A wife should be at least ten years younger than her husband. Thats how nature intended itso the man always has a young mate nearby!
Claire barely managed not to burst into laughter. Of course, James had finally defended his doctorate last year and earned his PhD, but that didnt give her the right to twist his scientific passions into a joke. He spent his days studying all sorts of spiders, and, as anyone knows, many female arachnids dont mind a little romance with their suitors.
She let a giggle escape, then answered coolly:
When you proposed to me, did you realise we were only a year apart?
Exactly! Everythings turned upside downyou’re older than me!
By one year.
Does it matter? The fact is enough!
Claires patience thinned. Lately James had been spewing offhand remarks about her, mostly negative, sometimes thinly veiled as compliments that sounded more like insults on social media. Hed called her heavy, said her hair was thinning, mocked her fashion sense.
Im only talking about nature, James said, voice flat. It guarantees the best survival for any species. You keep turning that into petty quarrels. Read a book, will you?
The tension snapped. James constantly hinted that Claire didnt measure up academically. Once it had seemed a harmless tease, but after his dissertation, his tone shifted as if hed been swapped for a different man.
—
When they first met, James was a penniless PhD student living in a cramped dorm at Manchester University, scraping by on parttime jobs and dreaming of scientific glory. He was barely twentyfive. Their paths crossed in the city park where Claire walked her terrier, Scout. James claimed it was fate they lived on adjoining streets and happened to cross each other once a week, when he headed to the lab and she went for her walk. Claires shy smile caught his eye; he swallowed his nervousness and introduced himself. She blushed, then felt a surge of disbelief that a charming, earnest young man had actually noticed her.
At home Claires family ties were strained. Her mother preferred a bottle to her daughter, and her father wasnt much better. In practice, her grandmother raised her, an elderly woman often frail and ill. Claire had helped her since school, which meant she never pursued university; she only managed to finish a vocational college as a seamstress. When her grandmother felt a little better, Claire worked briefly at a textile factory before it shut down.
Later she cared for her grandmother fulltime as the old womans health declined. They survived on the modest state pension, renting out a spare room in the twobed flat that belonged to the grandmother. Claire herself lived in the tiny balcony flat.
So when James asked her out, and then proposed, Claire felt she was dreaming.
Im a spinster, no dowry, not exactly a beauty, she would mutter to herself.
Dont say that. Youre the most wonderful woman I know, James replied. Dont worry. Ill find a second job. Well get a proper flat and help your grandmother.
He took night shifts delivering parcels to supplement their income. They never stayed long in cheap rented rooms; the grandmother passed away, leaving the twobed flat to Claire. The young couple moved in, and with the rent gone, their finances improved. James kept his post at the university, while Claire took occasional sewing commissions at homefirst simple skirts and dresses, then more elaborate pieces.
A couple of years later a son, Ethan, was born. Claire devoted herself entirely to the baby, sewing only occasional simple items from home. Ethan grew into a bright boy; his school awarded him a gold medal, and he earned a place at a prestigious university in London. He dreamed of following his fathers scientific path, though he chose a different specialty. James swelled with pride, bragging to colleagues.
Look at that lad, soon a fellow of the Royal Society, they would say, smiling. Youd better think about your own thesis, James.
Too late for me, he waved off.
Better late than never! Youve gathered so much data; it would be a waste to let it disappear.
James finally thought, Why not? and began drafting his dissertation. Claire hovered like a hen, dusting his desk, making sure he didnt get distracted. He stopped doing choresno trash, no reheating mealsbecause Claire wouldnt let him touch the microwave while he was in the zone.
At first her vigilance seemed encouragement. James toiled until the early hours, yet progress was slow. Calculations had to be redone, tables reformatted. Frustration boiled over and he snapped at Claire.
Why do you keep serving the same pea soup? he demanded, slamming a bowl on the table. I cant eat the same thing every day!
The same? I made it just yesterday. Yesterday it was beef stew.
No, it was pea soup, James insisted.
Fine then the day before, Claire retorted, trying to stay calm. I try to vary the menu, you know that.
Try harder! he snarled.
She pursed her lips and retreated to another room.
James grew increasingly petulant, like a spoiled child. He complained about cold tea, about a shirt he thought shed pressed wrong.
Why is the tea lukewarm? he hissed one evening as she brought him a cup. It tastes like mud!
Heat it in the microwave, Claire shrugged.
