So, you wouldn’t believe what happened at my cousin Sarahs house last weekend. It was her husband’s, David’s, big birthday bashfifty years, proper milestoneso youd think everyone would be in good spirits. But from the get-go, David was in rare form. I got there just as he was grumbling at Sarah about the crockery. Why have you put out these plates again? I wanted the ones with the gold trimMum gave us those for our anniversary; look more classy. Honestly, he looked at the plain plates like they were something out of a greasy spoon, but Sarah just took a breath, parsley in hand (honestly, shes always adding something green). She wanted to reply, I could tell, because those gold-trimmed plates can’t go through the dishwasher and the thought of hand-washing them at midnight after everyone leavesno chance. But she kept herself together, what with it being Davids birthday and all.
She goes, David, those plates are for twelve and therell only be four of us. Besides, these ones are deeper; better for the casserole. She keeps calmly decorating the cold meat with parsley, and tells him to check the vodka (he insists on it, so British) because Tom and Abigail were due any minute.
David sort of muttershes all sulks and sighsand trundles off to the fridge. Sarah just stands there, looking at his back. Shed been absolutely run off her feet all week, trying to keep everything perfect. Works been manicshes head of accountsand with the end of the quarter looming, there were reports coming out her ears. Now, the party prep fell totally to her because David, being stubborn as ever, refused to celebrate anywhere but home. No restaurantno one cooks like you, Sarah. Besides, its a rip off. Cheeky way to save a few quid, really.
Nice he thinks shes such a great cook, but that compliment comes with a wink and a nudge to the bank balance, if you know what I mean. Shed spent three evenings after work marinating beef, boiling veg, baking layers for the trifle, and making those little sausage rolls he loves so much. Feet aching, back sore, and absolutely no time for that posh French manicure she wantedclear polish it was.
Then the doorbell went.
David suddenly turns into the perfect hostthe grump disappears and hes all smiles, almost like hed practised. In comes Abigail, best described as gliding reallyalways flawless. Shes married to Tom, Davids old mate, and she looks like shes just stepped out of a magazinelovely figure, sophisticated beige dress, even her hair is perfect. Shes clutching a pretty bag from Selfridges. Tom piles in after her, loaded down with gifts and a bottle.
“Sarah, darling!” Abigail greets her with a kiss on the cheek, filling the air with expensive perfume. “It smells amazing! Youve spent all day in the kitchen again, havent you? Honestly, I couldnt do itTom knows, if were celebrating, its a restaurant for me. Cant mess up a fresh manicure, you see.”
Sarah almost hides her hands, bless her.
Well, someone has to keep things cosy at home, she laughs, helping Abigail out of her coat. Come on in, Ive put everything on the table.
We started out as youd expectcheers to the birthday boy, swapping presents (Tom got David a fancy fishing rod hed obsessed over for months), a few cheeky jokes, and that warm buzz you get with good company. Sarah ran herself ragged, darting to and from the kitchen, changing plates, topping up nibbles, making sure everyone’s glass was full. She barely got a bite herself, just a forkful of potato salad and a sliver of wensleydale.
Once David got a bit of Dutch courage from his first vodka shot, he loosened upwith a swell of cheek. He leaned back, fixed Abigail with a look, and says, Abigail, youre as dazzling as ever. Must be witchcraftyou eat and dont put on an ounce! That dressstunning. Shows what a woman who takes care of herself can look like.
Abigail twiddles a curl, all charm. Oh stop it, David. Its just discipline. Gym three times a week, no carbs after six. Good skincare helps, mind. Found a miracle cream lately.
David, like hes discovered the meaning of life, points at Sarah: Hear that, Sarah? Discipline! Abigail works too and look at herlike shes twenty.
At this, Sarah was laying down a massive roast. Shes the one who runs a department, keeps the house, handles the allotment, and when the kids bring the grandkids, helps with their homework. Abigail, though, works every other day at a nail salon and doesnt have children.
Sarah tries to keep the peace. David, dont compare. We all live differently. Try some roast beefits a new recipe, prunes in the marinade.
But Davids off, the drink has loosened his tongue and out come those old wounds and bragging rights. Roast beef is roast beef. But its the lookthe vibe. Tom, mate, lucky you. You get home, and theres a fairy, not a cook in slippers. Pretty as a picture. Me? I get pots and the whiff of onions. I tell Sarah to hit the gym, join a class, but its always my back, my blood pressure. Just excuses. Lazy, plain and simple.
Tom looks awkward and tries to shift gears. Now, come on, David. Sarahs the perfect homemaker. This roast is phenomenal. Abigail couldnt make it if she triedwe mostly survive on microwave meals.
