He couldnt and wouldnt do anything about it. By day five, he had stomach cramps from microwave meals. By day six, found no loo rollforgot to buy any.
The flat started to stink. The spot where the salad landed became a patch of congealed fish and mayo, impossible to clean. The homely background hed taken for granted vanished fast.
And I? I blossomed. Less shopping, since I cooked only for myselfand ate little. I actually slept. At work, the others noticed the change.
Liz, youre glowing! Got a secret fancy man? the girls joked.
Fell in love, finally, I replied. With myself.
Two weeks in, David intercepted me as I left the office. He looked awfulcreased shirt, stubbly chin, pitiful eyes. Holding a silly cellophane bouquet of carnations.
Liz he stammered.
What do you want, David? I asked, calm, detached.
Enoughs enough, eh? Jokes over. You need to come home. We’ve got flowers to water. And the cat misses you.
We never had a cat.
Im not coming back, David. Ive filed for divorce. The papers should reach you soon.
He gaped. Divorce? Over a silly salad? A few words? After twenty-five years?
Yes. Twenty-five years of being convenient to youa cook, a laundress, a cleaner. Never a person. You wanted a fairy, David? Go find one. Emily, perhapsbut wait, Tom would kill you. Find another, who flutters around, smells of perfume, and never does a thing. But fairies dont scrub toilets or make stews.
Oh, Lizplease! He clung to my sleeve, people beginning to watch. I was stupid! Just ran my mouth off, Im sorry! Look, Ill buy you a fur coat, or that gym membership you wanted!
I laugheda bitter, honest laugh.
Gym? So I look like Emily, and you dont mind going out with me on your arm? No, David. I do go alreadyfor my sake. And Ill buy my own coat. Turns out my salary covers a lot once Im not funding your hobbies and entertaining your mates.
But what about me? he whimpered, Ill be hopeless! Can’t even use the washing machineall those buttons
There are instructions online, David. Or hire a cleaner. Im done. I quit being your wife. No severance pay.
I slipped free and walked towards the Tube. My shoulders light, my stride free.
David stood there, clutching his drooping flowers, replaying that nightthe taste of roast beef, the golden lamplight, the moment when salad slid down his legs.
Stupid cow, he muttered, though he didnt sound at all convinced.
When he got hometo that empty, pungent flat with dishes piled up and crusted with foodhe knew exactly who the real fool was. He dialled Tom.
Mate, any chance I come over for some home-cooked grub?
Tom sounded exasperated. Sorry, mateme and Emily hit a wall. I told her she could cook noodles as a treat, and she went madsaid it was sexism, and look what happened to Liz and David: salad on trousers! Now Im living on instant soup myself.
David hung up, staring down at the beetroot patch on the carpeta broken, messy, pink heart.
Half a year went by.
The divorce was quick. The kidsgrown up nowtried to patch things up at first, but after seeing me thriving while David just moped, stuck firmly to my side.
David never learned to cook. He lost weight, grew gaunt. Paid for freshly pressed shirts at the launderetteextortionate, but no choice. He went out with a few women, but none measured up. One couldnt fry a burger, another insisted on eating out nightly, the next asked straight away how much cash he made and turned up her nose.
And me? I celebrated my forty-ninth in a snug little café with my friends. New dress, new haircut.
Regret it, Liz? asked one, stirring her tea. All those years together
I swirled my coffee and shrugged, smiling.
I regret I didnt tip that salad over his head a decade ago. All that energy, trying to be perfect for someone who never valued it.
I looked out at the streetpeople strolling, happy or not. I know now: my happiness isnt about how thin the cucumber slices are or the compliments aimed at someone elses wife. My happiness is my own. And now my hands dont smell of onions. They smell of freedom and expensive creams.
As for salad I buy it from the deli now. Just for myself, and only when I truly want it.
