So wheres she going to run off to, eh? You see, Tom, a woman shes like a rented car. As long as you fill the tank and keep up the MOT, shell take you wherever you want. Now my Emily, I bought her outright, lock, stock and barrel, twelve years ago. I pay, so I pick the tune. Its easy, you know. No backchat, no headaches. Absolutely smooth, that one is.
Sams voice boomed out across the back garden, a skewer in his hand, fat sizzling and dripping onto the frantic coals. He was just as certain of all this as he was that Monday would come tomorrow. Tom, his old uni mate, just grunted now and then. Emily stood by the open kitchen window, a knife in her hand, chopping tomatoes for salad. Juice ran down her arm. In her ears echoed that smug, I pay, so I pick the tune.
Twelve years. For twelve years, shed been more than just a wife she was his shadow, his rough draft, his safety net. Sam fancied himself a genius at the law, the star of the local firm. Hed win tough cases, come home with thick envelopes of notes, and toss them onto the table like a conquering hero.
When Sam fell asleep, dead tired, Emily would quietly open his briefcase and pull out the paperwork hed been battling with. Shed correct glaring mistakes, rewrite his clumsy wording, dig out updated legislation hed missed in his arrogance. And then, come morning, shed casually mention, Sam, I glanced at that file. Maybe cite the housing code? I left a tab for you.
Hed brush her off out of habit. There you go again with your womanly advice. Fine, Ill have a look.
By evening, hed be home a hero, and never, not once in all those years, had he said, Thank you, Em, Id have wrecked that without you. He honestly believed those flashes of brilliance were all his. And as for Emily? She was just at home making shepherds pie.
That evening at the cottage, she didnt start a row, storm off to the porch, or upend the barbecue. She just finished the salad, dolloped on some sour cream, and set it out for the table. You pick the tune, do you? she thought as she watched him chew at his meat, not even tasting it. All right then lets have some silence.
Monday morning, Sam was the usual whirlwind, flying around the flat hunting for a tie.
Em, wheres my lucky blue one? Ive got a meeting with a developer.
In the wardrobe. Second shelf, she called from the bathroom.
Her voice was steady, almost indifferent, a little too calm. Once he slammed the door behind him, Emily didnt finish her cup of tea or turn on the morning show. Instead, she pulled out an old notebook. Boris Palmers number, their old boss from the law firm, hadnt changed in twenty years.
Hello, Mr Palmer? Its Emily. Yes, Walker. Sams wife. No, he doesnt know, thats right. Im just calling to ask do you still need an extra hand in records? Or maybe someone whos good at untangling hopeless messes?
Silence on the line. Boris Palmer remembered Emily all right her top marks, her sharp thinking, her ability to see the wood for the trees. He was the only one, all those years ago, to say, Emily, being a stay-at-home is a waste of your brains.
Come in, he grunted. Ive got something no one else dares touch. You sort it, and Ill put you on staff.
That night, Sam got home in a grump. The developer was a nightmare, the deal stuck. As usual, he chucked his jacket on a chair in the hallway and called out, Em, got anything to eat? I could demolish a horse. And, oh, iron my white shirt for tomorrow, will you?
Silence. He walked into the kitchen. Nothing on the hob, no pans, no pots just a spotless surface. There was a note on the table: Dinners in the fridge, frozen pies. Im tired.
What the? Sam stared at the note as if it was written in Mandarin.
Just then, the lock clicked. Emily walked in, carrying a bundle of paperwork. She wore the smart suit Sam hadnt seen since their sons year six leavers do, and a proper pair of heels.
Whereve you been? he blurted, gobsmacked. Whats with the getup?
I was at work, Sam. She calmly kicked off her shoes and walked past him. At your firm, by the way. In records. Boris Palmers taken me as a junior assistant.
Sam cackled, a harsh, nervous laugh. You, work? Dont make me laugh. You havent lifted anything heavier than a ladle in twelve years. Youll be choking on dust down there in a week!