Abigail jumps in, but only makes things worse: “I hate cooking, its true. But at least I have time for myself. Men are visual creatures, aren’t they, David?”
David grins at Abigail. Exactly! Love what you see! Look at Sarahyes, shes put on a dress and fixed her hair, but she still looks worn out. Like a tired aunt. Abigail has that spark, that zest for life. Sarah, you just have price tags from Tesco in your eyes.
You could hear a pin drop. Tom started stirring his mash like it would solve world peace; Abigail twisted her napkin to bits. Sarah felt like shed just been slapped. She remembered the night before when David whined about his shirts, and how shed stayed up ironing so hed have the blue one for the partyjust for him to wear and insult her in front of everyone. Shed skipped a facial to buy him that fancy fishing rod, made up the difference herself.
Sarah, biting down her anger, says quietly, Youve crossed a line, David.
I havent! David fires back. Im just honest! You see a friend for what he is in trouble, a wife by comparison. And frankly, you don’t stack up. Toms proud to bring his wife out, while meI blush with embarrassment. Have you looked at yourself lately? Youve let yourself go. And you two are the same age!
Were not, David, Sarah coolly replies. Abigails thirty-eight, Im forty-eight. And Abigail doesnt haul groceries up five flights when the lift breaks while youre lying on the sofa.
David rolls his eyes dramatically. Here she goes! I work! I bring money in! All I ask is a wife who matches my status. But youjust a hen in the kitchen, endlessly making salads. And even those! Abigails Christmas salad was delicate and light. Yoursmayonnaise mush. Like you.
That was the last straw. Something in Sarah snappedthe crazy patience thatd held their marriage together for twenty-five years just vanished, replaced with icy resolve and cold anger.
She stood up. David was still ranting to Tom, not realising Sarah had moved.
And what does one want, Tom? Inspiration! You want to go home and see a spark. Not slippers, soup, and boredom
Sarah picked up the heaping bowl of her Coronation slaw, creamy with mayo and topped with shredded beetrootbig, heavy, at least a kilo and a half. She went round the table and stood by David. He paused, eyes up.
Whyve you stood up? Is it missing salt? Skimped on mayo, did you?
No, David, she said, calm and clear. Its perfect. I thought about what you saidand youre right. All I do is make salads. If you crave something so fresh and aesthetic, maybe this salad is just what you deserve.
With that, she flipped the bowl upside down.
Time seemed to freeze. Toms mouth fell open; Abigail gasped, hands over her lips. The pink, creamy mass landed squarely on Davids cream trousers, the ones bought just for the occasion.
*Splat.*
A juicy, sticky noisethe mayonnaisey rivers leeching down his legs, dyeing the fabric red, bits of fish decorating his fly.
Silence for a moment. David stared at the salad in disbelief as the beetroot juice bled into his trousers, making abstract art where his knees should be.
“What have you done?!” he roared, scrambling up. Chunks of salad hit the carpet, the shoes, the whole works. “Are you mad? These were brand new! Loony!”
Sarah calmly set the empty bowl back on the table.
Well at least its tasty, David. Filling too. And handmadeno additives, all natural.
“You are something else…” He raised a hand, but Tom was quickest, grabbing his arm.
“David, stop! Wind your neck in! You pushed her too far!”
“ME?!” yelled David, waving his ruined trousers. “I only told the truth and she dumps the salad on me! Clean it up! Now!”
Abigail shrank against the chair, face pale. The evening was good as over.
Sarah looked at her husband like shed found a slug on the bathroom floor.
Clean up yourself, she said, clipped and cool. Or book a cleaning company. Youre the big earner, after all. And me? Im off. I need some me time. Inspiration, like you said.
She left the room, took her coat from the hall, popped her handbag over her shoulder. From the lounge, you could hear Davids shouts and Toms mumbling to calm the chaos.
Abigail crept into the hallway, mascaraed eyes wide. “Sarah, dont gohes drunk, he didnt mean it…”
Oh he meant it, Abigailhe always has. He just kept quiet when sober. Thanks for coming. Youve helped me see things clearly.
Sarah stepped out into the crisp autumn air. She didnt know where shed go, but she couldn’t stay there. She parked herself on a bench by the block, dialled up a taxi. Mums, she said. Her mum had passed away two years ago, but the old flat was still there, left empty. Sarah hadnt had the heart to rent it out. Now, she needed it.
David rang her twenty times that night. First to rant, then, as he sobered, to beg. Sarah ignored every call. She stopped by the 24-hour shop for wine and chocolate, let herself into her mums place (it smelt of dust and old paperbacks), and for once, lay on the sofa without worrying about laundry or prepping breakfast.