The more insolent James became, the less Claire wanted to please him. The final blow came when she landed a large order: two classes of schoolgirls wanted graduation aprons. She wanted every stitch perfect, recalling her own school days in a white apron with ribbons. She washed, cooked, cleaned, then settled down to sew.
Just as she turned on her favourite cooking show, James shouted from the next room:
Can you turn it down? I cant concentrate!
She lowered the volume, yet he cried out again:
I said make it quieter!
She obeyed, but five minutes later James stormed back, snatched the remote and cranked the sound to almost nothing.
Your brain burns watching that nonsense! Only idiots watch that!
Its my favourite programme! Claire hissed, trying to grab the remote. Why did you mute it?
You can watch it without sound, he shrugged. The pictures are enough.
I want sound! she snapped.
The TV is screaming! You cant think! Read a book instead, youll be smarter!
Im exhausted, I just want to relax!
You dont even work. You only make soupread a book, then youll be less of a fool!
Claires lips trembled, hurt by his constant belittling. When James finally defended his doctorate, the rift widened: he declared Claire too intellectually inferior, and that became their biggest obstacle.
—
One afternoon Claire baked a cherry tart, but James was in a foul mood.
Whats this charcoal? he shouted, flinging a slice onto the plate. A black crust had indeed formed.
I overbaked it, she sighed. I was swamped with a commission for a coat.
You should focus on cooking, not burning cakes! Those orders dont bring money, they just distract you. Youd be better off reading.
Ive been stitching for half my life, she replied, bruised. It does bring in cash, even if its modest.
Who needs those shabby coats? No shops carry them.
I use good fabrics. The market price is the same, but the quality is better.
Who wants those sports jackets anyway? You think youre some designer?
Young people wear them now. My friends daughter suggested I start a line. Sportswear made from the fabrics I use is pricey in stores. I could break into that market.
Nothing else you can think of? James laughed, almost spitting. Look at you, a budding entrepreneur!
My friend says
Your friends are idiots, and youre no better, James sneered. Youd better be reading.
You know what? Ill sort it out myself. Im not a girl any more. If I want to, Ill open my own atelier.
I doubt youll succeed95percent chance youll fail.
Is that so? Claire snapped, fuming. Thanks for the confidence.
She turned to the ruined tart, then at James.
If you dont like it, dont eat it. Wash the dishes yourself. Im a fool, you say? Ill just read a book.
From that moment Claire set a fire under herself: she would prove she could make it on her own, first to herself, then to James. Her son was grown, she thought, and it was time to live for herself.
She saved every penny from her commissions for advertising. A friends teenage daughter offered to post the ads online. At first business was slow.
Still no customers? James teased. Claire remained silent.
Gradually, orders trickled inmums on maternity leave, people who liked comfortable clothing. The friends daughter took photographs, even modelling the jackets herself, and handled all the socialmedia work. Claire gave up a small cut of the profit, but she didnt mind.
Business picked up. One evening James came home to find only a plate of meatballs in the fridge.
No dinner? he muttered, entering the little workshop Claire had turned from a bedroom.
I only managed the meatballs. No sides. If you want, go buy some bread or scramble some eggs.
He glared at the sewing machine, then at the sleeve she was stitching.
You spend all your time on nonsense instead of feeding your husband.
I cooked the meatballs. If you helped sometimes, nothing would go wrong. I have more work than you do.
Why do I need a wife who sews tracksuits and talks like a designer?
Im tired of your condescending remarks, honestly. Stop bothering me. Im not getting in the way of your thesis, so dont get in the way of mine.
Comparing a thesis to rags
To each his own, Claire shrugged.
James never truly acknowledged her success until the universitys New Year gala. Claire arrived in a dress she had sewn herself; she became the nights centre of attention. Men offered compliments, women whispered envy, and younger lab technicians asked for the link to her shop.
Your wife is a real business lady, a colleague laughed, eyeing James, who stood sulking in a corner. Good, shell support us in our old age.
Look at her, a proper entrepreneur, James muttered, halfproud, halfannoyed.
After that night, James grew more tolerant of Claires sidehustle. When she hired a young seamstress to help, he finally admitted that his wife now ran a genuine business.
I doubted you, Claire said, smiling without malice.
Her triumph impressed James, even if he never voiced it. He stopped teasing her about being uneducated or a simpleton. He even began chopping potatoes for dinner when the fridge held only meatballs, no garnish. The dissertation no longer hung over his head like a cloud.