Well see.
She poured herself a glass of water.
So what, you expect me to live on pies now? I’m the one bringing home the money. I keep this family going, remember?
Well, now Im earning too. Not a lot yet, but enough for pies. And as for your shirt irons where its always been these last ten years.
That was the first real wake-up call. Sam figured Emily had hit some sort of midlife wobble hormones, whatever it was women went through. Shell play at office life for a week or two, then shell get fed up, he thought, chewing rubbery pastry. Shell see what real money feels like and turn sweet again.
But a week passed, and another. Her crisis didnt pass. The house changed. Gone was the invisible, finely tuned machine hed gotten used to. Socks stopped magically showing up in his drawer in pairs, piling up dirty in the bathroom instead. Dust hed never noticed before lay thick on the shelves. He had to iron shirts himself, and for the first time, Sam found out what a pain it was one crease here, a rumpled sleeve there.
But the worst was this: Emily wasnt his sounding board anymore. He used to come home and moan for an hour how everyone at work was mad, how the judge was clueless, how stingy the clients were. Shed listen, nod, make him a cuppa, and most of all, subtly drop hints the very tips hed pass off as his own at work. Now, when he tried for a chat:
Can you believe, that Grabowski punted my case out again? I told him
Emily didnt even look up from her laptop, surrounded by law books at the kitchen counter.
Sam, keep it down? Ive got notes to check for an old bankruptcy file. Its a real knot of worms.
Who even cares about your bankruptcy file? he snapped. Ive got a big deal on the line!
I do. I want to respect myself.
He fumed. He could feel the ground shifting. Without her evening consultations, Sam started making errors little, stupid ones, but they added up. Missed a deadline for a court application, mixed up names on a contract. The bosses were noticing. Boris Palmer would fix him with a look in meetings, then glance at Emily across the table and give a little approving nod.
Turned out Emily had sorted the backlog in records in three days flat. Dug out files everyone thought were lost. She got moved from the basement to the main office, right opposite the new trainee. Sam saw the back of her head every day straight and proud. Even her walk had changed: a solid tick of heels instead of the shuffling gait of the weary housewife.
The hammer dropped a month later. The firm landed a golden client: Mrs Ann Whitmore, owner of a chain of private clinics. Tough as nails, sharp as you like, and absolutely no patience for fools. She was in a lawsuit with a former business partner, who, she said, was trying to nick half her business with forged paperwork. The case landed in Sams lap his shot to redeem himself after two months of blundering.
Ill eat them alive, he boasted at home, slicing salami straight onto the table no chopping board in sight. Open and shut. Well call in an expert and drag in the witnesses.
Emily didnt say a word, just kept reading.
You hearing me? He nudged her shoulder. Im saying, its in the bag. Ill earn a bonus, buy you a fur coat. Maybe youll come back down to earth?
Emily slowly put down her book and fixed him with a long, unreadable stare.
I dont want a fur coat, Sam. I want you to stop strutting about like a peacock. Whitmore hates being pressured. Old school, she is. You cant just whack her with threats. You have to talk to her.
Oh, whatever. Armchair psychologist now.
On the big day, the atmosphere in the meeting room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Mrs Whitmore sat at the head of the table, a tiny, elderly woman with drilling eyes. Sam paced the floor, reeling off jargon, waving charts.
Well freeze their accounts. Well make them crawl.
Youre not listening, Whitmore said crisply. I dont want to ruin anyone. That man is my godson. Yes, hes at fault, but I dont want him behind bars. I just want my business back quietly, and him well away from my affairs. No court, no headlines. So what are you offering?
Sam was at a loss for words.
But, Mrs Whitmore, thats just not how it works. This is court show weakness and
Youre off the case, she said flatly. She stood and picked up her bag. Boris, Im disappointed. I thought you had professionals working here, not bulldozers.
