My husband issued a command: No more arguments. So I didn’t argueI simply stopped agreeing. Thats when things truly took off.
James swaggered into the kitchen as though he’d just personally negotiated peace between warring galaxies, when in reality, all he’d done was buy a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. There was something almost monumental in his posture, like he was cast in marble. Since hed been named acting deputy head of department a week ago, my husband hadnt walkedhe paraded.
Emily, he said, surveying my supper (baked trout) with the analytical gaze of an Ofsted inspector.
Im tired today. Been making strategic decisions. So lets agree on this: at home, I need silence and complete acceptance. I dont want any arguments. I want you to just go along with me. My brain needs a rest from opposition.
I froze, fork in hand. Brave. It was a fresh approach. Considering that we live in my flat and my salary as a financial analyst shields us from inflation, his demand sounded reminiscent of a hamster insisting to a cat that it deserved its own bedroom.
So, you want me to be your echo? I checked, feeling the familiar stirring of that noble beast withinthe one my colleagues respect and my mother-in-law slightly fears.
I want you to accept my authority, James said solemnly, adjusting the tie hed randomly decided to wear for dinner. A man is a vector. A woman is the environment. Dont bend my vector, Emily.
I stared at him. His eyes glowed with that pure, unfiltered confidence only visible in people about to cross the M25 on foot.
Of course, darling, I smiled, slicing my fish. No disagreements. Only agreement.
And thus began my favourite little game: Beware your wishes, for they really do come true. Exactly as you ask.
The first act played out on Saturday. James was getting ready for a team-building eventwhich he called a leadership summit, though I called it the annual BBQ for office plankton.
He was twisting before the mirror in new trousers hed bought without consulting me. They were, in his mind, a fashionable shade of mustard, but they fit as if designed for a pregnant kangaroo. Gaping at the hips, vacuum-packed at the calves.
How do I look? he asked, drawing himself up. Stylish? Look like management material?
Ordinarily, Id have delicately hinted that in those trousers, his status suggested circus entertainer more than leader. But, Id made a promise.
Absolutely, James, I nodded, eyes on my book. Very bold. Everyone will see whos in charge. The style the colour they shout your uniqueness.
James lit up.
See! You never used to say things like, Dont embarrass yourself Youre learning, love!
He left beaming, proud as a peacock. He returned later flushed, irate, and somewhat mysteriously in someone elses jeans. Apparently, during the Tug of Success the mustard masterpiece ripped apart with a sound akin to hope going down with the ship.
Why didnt you say they were too tight in key areas?! he bellowed, tossing the surviving pieces aside.
But dearest, you said they showed your status. I didnt argue. Apparently your status was just too much for the fabric.
The real show began when heavy artillery arrivedMrs. Janet Taylor, mother of the vector. She visited in full audit mode, and James, emboldened by my docility, decided all bets were off.
We sat at the table. Janet, a woman with a hairstyle that said poodle and a gaze with all the warmth of a Crown Prosecution Service barrister, was surveying my sitting room.
Emily, your curtains are awfully dreary, she declared, chewing my homemade pie. And theres dust on the rail. Good housewives don’t allow dust. They’re too diligent! James needs comfort, but this placefeels like an office.
James, bolstered by backup, chipped in: Shes right, Em. You work too much, the place is getting neglected. Maybe you could go part-time? Well manageIm management now, after all.
It would have been hilarious, if his management allowance even covered petrol and his Tesco meal deals. But I remembered: dont argue.
Youre absolutely right, Janet, I replied meekly. And you too, James. I focus far too much on my career. Curtainsafter allare the face of a woman.
Exactly! my mother-in-law beamed. Getting wiser by the minute.
Thats why, I continued, Ive decided to sack the cleaner.
A hush. Janet stopped mid-chew.
What cleaner? James frowned.
The lovely lady who comes twice a week and keeps the place going while were at work. You wanted us to save, to fit your image of a responsible head of household. And Mum says homeliness should be crafted by a wifes own hands. I agree. Ill let her go. Ill do all the cleaning. On weekends.
And during the week? James ventured nervously.
Well, darling, during the week well simply embrace the natural order of entropy. You wouldnt want me exhausted after work, would you?
The following fortnight became purgatory for James. Id get home, smile, and curl up with a book. Dishes stacked up. Dustpreviously banished by the cleaning fairynow lay thick over every surface like London fog after Guy Fawkes Night. Jamess shirts, once crisply pressed, dangled limply, creased and forlorn.
Emily, Ive got no clean shirts! he wailed one Tuesday morning.
I know, darling. But yesterday I picked out curtain fabricsjust like Mum suggested. No energy left for ironing. But youre managementwhy not delegate the ironing to yourself?
