My husband told me, No more arguing. So I didnt argueI simply stopped agreeing. That was when everything began.
Ben breezed into the kitchen as though hed just single-handedly negotiated peace between two warring star systems, although all hed really done was nip out for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. He carried himself with a new, almost grandiose stiffness. Ever since hed been made acting deputy head of department a week ago, Ben no longer walkedhe paraded.
Emily, he began, surveying the roast trout Id prepared for supper with the air of a food critic, Im exhausted. Strategic decisions all day. So heres what Id like: at home, complete peace and total support. I cant stand more debate. I need you just to agree with me for a change. My brain needs a rest from all the daily battles.
I froze, fork poised in the air. It was bold. It was fresh. Considering we lived in my flat and my salary as a financial analyst meant we could ignore inflation altogether, his pronouncement was rather like a hamster demanding from a cat the right to its own bedroom.
Youd like me to be your echo then? I clarified, feeling that noble beast within me stirthis was the Emily my colleagues respected and my mother-in-law feared.
I want you to respect my authority, Ben declared dramatically, straightening the tie hed inexplicably put on for dinner. A man is a vector. A woman is the environment. Dont bend my vector, Emily.
I looked at him. In his eyes glinted that pure, unblemished confidence you only find in people about to cross the M25 at rush hour.
Of course, darling, I smiled, slicing a piece of fish. No arguments. Only agreement.
Thats when my favourite game began: Be careful what you wish for.
The first round came that Saturday. Ben was going off to a team-building eventwhat he called a summit of leaders, but which I called herding office drones into a field with a barbecue.
I found him fussing in the mirror over a pair of new trousers hed bought without my knowledge. They were a bold mustard shade and looked as though theyd been stitched for a kangaroo expecting a baby. The hips billowed with empty space, while the calves were pinched in a way best compared to sausages in cling film.
How do I look? he asked, puffing up his chest. Stylish? Authoritative?
Usually, Id gently hint that he looked more like a circus entertainer than any sort of boss. But a promise is a promise.
Absolutely, Ben, I nodded, eyes glued to my book. Very daring. Itll be immediately clear whos in charge. The colour and cut well, theyre nothing if not individual.
Ben beamed. You see! You used to say, take them off, you look ridiculous But youre learning, wife!
He left, strutting like a peacock. Returned later, fuming and beetroot red, wearing someone elses jeans. Evidently, during the all-important Tug of Financial Success contest, his mustard masterpiece had ripped open at the seams with a sound like a ships sail giving out in a storm.
Why didnt you tell me they were too tight where it matters? he fumed, hurling the remains into a corner.
But love, you said they showed off your status. I didnt argue. It seems your status was too much for the fabric.
The real drama began once the heavy artillery arrivedBens mother, Janet. Thrilled with my newfound obedience, Ben fancied he could now say anything.
We sat around the table. Janet, with her impossibly permed hair and prosecutorial stare, eyed up my sitting room with suspicion.
Emily, these curtains are so gloomy, she pronounced, chewing on my pie. And look at the dust on the rail! A good housewife never lets dust settleits too frightened to! Ben needs comfort, but this place feels like an office.
Ben, secure with the support of his rear guard, piped in: Shes right, Em. You work too hard, the house is a bit neglected. Maybe you should cut down your hours? Weve got enough with my promotion now.
It was hilarious. His managerial bonus didnt even cover his own petrol, let alone anything serious. But I rememberedI wasnt arguing.
Youre completely right, Janet, I replied peacefully. You too, Ben. My work-life balance is all wrong. The curtains really are the soul of a woman.
Janet whooped. Shes finally coming to her senses.
So, I concluded, Ive decided to let go of the cleaner.
The room fell silent. Janets chewing stopped mid-bite.
What cleaner? Ben frowned.
The woman who comes in twice a week and does the lot while were at work. You said we should economise, show you can manage a household. And Janets right, the wife should make a home with her own hands. So Ill do all the cleaning myself. On weekends.
And during the week? Ben asked cautiously.
During the week, darling, well embrace a bit of entropy. You wouldnt want me struggling after work, would you?
For the next fortnight, Ben lived in domestic purgatory. Id come home, smile, and settle in with a novel. The dishes mounted. The dust, once banished by my cleaning fairy, now blanketed surfaces like a fine English frost. Bens shirts, usually crisp, now hung about like forlorn, wrinkled ghosts.
Em, Ive got no clean shirts! he wailed on Tuesday morning.
I know, love. But I was busy curtain-hunting for Janet. Hours spent browsing cataloguesI couldnt face ironing. But youre a manager now, you can always delegate to yourself.
