So, you know what happened to me the other night? It was Richards big birthdayfifty, can you believe?and Id been running myself ragged for a week, you know, works mental because its the end of quarter, and after a full day in accounts spent wrangling spreadsheets, there I am lugging groceries home and spending my evenings prepping roast meats, baking sponges, and rolling up aubergine slices for his favourite dish. My feet were killing me, my back didnt know what hit it, and I had to skip my manicure completelyjust slapped some clear polish on and hoped for the best.
So Id set the table, fresh white cloth, pulled out the blue and white china (because the fancy gold-rimmed set my mother-in-law gave us for our anniversary cant go in the dishwasher, so whats the point?), and Richard walks in, frowning.
Oh, not this set again? he says. I told you the one with the gold trim looks more respectable.
From the kitchen, parsley bunched in my fist, I wanted to retort, You want respectable? You can scrub plates at midnight yourself, then. But I bit my tongueit was his birthday, after all, and I didnt want to rain on the parade before the guests even arrived.
Rich, that set seats twelve, and theres only four of us. These bowls are deeper anywaybetter for the beef roast. Can you check if the vodkas cold? I told him, arranging garnish. John and Harriet will be here any minute.
So he grumbled off, and I let myself sigh. Honestly, this was just typicalhe flat out refused a meal out, muttering, No one cooks like you, Claire; why pay extra for a bit of flash? Flattering, maybe. But really, he just hated spending money.
Doorbell goes. Richard transforms instantlypompous host smile, his whole mood changes in a flash.
Harriet swans in (I swear, she doesnt just walk, she glides), looking like shes just come off the cover of Vogue, effortlessly chic in beige and pearls, even sporting a boutique carrier bag. John lugs in wine and gifts behind her.
Claire, darling! Harriet cries, kissing my cheek and surrounding me with clouds of posh perfume. It smells divine! Youre a hero in the kitchen, as usual. Honestly, I could never do it. I always tell John: you want a party, take me to the Ivy, Im not going near a saucepan with these nails.
I hid my hands, embarrassed.
Well, someones got to keep home cosy, I smiled, taking Harriets coat. Come through, everythings ready.
So, drinks poured, we got stuck in. There were toasts to Richard (John treated him to some fancy fishing rod hed banged on about for ages), jokes all round. I dashed back and forth between kitchen and lounge, making sure snacks were topped up and everyone was served. Me? I managed a spoon of potato salad and a bit of cheese.
Of course, after a few drinks, Richard got chattyleaned back in his chair and started laying it on thick to Harriet, who was nibbling her salmon with dainty forkfuls.
Harriet, youre always absolutely stunning, he said, loud enough for everyone. Honestly, how do you eat what you like and never put on a pound? And that dress! You can tell when a woman makes an effort.
Harriet gave a little laugh, flicking a curl behind her ear. Honestly, Richardits all discipline. Spin class three times a week, no carbs after six, and religious skincare. I found a face cream latelymiracle in a jar!
See! Richard interrupted, wagging his finger. Discipline! Hear that, Claire? Discipline! Youre always complaining about being tired or busy. Harriet works too and look at hershes glowing!
Just as I was bringing in the roast beef, heavy dish in my hands, I froze a second. You know, Im head of finance, run a house and a garden, look after the grandkids when the kids drop them roundand heres Harriet, working admin in a beauty salon two days on, two off, no children.
Rich, lets not compare, I said gently, refusing to argue in front of guests. Everyones got their own pace. Lets try the beef, theres prunes in the stuffingnew recipe.
But Richard was off, the vodka loosening his tongue, letting slip his old resentments and, honestly, that classic male bravado.
Oh, never mind the beef! he scoffed, loading his plate. Foods just food. But aesthetics matter… Johnny, you lucked out. Walk in and youve got a fairy at home, not just some cook in slippers. It cheers you up! And at ours? More pots, more fried onions. Ive said: sign up for a gym, do some fitness. Claire just comes out with, my backs gone, I’ve got high blood pressure. Excuses! Laziness!
John, sensing things go awkward, tried to change the topic. Rich, come off it. Claires a legend; that beefout of this world! My Harriet cant cook like that, we order in or grab ready meals, mostly.
Exactly! Harriet chimed in, trying to smooth things but making it worse. I dont love cooking, its true. But it means I have time for myself. Men are visual, arent they, Rich?
Richard beamed at her, ignoring me right opposite, sitting with my sore hands folded in my lap.
