Olivia unlocked the door, dragged her heavy bag over the threshold, and paused to catch her breath. Immediately, a voice called from the living room:
“Liv, finally! What’ve you brought for dinner? And where’ve you been all day? I’m practically starving to death over here!”
Her already less-than-cheerful mood shrivelled into a prickly little ball of irritation. Of course—Dave had spent the day lounging like a sultan on the sofa, either glued to the telly or blasting away in some online shooter. The floor was still as grubby as when she’d left, and no doubt he hadn’t bothered to shove the laundry in the machine. But oh no, *she* was the one running late—neglecting her poor, grown-up man-child! And the money? Well, that probably just materialised in the nightstand by magic, didn’t it?
With the weary trudge of a plumber after a long shift, Olivia marched into the kitchen, unpacked the shopping, and—still in her coat—began throwing together dinner. She was starving too, after all! Her frustration took it out on the innocent pots and pans, clattering them about with unnecessary force.
Dave, comfortably sprawled on the sofa, endured the racket as long as he could—until it drowned out the telly entirely. With a theatrical sigh, he hauled himself up and went to investigate.
“Liv, what’s with all the noise? I can’t even hear the footie highlights!”
Olivia slammed a plate onto the table.
“Eat. And I’ll make as much noise as I like! Unless you’ve ever set foot in a *real* workshop, you’ve got no room to complain!”
Dave pouted but dutifully sat down and dug into the potatoes and meat. Olivia kept banging about, not even sitting to eat—just wolfing her food standing up. When her question caught him off guard, he nearly choked.
“While you were *busy* holding down the sofa, did you at least manage to put the washing on?”
He threw his hands up.
“Liv, seriously? Laundry’s *women’s* work! I’m a bloke—I don’t *do* washing machines! Last time I tried, you yelled at me for boiling synthetics or putting trainers on the delicates cycle!”
“You’re about as much of a *man* as I am the Queen of Sheba! And don’t give me that rubbish about never learning—you’ve had *years* to figure out a bloody washing machine!” Olivia snapped.
Dave’s pride took a proper hit this time.
“Liv, that’s just mean! Yeah, I get it—you’re mad I’m between jobs. But it’s temporary! I can’t just take *any* job slaving away for pennies! A man’s got to find his *calling*, you know? And you act like I’m some doormat! What’ve I ever done to deserve this?”
His sense of self-preservation was clearly on holiday tonight. Otherwise, he might’ve noticed the deadly quiet that followed. But no—ploughing on, oblivious, he polished off his meal, dumped his plate in the sink, and started pacing the kitchen like a prime minister delivering a speech.
“You’re supposed to be caring and gentle, Liv! Instead, you stomp around like a builder named Kevin! Can’t you at least *place* things down instead of slamming them? And a bit of respect wouldn’t go amiss—I *am* your husband, after all! Look at Sarah down the road—she treats her Mark like a king! They never argue, never raise their voices. *That’s* how it should be! Why do I have to teach you this?”
Halfway through his dramatic turn by the window, it finally dawned on him that something was off. Olivia was watching him like a cat eyeing a mouse—and in her right hand sat a frying pan. A *cast-iron* one. Easily five kilos. And Olivia? Strong as an ox and twice as determined.
“Sarah, eh? And *Mark*,” she hissed between her teeth.
Everyone in their building knew Sarah and Mark. The young British-Pakistani couple had been gifted their flat by family who’d pooled resources for their wedding. Both raised here, fluent, and modern—Sarah didn’t wear a hijab, but they still kept some traditions.
“*Sarah*,” Olivia repeated, tapping the pan against her palm. “You’re right, love—she *is* a good wife. But you’re forgetting someone. *Mark*.”
Dave blinked.
“See, *Davey*, Mark works construction in the morning, helps his brother at the shop in the afternoon, and covers weekends too. Doesn’t go on about *finding himself*—just gets on with it. And Sarah? She’s got rings, earrings, new dresses every other week—of *course* she fusses over him! He’s her rock! *Her* head doesn’t ache over bills—his does. So yeah, she spoils him. Because he *earns* it.”
Dave gaped.
“Now, let’s look at *us*. Who’s working two jobs and picking up weekend shifts? *Me*, Davey. So if we’re comparing, *I’m* Mark. And *you*?” She gave the pan a little swing. “*You’re Sarah*.”
Dave’s jaw actually dropped.
“You’re a *man* in the loo, the bedroom, and the pub—but everywhere else? *Sarah*. And you’re *bad* at it! Floor’s filthy, laundry’s moulding, dinner’s my job—and look at you! Wrinkled tee, saggy joggers, and a belly coming in nicely! How’s *that* supposed to charm me?”
She smacked the pan down.
“Right—wash up, clean the kitchen, shower, and present yourself in *decent* condition. Or I’ll *really* show you what a matriarchy looks like. *Sarah*, my foot!”
With that, she marched off to the bedroom.
***
Dave was so rattled he wordlessly tied on an apron and scrubbed every dish. Slow going, but he managed. Wiped the table, swept the floor, showered, even splashed on some aftershave. When he tiptoed into the bedroom, relief flooded him—Olivia was already asleep.
He inched onto the edge of the bed. Sleep wouldn’t come—too wound up. When it finally did, things got *worse*.
He dreamed he was in transparent harem pants, belly-dancing in the living room. Next to him? His mate Steve from flat 12B, and Vic from the fifth floor. Meanwhile, *Mark*—dressed like a normal person—sat in the corner playing *Dave’s* Xbox.
On the sofa, lounging in silk dressing gowns, were Steve’s wife Tanya, Vic’s missus Shirley, Sarah, and Olivia—queen of the couch. They critiqued the performance like judges on *Strictly*: “That one’s got a gut,” “Look at his hairy legs,” “He moves like a jelly on a plate!”
Dave, Steve, and Vic twirled and shimmied, perfectly groomed and stone-cold sober—but the women just *yawned*. Then Olivia raised a hand.
“Right, you lot—scurry off and do some *proper* work. Dave, dishes. Steve, hoover. Vic, ironing. Mark stays with *us*—he’s the only real man here.”
Dave woke up in a cold sweat, sprawled on the floor. 5 a.m. He staggered to the kitchen for water—no idea where the valerian drops were. Olivia always handled the medicine.
***
Next morning, Olivia was baffled. Her layabout husband had *left before her*, mumbling about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and dashed to work.
But the *real* shock came that evening.
First, the hallway was *clean*. Before she could process that miracle, Dave’s voice called from the kitchen:
“Liv! Finally! Kettle’s gone cold. Got a cake from Tesco—figured that’s safer than *my* cooking…”
He emerged—clean t-shirt, proper jeans. Olivia stared.
“Dave. Are you *ill*?”
“Nah! Just celebrating—got a job. Electrician. Mark hooked me up with his foreman. These new builds have wiring like spaghetti—needs fixing!”
***
Knitting needles clicked rhythmically as Olivia sat on a bench by the playground.
“Oi, Liv—your Max *overtook* my Musa again! And he’s younger!” Sarah grinned, rocking the pram where her and Mark’s second son, Zayn, slept.
Olivia smirked. “Takes after his dad—big lad, my Dave.”
Sarah nodded. “Mark says Dave got *promoted*? Foreman now?”
Olivia preened. “Course! Knows his stuff, my man.”
Her phone chimed. “Best dash—Dave’ll be home soon. Need to fry up some chops and reheat the soup.As the sun dipped below the rooftops, casting a golden glow over their little corner of London, Olivia couldn’t help but smile—because for the first time in ages, life felt just right.