Ben snatched the iron, burned his finger, put a neat hole in the sleeve, and swore under his breath as he pulled on a jumper. He looked like a man defeated by the very bureaucracy he served.
The grand finale came when Ben decided to host a business dinner at ours. The mighty Simon Evansreal head of department, whose chair Ben currently warmedwas coming, along with two other bigwigs.
Emily, this is my chance, Ben fussed, pacing the kitchen. We need to show Ive got everything sorted. Family man, respected. Lay out a proper spread. Traditional! None of your sushi or fancy stuff. Men like meat. And above alldont get involved in the business talk. Just serve, smile, and stay quiet. No one cares about your opinion on logistics. Got it?
Yes, I replied gently. Plenty to eat. Traditions. Mute.
And put on something feminine.
If you insist, darling.
That evening, I prepared thoroughly. I donned a flowery housecoat with frillsa present from Janet, which Id stowed away for just such an occasion. My hair I piled up somewhere between a birds nest and the Tower of Babel.
The table was topped with shop-bought pork pie (wobbling as nervously as Ben himself), heaps of boiled potatoes, and a glistening pork leg so large it looked as if the pig had died of excessive comfort eating. No frills. No napkin rings. Traditional, as ordered.
Our guests turned up. Simon Evans, an urbane chap in glasses, eyed my outfit with raised brows but said nothing. Ben flushed so deeply he nearly vanished into the burgundy wallpaper.
Come along, dearies! I sang out, channelling a village fête hostess.
Dinner commenced. Ben desperately tried small talk, but the tension hung in the air like an unwelcome fog. He rambled something about optimising flows by reallocating man-hours, clearly not grasping half the jargon he used.
Ben, forgive me, Simon cut in gently. But if we did what you suggest, wed lose our contract with the Chinese. Emily, I hear youre the lead analyst at Global Financewhat do you think?
Instant truth moment. Ben froze. His stare could have curdled milk: Dont you dare
I beamed sweetly and looked worshipfully at my husband.
Oh Simon, goodness! However would I know? Ben runs all the clever thinking at home. Hes the vector! Im just the setting. I boil potatoes and listen to my husband. Hes forbidden me to talk businesssays it ruins a womans complexion.
Simon choked on his potato. The colleagues exchanged glances.
Ben went pale, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
Truly, I pressed on, getting into the swing of things, Ben says his decisions bring in millions. I couldnt possibly challenge that with my humble reports. Oh Ben, why dont you tell Simon about replacing the software with what did you call it? Cloud Excel?
This was the coup de grâce. The Excel idea was Bens most infamous flopmocked by everyone at work, though at home hed passed it off as genius.
Ben? Simon removed his glasses and looked at my husband as though regarding some rare but useless beetle. You actually suggested that?
Well… it was a hypothesis Ben mumbled, his face slumping lower toward the quivering pie. Emily must have got the wrong end of the stick
No, sweetheart! I feigned surprise. You spent ages explaining yesterday that the bosses are fossils and youre a visionary. I never arguedI agreed!
Ben jerked, knocking over the gravy boat, and a red oily lake began to advance on his trousers. He looked like the Titanics captain, personally responsible for sinking his own ship.
The guests departed within twenty minutes, citing urgent business. Simon shook my hand as he left, saying, Emily Davies, if you ever tire of boiling potatoes, theres a deputy strategy vacancy in my department. I suspect you have a rather fine talent for putting things in order.
Once the door closed, Ben turned to me, trembling.
You you destroyed me! You did that on purpose! You made me look ridiculous!
Me? I replied innocently, peeling off my absurd housecoat. Ben, I did exactly as you asked. No debating. I kept my opinions to myself. I set the scene for you. If you appeared the fool against that backdropperhaps it isnt the backdrop thats the problem?
He opened his mouth for a tirade, but I raised my hand.
Now, darling, listen to me. And please, dont argue. My brain needs a rest from your stupidity. Your things are packed. Your suitcases in the hall. Your vector is pointed straight at your mothers house in Dagenham. The curtains are spot on there, and no one will ever contradict you.
You wouldnt dare Im your husband!
You were a husband, Ben, when you were a partner. Once you decided you were lord and master, you forgot your throne stands on my property.
I watched as he loaded his suitcase into a cab. I didnt feel sad. I felt light. The flat smelled of freedom and, admittedly, a bit of roast porkbut thats easily fixed with an open window.
Remember, ladies: never argue with a man who fancies himself cleverer than you. Just step aside and let him collide full-speed with reality. The crash of his crown hitting the floorthats music to a womans ears.