James took up the iron, burnt his finger, burned a hole in his sleeve, and muttered colourful language whilst pulling on an old jumper. He looked like a man whod challenged the system only to find it was built like a tank.
The climax of this tragicomedy came when James decided to host a business dinner at home. The real boss, Mr. Richard Lyons, whose job James was keeping warm, was coming, as were a couple of important colleagues.
Emily, this is my big moment, my husband fretted, dashing round the kitchen. We need to show them that Ive got a supportive home. Head of the household and all that. So, dinner should be impressive, but British. None of your sushi or carpaccio. Men want proper meat. And, please, dont get involved in the mens conversation. Just bring the food, smile, and keep quiet. Nobody cares for your opinion on logistics. Understood?
Understood, I said meekly. Traditional, plentiful, and quiet.
And, I dont know, wear something feminine.
As you wish.
That evening, I prepared carefully. I donned a floral housecoat with frillsJanets present to me, saved specially for fancy-dress emergencies. My hair was arranged somewhere between a nest and the Tower of Babel.
For dinner, I served jellied eel (from the Sainsburys deli, wobbling exactly like James pre-boss arrival), piles of boiled potatoes, and a massive, fatty roasted pork leg that looked as if the pig died of cholesterol. No frills. No napkin rings. Traditional, exactly as requested.
The guests arrived. Mr. Lyons, a refined man in glasses, glanced at my housecoat with a polite silence. James blushed so fiercely he almost matched the crimson wallpaper.
Please, sit down, dear guests! I trilled in the tone of a vicars wife at a parish fête.
Dinner commenced. James tried to steer the conversation, but tension hovered like a raincloud. He spouted some nonsense about optimising workflows via reallocating man-hours, using business jargon he plainly didnt understand.
James, forgive me, Mr. Lyons cut in gently. But if we redistribute the workload as you suggest, well lose the China contract. Emily, whats your take? Ive heard youre a leading analyst at Global Finance?
Moment of truth. James froze. His look thundered: Silence!
I beamed, gazing at my husband with the adoration of a Stepford wife.
Oh, Richard, bless you! I flapped my arm, bracelets jingling. What would I know? In our home, the brains belong to James. Hes the vector! Im merely the surroundings. My jobs to boil potatoes and listen obediently. Hes forbidden me from engaging with such complexitiesclaims itll bring on wrinkles.
Mr. Lyons nearly choked on his potato. The other chaps exchanged glances.
James turned pale. A bead of sweat meandered down his forehead.
Honestly, I pressed on with cheerful abandon, James says his decisions are on a million-pound level. I wouldnt dream of interfering with my humble spreadsheets. Oh, actually, Jamesdo tell Richard about your brilliant plan to swap out the software for what was it? Excel in the Cloud?
A showstopper. That Excel in the Cloud notion was the offices running joke, but at home, James had spun it as a pioneering breakthrough.
James? Mr. Lyons removed his specs, regarding my husband like a rare but useless beetle. Did you really propose that?
It was a, um, hypothesis James mumbled. He tried to save face, but it went sliding into the jellied eel. Emily misunderstood
Hows that? I feigned surprise. You spent ages explaining it last night. You said the big bosses were stuck in the past, and you were the visionary. I didnt argue. I just agreed!
James jerked, elbows catching the gravy boat, sending a red tide rolling ominously towards his trousers. He appeared as the captain of the Titanicpersonally having driven it straight into the iceberg.
The guests departed within twenty minutes, citing urgent matters. Mr. Lyons shook my hand and said,
Ms. Emily Robinson, if ever you tire of boiling potatoes, weve an opening for a strategy deputy in my department. I suspect youve a gift for putting things in their right place.
Once the door shut, James turned on me, trembling.
You you destroyed me! You did this deliberately! You made me look an utter fool!
Me? I asked, genuinely surprised, peeling off the absurd housecoat. James, I simply did exactly what you asked. I didnt argue. I kept quiet about my opinion. I played the background. If you looked a fool in that setting, perhaps the problem isnt the background, but the subject?
He opened his mouth to rant, but I raised my hand.
And now, darling, listen to me. And please, dont argue. My brain could do with a rest from your stupidity. Your bags are packed. Suitcase is in the hall. Your vector is now pointing toward your mothers in Croydon. Lovely curtains, and nobody to contradict you.
You wouldn’t dare Im your husband!
You were my husband while you were a partner. But once you started lording it, you forgot the throne stands on my property.
I watched him load his suitcase into a taxi out the window. I didnt feel sad. I felt light. The flat smelt of freedomwith a hint of roast pork, easily fixed by opening a window.
Remember, ladies: never argue with a man who fancies himself the cleverer one. Just step aside, and let reality hit him at full speed. The crash of a fallen crown is the sweetest sound a woman can hear.