Couldnt agree more! Love at first glance! But then you look… he gestured dismissively at me, andwell, its still a dress and hair done, but you seem… knackered. Like an old auntie. Harriets eyes have fire, life! Yours just remind me of the price labels at Tescos.
Silence. John stared at his plate; Harriet played nervously with her napkin. I felt like hed actually slapped me. Last night, hed complained no clean shirts, and there I was, ironing that very pale blue one at midnight. Id put money asideno beauty treatments for meso I could get him that bloody fishing rod.
Rich, stop it, I said, quiet but firm. Youve had enough.
No I havent! he exploded. Im just stating facts! You see if a womans any good by comparing. And frankly, you dont stack up. Why can John parade his wife and feel proud, but Im embarrassed? Have you seen yourself lately? Bit round, wrinkles… Youre the same age!
Were not, Richard, I snapped back, icy. Harriets thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And Harriet doesnt drag groceries to the fourth floor when the lifts broken, with you parked on the sofa.
Oh, give me a break! He rolled his eyes. I work! I pay the bills! I can ask my wife to fit the part. But you… hen, just chopping salad. Cant even do that well. Harriets was amazing on New Years, light and fluffy. Yours is mushy with mayo. Your foods as dull as you.
That was it. Something snapped. That weird, endless patience after twenty-five years of marriage just dried up, leaving me cold and burning with anger.
I stood. He didnt even notice the change in my face, just kept talking to John: I mean, am I wrong? A woman should inspire! Instead you come homedressing gown, slippers, boring stew. Its like watching paint dry…
I picked up the big bowl of layered salad (you know the typea kilo or so, beetroot, herring, loads of mayo), walked round the table, and stood next to him. He went quiet, looking up at me, confused.
What, standing up for? Want more salt or something?
No, Rich, I replied, voice steady. Everythings got enough. Actually, youre rightI really only am good for chopping salad. And since you long for pizzazz and lightness so much, maybe this salad is exactly what you need.
And I upended the entire bowl.
It was like slow-mo. Johns mouth hung open, Harriet gasped. The purple-pink salad piled onto Richards lap, soaking his pale new birthday trousers.
*Squish.*
Mayo started running down his legs, beetroot bleeding into the expensive fabric, and bits of fish landed right where they shouldnt.
It was silent for a moment. Richard stared at his own knees like he couldnt believe it happened. The juice spread, turning his beige trousers into a piece of abstract art.
Are you mental?! he shouted, leaping up. Salad flopped onto the floor and boots. New trousers! You psycho!
I placed the empty bowl neatly onto the table. At least its tasty, Rich. Satisfying. All natural, handmade.
Ill! Richard raised his hand, but John jumped in fast, grabbing his arm.
Rich, stop! You brought it on yourself!
Me?! I just spoke the truth and she dumps food on me! Clean it! Now! Get on your knees and clean!
Harriet shrank against her seat, ghost-white. The evening took a sharp turn.
Looking at Richard, I felt nothing but disgustlike spotting a cockroach.
Youll clean it yourself, I stated. Or call a cleaner. Youre the man of substance, after all, earning all this. Im out. Its time I did something for myself. What was it you said Im supposed to do? Inspire.
I left the room, slow and quiet, grabbed my coat and handbag in the hall. Still yelling from the lounge, Richard made a right messJohn trying to calm him down.
Claire, are you leaving? Harriet chased me into the hallway, mascara blinking. Dont go, hes drunkhe didnt mean it…
He did, Harriet, I said. But honestly, I didnt resent her. Just felt sorry for both of us. Thanks for comingit opened my eyes.
I stepped into the chilly autumn night. No idea where to go, but I couldnt stay another minute. Sat on the bench, dialled a cab, and thought, Ill go to Mums.
Mum’s flat had stood empty for two years since her funeral; I couldnt bring myself to rent it out. Tonight, it came in handy.
Richard tried calling twenty timesfirst to shout, then probably to apologise once he sobered up. I ignored him. Instead, I hit the twenty-four-hour corner shop, grabbed a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar, went to Mums flat, took a deep breath of dust and old books, and just collapsed onto the sofa. No washing to soak, no breakfast to cook.
The next couple of weeks were pure agonyfor Richard.
I didnt come home the next day. Nor the one after. I stayed at Mums, went to work, and in the evenings? I finally booked that massage Id put off for years. Richard was left alone at ours, realising food doesnt appear magically and socks dont jump, clean and folded, into the drawers by themselves.
