James, were out of cooking oil, and theres just a scoop of washing powder left, Emily said from the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. We ought to pop to the shops. The lists getting long.
James barely flinched, eyes rooted to the telly where a tense football match played out. He gave an annoyed shrug.
Em, you know how it is, he muttered, not looking her way. Works dead slow again. My manager said no bonuses this monthfat chance. I gave you my last £20 the day before yesterday. Stretch it out.
Emily sighed deeply. Shed heard stretch it so often these last six months it was like the family budget was made of elastic. She trudged back to the kitchen, staring bleakly into the fridgejust a lonely jar of pickled onions and the remnants of last nights watery soup. The soup was little more than boiled chicken bones; they hadnt afforded decent meat in weeks.
Emily worked as the senior nurse at the town health centre. The salary was steady but modest. Years ago, when James brought home proper money, life had been all rightfor holidays in Cornwall, new coats when winter came, a fridge packed with food. But then, or so James said, work began struggling. Wages slashed, bonuses gone, and what he handed over wouldnt cover the electric, let alone fuel for his battered Vauxhall.
Everything else fell to Emily. She picked up extra shifts, worked weekendsbarely scraping by. Meanwhile, James came home exhausted, flopped on the sofa, moaning about how unfair the world is and expecting a hot three-course meal every night.
Stretch it, Emily whispered at the empty butter dish. Any further, and itll snap.
The next day, after her shift, Emily stopped at Sainsburys. She stared, yearning, at thick cuts of lamb before settling on a tray of chicken liverscheap and filling if you stewed them long enough with some cream. She emptied her purse at the till; three days till payday, and not a penny left.
That night, as the livers simmered, Emily dusted the hallway. James was already out cold, full from dinner and two cans of beer hed claimed hed bought with some leftover change.
Hanging up his jacket, she felt something in the inside pocket. She knew poking about was a habit, but it was second nature before putting anything in the wash. Her fingers found a folded slip of paper.
A receipt. Not from Tesco, but from a cash pointdated that very evening at 6:45pm. As she unfolded it, Emily felt the blood drain from her face.
Balance: £3,450.
She blinked. Maybe shed misread the decimal? Nothe numbers were clear. Above it, in bold, Payroll deposit: £780.
Seven hundred and eighty pounds. And hed brought home just twenty. Hed told her that was all.
Emily sat down heavily on the ottoman in the hallway, head spinning. She remembered trudging to work in battered, leaky boots a month back because James had said, Em, just bear with it; were skint. All the times shed soothed toothache with paracetamol, never seeing the dentist, and all the skimping on groceries.
Bitterness burned in her chest, sharp as vinegar. Worse than betrayal. While she saved pennies on everythingtea bags, sanitary towelshe was quietly piling up savings. For what? A new car? Another woman? Or just pure, selfish greed?
She carefully slipped the receipt back in his jacket. Every instinct said to march to their bedroom and shove it in his face, to scream, to smash plates, to throw him out for good. But she held herself back. Raging would only bring lies and excuses about some surprise or the banks made a mistake.
No. Shed do this differently.
She turned off the stove. Though the chicken livers smelled inviting, her appetite had vanished. She packed them in a food tub and tucked it in her workbag, not in the fridge.
If theres no money, then theres no money, she thought, almost enjoying it.
Emily left early for work the next morning, not bothering to make James breakfast. She left a note: Sorryno food left, no money. Have some water.
All day at work, she moved on autopilot, plotting. For lunch, she treated herself to a proper meala steak pie and mash with apple crumbleeating slowly, savouring it.
She came home that night light-handed: no shopping bags, nothing heavy.
James met her at the door, looking peevish.
Em, whereve you been? Im starving. Theres nothing in the fridgeno eggs, even! Did you go to the shop?
Emily calmly hung up her coat.
No, I didnt.
He trailed after her, incredulous. What do you mean, you didnt? Whats for dinner?
Nothing, she replied, sitting with a book. Told you two days agotheres no money. I had a cup of weak tea for lunch; Im making do. Youll have to do the same. Tough times, after all.
James gaped.
Are you joking? Wheres the soup, the pie? You always come up with something!
Im out of ideas, love. Cant make shepherds pie from thin air. I spent my last change on gas and the water bill. Thats it.
He stood, mouth opening and closing, as if expecting Emily to conjure up a miracle, borrow from a friend or find a secret tin hidden away in a cupboard.
Youve got to be kidding he finally managed. So what am I supposed to do?
Have a glass of water. Or go to bed earlyharder to feel hungry when youre asleep.
He stormed off, banging doors, rattling cupboards, clattering the cereal boxes. She heard the rattle of dried pasta and, soon after, the sad whiff of plain boiled spaghetti. Emily couldnt help but smirk. Pasta without butter or sausagesperfect fare for a man with thousands socked away.
The same happened the next day. At lunch, Emily chose roast beef and potatoes, with a slice of chocolate cake and a takeaway coffee. She returned home satiated, content.
That night, James met her at the door, angry now.
This isnt funny, Emily! Ive eaten plain pasta for days! What are you playing at? Are you the lady of the house, or what?
Im your wife, James, not a magician, she replied crisply. I cant shop without cash. You want food? Hand me moneyIll cook bangers and mash, roast chicken, shepherds pie. Your move.
I told youIve got none! My wages are late! He wouldnt meet her eye.
Well, so are mine evidently. Looks like were on a diet. Good for the waistline.
That evening, James made a dramatic show of going out. He returned an hour later, stinking of kebab, but bringing nothing home. Emily noted the money appeared instantly for a takeaway.