Boris Palmer turned white losing her would be a financial disaster. Sams face went scarlet. At that moment, the door swung open. Emily came in, carrying a tray of tea. The secretary was off sick and junior staff had been roped into kitchen duty. She saw the scene: Whitmore heading for the door, panic on Sams face. Anyone else in Emilys shoes might have smirked, Ordered the tune, now dance to it. But Emily wasnt just anyone. She was a pro, one whod slept for twelve years and now was wide awake.
Mrs Whitmore.
Emilys voice, gentle but firm, stopped her at the door.
Sorry, Ive just brought your thyme tea, as you like it, she went on. Youre right about the godson. There was a similar case in 98 settled out of court with a confidentiality and shares as a gift. Saved both parties reputations.
Whitmore turned, eyes drilling into Emily.
And how do you know that? That case was sealed.
I did some digging in the archives.
She set the tray down, hands rock steady.
And, if I may, theres another angle here. The promissory notes, theyre invalid not because of faked signatures but a technicality missing a key formality. No need for criminal accusations. Your godson made a mistake, he keeps his freedom, you keep your clinic and the peace.”
A hush fell. Sam stared at his wife as if shed suddenly grown a second head. Did he know about that loophole? No hed barely looked at the paperwork, just charged into attack mode.
Whitmore came back to the table and sat.
Thyme tea, you said? she smiled for the first time, her lined face softening. Pour me a cup, dear, and tell me more about this formality. And you she jerked her head at Sam, eyes fixed elsewhere sit down and learn something.
For two hours, Emily ran the meeting. Sam just sat, fiddling with his pen, listening to his so-called easy wife unfold a fiendishly complicated case in plain English. She didnt bluster. She listened. She offered choices.
When Whitmore signed the ongoing contract, Boris Palmer shook Emilys hand.
Mrs Walker, he said formally. See me in my office tomorrow. We need to talk about a promotion. Enough hiding you away in records.
Sam and Emily drove home in silence. The radio played some cheesy pop, usually Sam would switch to the news, but right now he was afraid to move. His cosy world, where he was king and his wife was just another home comfort, had crumbled. And standing in the ruins was a woman he barely recognised strong, smart, beautiful. The scariest thing of all: shed always been like this. Hed just never noticed.
They came home to darkness and quiet their son wasnt back from school. Sam kicked off his shoes, wandered to the kitchen and sat at the empty table. Emily changed into her trackies, wiped away her makeup. Her face looked tired, but her eyes were alive, brighter than theyd been in years. She opened the fridge, took out the eggs, silently put the pan on the hob.
Em Sams voice wobbled. She didnt turn around, just cracked an egg on the side of the pan.
Ill do it.
He jumped up, awkwardly nudging her aside, trying to grab the spatula.
Leave it, let me. Youre shattered.
Emily let go and went to the table, watching as he fumbled with the eggs, the yolks running out, hissing softly as he muttered at the pan. He put the plate in front of her. A tragic, burnt, misshapen omelette. A real masterpiece.
Im sorry, he mumbled, eyes down.
Emily picked up her fork. Looks edible to me.
I realised today he said, voice thick, Youve been saving me not just today, but for years. Youd fix my files, sort my mess, and I just took it for granted. I got cocky.
He looked up at her, fear flickering behind his eyes. The fear she might stand up and leave, now she could. She had work, a boss who respected her, her own money. She didnt need him anymore.
Im not leaving, Sam, she answered the question he hadnt quite asked. Not yet, anyway. Theres more to split than just the house. Twenty years, you know. But the rules are changing.
How? he blurted. What do I need to do?
Respect me.
She bit off a chunk of bread.
Just respect me. Im not a prop, Im a person. Im your partner here, at home, and at work. We split things evenly. Not I helped the wife I did my bit, full stop. Got it?
Got it, he nodded.
And he meant it.
So, am I eating? Sam grinned, grabbing a fork.
It was the saltiest, driest omelette either of them had ever tasted, but it was the best thing Sam had put in his mouth in a long, long time. Because this dinner wasnt a service. It was a meal among equals.