The next two weeks were sheer hell for David.
Sarah didnt come back. Not the next day, not the day after. She holed up at her mums, worked as always, but booked herself in for a massagethe sort shed never let herself spend on.
David was left to fend for himself. Turns out, food doesnt magically appear in the fridge and socks dont crawl into the washer and return perfectly folded.
Three days in, hes living on microwave shepherds pie and jeans (the trousers? Ruined. Dry cleaner couldnt save them). Calls Tom to complain about Sarah, convinced shed crawl back. Shell be backwhere else at her age? Shell get over it, come home. And Ill decide if I forgive her.
By day four, no clean shirts. He couldnt iron, hated it. Day five, stomach cramps from all the ready meals. Day six, hes caught short in the bathroomno loo roll, forgot to buy any.
The place slowly turns into a tip. The carpet, never fully cleaned, started to stink of old mayo and fish. That easy comfort he took for granted just faded away.
Meanwhile, Sarah glowed. With no one else to feed but herself, she stopped lugging heavy bags home. She slept well, looked fresher. Her colleagues noticed.
Sarah, you look radiantfallen in love? the girls joked.
Shed laugh. I have! In myself. Finally.
Two weeks on, David lay waiting outside her office, pitiful in a rumpled shirt, stubble showing, eyes like a lost pup, clutching a sad bunch of supermarket carnations.
Sarah he began, shuffling his feet.
She stood, looking at himutterly calm.
What do you want, David?
Come on, love, lets end this joke. Its time to come home. The plants need watering. The cat misses you.
They never had a cat.
I wont go back, David, she replied. Ive filed for divorce. The papers will be through any day.
Davids jaw dropped, completely floored. Divorce? Over a salad? Couple of words? Weve been together twenty-five years!
Exactly. For twenty-five years, Ive been convenient: chef, laundress, cleaner. Never a person. You want a fairy, David? Find one. Not AbigailTom would have a fit. Try someone else. Fairies dont clean toilets or boil potatoes, just so you know.
He grabbed her sleeve. People began to stare. Forgive me, love! I was an idiot, speaking out of turn! The drink, the mood! Want a fur coat? Want a gym membership like you asked?
Sarah laughed, bittersweet. The gym? So I look like Abigail and you wont be embarrassed? No, David, I already goto feel better for myself. And if I want a coat, Ill buy my own. Turns out my salary goes far, when not spent on your hobbies, fancy rods, imported treats for your mates.
But what about me? He looked lost. Ill mess things up. I cant use the washing machine, theres too many buttons
Theres instructions online, David. Or hire a cleaner. Im resigning from wifeno redundancy package, sorry.
She freed her arm and walked off towards the tube, head held high, stride light as anything.
David stood there, those limp carnations in hand. He thought back to the roast beef, the glowing lamp in the lounge, and that moment when salad trickled down his lap.
Stupid, he muttered. But he didnt sound convincing. The real idiot, he realised, was himself.
When he got home, the smell of stale mayo drifted. Dirty plates towered in the sink. He called Tom.
Mate, any chance I can pop over? I need some proper grub.
Sorry, pal, Tom replied, voice stiff. Abigail kicked off. I asked her to make real food just once, and she went sparesaid I was lumping her with all the housework. Said, Look at Sarahwhat did she get for all her cooking? Salad in the lap. Im not doing that. So its pot noodles here for now.
David hung up and stared at the carpet, where the salad stain weirdly resembled a heartbeetroot-red, broken.
Six months passed.
Sarah and David divorced quietly. Their grown children tried to reconcile them but, seeing Sarah happy and David moaning all the time, sided with her.
David never quite mastered cooking. Lost weight, looked worn out, paid (expensively) for ironing service, because he had no choice. Dated, but the women? Never right: one couldnt make proper meatballs, another wanted dinner out every night, a third just quizzed him about his pay and pulled a face at the answer.
Sarah, though, turned forty-nine in a snug local café, surrounded by her friends, in a new dress, with a fresh haircut.
Do you regret it? one asked. All those years together?
Sarah stirred her latte and smiled. Regret? YeahI regret not dumping that salad on his head ten years earlier. I wasted so much time trying to be perfect for a man who never appreciated it.
She looked out at the couples on the sunlit London streetsome happy, some not. She knew her happiness didnt hang on slicing ham thin enough, or on compliments about someone elses wife. Her happiness was entirely in her hands. And now, her hands didnt smell like onions, but French cream and freedom.
As for saladshe buys it from Marks & Spencer. Just enough. Only when she genuinely fancies it.