He managed for three days: lived on ready meals, wore jeans (because the trousers were ruinedthe dry cleaner wouldnt touch them). Moaned to John, going on about me being unreasonable.
Shell come crawling back, he bragged. Where can she go, fifty years old? Shell have her tantrum and come back. Then I might think about forgiving her.
Day fourno clean shirts left. Richard cant iron, hates it. Day fiveready meals made him sick. Day sixout of toilet paper, and he forgot to buy more.
The flat started to stink. The carpet, where hed only half-heartedly scrubbed away the salad, reeked of sour mayo and fish. All the cosy he took for granted disappeared bit by bit.
And me? I came alive. No more lugging bags; only cooked for myselfate less, felt good. I started getting a decent nights sleep. Folks at work noticed.
Claire, are you dating someone? they teased in the payroll office.
Not really, I replied, grinning. Just finally dating myself. Best decision ever.
Two weeks in, Richard ambushed me outside work. He looked pitifulcreased shirt, stubble, puppy dog eyes, clutching three carnations in plastic.
Claire… he started, shifting his feet.
I stopped, dead calm.
What do you want, Rich?
Oh, come on. Jokes over. Come homeplants need watering, and the cats missing you.
(We never had a cat.)
Im not coming back, Rich, I said simply. Ive filed for divorce. Papers are in, court summons on the way.
He was stunned. Divorce?! Are you mad? All because of a salad? A few harsh words? We spent twenty-five years together!
Exactly. And all that time, I was just a function to youcook, laundry service, cleaner. Never once a real person. You wanted a fairy? Go find one. Try Harriet. Although John would tear you to shreds. Look for someone elsesomeone wholl flutter around, smell of perfume and do nothing. But just a heads up: fairies dont scrub toilets or cook stews.
Please, Claire! He clung to my sleevepeople started staring. It was a slip of the tongue, I was an idiot! Ill buy you a fur coat or a fitness membership, whatever you want!
I laughed. Bittersweet, really.
A fitness club? So I can turn into Harriet and youll finally be proud to take me places? No, Rich. Im already goingfor myself. And the coat? I can buy one, thanks. Turns out my salary can stretch a long way when its not spent on your hobbies, fancy fishing tackle, and dinner-for-your-mates.
But what about me? he stammered. Ill be lost! I cant even work the washing machinetoo many buttons…
Theres instructions online, Rich. Or hire a cleaner. Im done. Officially resigning as your wifewith no severance pay.
I pulled my arm free and started walking to the Tube. Shoulders back, head high.
Richard stared after me a long time, clutching his wilting carnations. Later, hed think back to that nightthe perfect roast, the glow of the lamp, and most of all, the cold wet slap of salad down his legs.
Stupid cow, he murmured, but even he didnt sound convinced. And when he stumbled back to the empty, stinking flat where dishes towered in the sink and food scraps dried to crust, he started to think maybe the idiot here was him.
He called John: Mate, any chance I pop over for a proper meal?
Sorry, Rich, John replied, sounding strained. Harriet and I had a row. I suggested she try cooking for once, and she started on about not being anyones kitchen maid. Said, Look at Clairewhat did that get her? Salad on your trousers! So now Im just eating Pot Noodle myself.
Richard hung up, staring at the faded beetroot stain on the carpet. It looked a bit like a heart. A battered, dirty, beetroot heart.
Six months passed.
Claire and Richard quietly divorced. Their grown kids had tried to patch things up, but seeing their mum so much happier and their dad constantly moaning, they stuck by her.
Richard never did master cooking. He lost weight, looked haggard, now paid the dry cleaners extra to iron his shirtsexpensive, but he had no choice. He tried dating, but it all felt offone woman couldn’t cook, another demanded him to take her to posh restaurants daily, a third asked his salary outright and rolled her eyes when she heard the answer.
Claire? She celebrated her forty-ninth in a cosy café with her best mates. New dress, fresh haircut.
Do you regret it? a friend asked, after all those years together.
Claire stirred her coffee, smiled. Oh, I regret it all rightregret not dumping that salad on his head a decade ago. I wasted so much trying to be perfect for someone who never cared.
She looked out the window. Couples walked byhappy ones, sad ones, all sorts. She knew at last: her happiness wasnt about how thin she sliced the ham or how many compliments some other man gave his wife. Happiness was all hers now. And her hands? No more onion smell. Now they smelled of freedomand fancy hand cream.
As for salad? She buys her own now. Just the odd bit from M&S, and only when she truly fancies it.