A week drifted by in this icy stalemate. Emily stopped cooking and washing up after James (he left his mucky plates, but she refused to touch them), stopped washing his clothes.
Theres no powder, she told him when he complained about dirty shirts. Its all goneno money to buy any.
James tried guilt, then anger.
Youve gone hard, you have! he shouted that Friday. I work myself to the bone, and come home to a pigsty! Nothing to eat, creased shirts! Whats the point of a wife like you?
And whats the point of a husband, Emily replied, cool as glass, who cant look after his own family with something as basic as bread and soap powder? I work too, you knowprobably harder than you. But somehow, its only me who worries about dinner and washing up.
Because youre the woman! Its your job!
My job is to care and love when Im cared for in return. One-way streets are closed now.
On Saturday morning, she woke to the smell of frying bacon and eggs. James was at the kitchen table, tucking into a fry-upthick bacon, tomatoes, proper farmhouse bread, hot coffee.
Seeing Emily, he coughed but quickly composed himself.
Oh, youre up. Pull up a chair, if you want. I found some change in my old coat, popped to the shop.
She sat, eyeing the posh cheddar, free-range eggs, union sausagesfound some loose change, indeed.
No thanks, Im not hungry, Emily lied, waiting to see how far hed go. Eat upyoull need your strength.
James avoided her gaze, chewing more slowly.
Look, Em, he began as he finished his toast, lets drop the nonsense. I borrowed a fiver from Dave. Take itgo get a proper food shop in, make a stew or something. We cant live like this.
He dropped a crisp £5 note on the table. Emily glanced at the money, then at her husband.
Borrowed off Dave? she echoed, eyebrows up. How generous of him. And how will you pay him back, with no wage?
Ill sort it, all right? Why do you care? Just get the food.
She turned the note in her hand.
Fine. Ill go shopping. But Ill just buy what I need. You can eat at Daves if hes that flush.
Whats that supposed to mean? James leapt up, tipping his chair. That fivers for both of us! Its family money!
For the family? Emily rose as well, voice taut as wire. When you got £780 three days ago, whose money was that? And the £3,450 on your bank statementwhose is it? Some sort of charity fund for hard-up husbands?
James froze. His face blanched, then bloomed red. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling for words.
You youve been going through my pockets? he finally spat. Spying on me?
Dont shift the blame. I found the receipt by accident cleaning your coat. You know the worst bit? Not that youre hiding moneybut letting me scrape along, patching my shoes and skipping lunch so you can save up playing at poverty and still eat my dinners! Arent you ashamed?
I was saving! he roared, slamming the table. Saving up for a carnot just any old thing, something decent! I wanted to surprise you! But you all you care about is money!
Oh, a surprise? Emily laughed, bitter. A real surprise is a car bought with shared savings. Or agreeing together to cut back. What youve done is just mean. You lived off me while your own money sat untouched. Leeching, James.
What would you know? James bellowed. Im a blokeI need a proper motor, not some clapped-out banger! And you with your chicken offcuts so what if we tightened up for a month? You didnt die!
No, Emily said quietly. But something inside me did. My respect for you. My trust, too.
She laid the fiver on the table.
Take your money. Buy yourself a ticket.
A ticket where? He looked lost.
To your future. Or your mothers. Or a bedsit. I dont care. Im done living with a man who thinks Im a mug and a maid.
Youre kicking me out? Over money? For all the world, he looked genuinely confused.
Its not the money, James. Its your attitude. Pack your bags.
James didnt leave right away. There was a long, draining row. He shouted and pleaded, promised her a new coat (with the savings!), then shouted again. Emily didnt budge. For the first time, she saw himnot as her husband, but as a stingy, petulant stranger.
By evening, hed packed.
Youll regret this! he spat at the door. Wholl want you at forty-five, all alone with your cats? Ill find a real woman who treats a bloke properly!
Good luck, Emily replied, closing the door.
The lock clicked. She slid down to the hallway floor, spent. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. Only a vast, ringing emptiness.
She wandered to the kitchen. The luxury bacon James had bought sat orphaned. Emily dumped it in the bin, then peeked in the fridgebare save for her forgotten tub of chicken livers.
No matter, she said aloud. At least now I know exactly where my moneys going.
A month passed.
Emily strolled home from work, the air fragrant with newly blooming lilac, May fresh and bright. She stopped at Waitrose, took her time. In her basket: a tin of caviar on offer, a wedge of blue cheese, a bottle of crisp white wine, ripe tomatoes, a fat salmon fillet.
At the till she paid by cardthere was always enough now. Living alone, shed learned, was much cheaper. The bills were lower; she bought just for herself. No more cash wasted on beer, cigarettes, just twenty quid for petrol, or can you cover my MOT?
At home, she put on her favourite music, cooked, poured a glass of wine. As the sun set, her phone buzzed: a message from James.
Hi Em. How are you? Can we meet? I realised I was wrong. That stupid car… I didnt even buy it. The moneys still there. Lets start again? I miss you.
Emily stared at the screen, sipped her chilled wine. She remembered his red face, the shouting about bloody chicken livers. Remembered begging for spare change.
She deleted the message and blocked the number.
I missed myself, too, she told her reflection in the night-dark window. And Im not giving that up again.
The next day, she bought herself new bootssoftest Italian leather, expensive, worth every pennyand a getaway to a Lake District spa. The savings from her freed up salary covered the lot.
Life after a break-up, she discovered, doesnt end. It just becomes richer. And much, much more honest.
