Olivia unlocked the door, dragged the heavy shopping bags inside, and took a deep breath. Just then, a voice called from the living room:
“Liv, finally! What’ve you got for dinner? Blimey, where’ve you been? I’m starving over here!”
Her mood, already sour, twisted into an even nastier knot. Typical. Jack had spent the day lounging on the sofa like some lord, glued to the telly or playing some mindless shooter on his console. The floor was still filthy, and the laundry was probably still sitting in the basket. But of course, *she* was late—poor, neglected grown man! And the money? Must’ve magically appeared in the drawer, then!
Trudging like a plumber after a double shift, Olivia marched to the kitchen, unpacked the bags, and without even changing, threw together a rushed dinner—she was starving too! Her frustration took it out on the innocent pots and pans, clattering them louder than necessary.
Jack, sprawled on the sofa, listened to her furious banging until it drowned out the telly. With a groan, he hauled himself up and shuffled in to investigate.
“Liv, what’s with the racket? Sounds like a construction site in here! I can’t even hear the news!”
Olivia slammed a plate onto the table.
“Tuck in, then! I’ll bang what I like! And since when have *you* ever set foot on a construction site?”
Jack sulked but sat down, attacking the potatoes and beef. Olivia kept rattling about, refusing to sit, eating standing up. Her question caught him off guard—he’d been lost in his own thoughts.
“While you were busy being a sofa ornament, did you even *think* to put the laundry in?”
He threw his hands up.
“Liv, come off it! Laundry’s women’s work. I’m a bloke—I don’t get it, and I’m not *supposed* to! Last time I tried, you had a go at me for ruining your delicates or washing trainers with the towels!”
“A right proper bloke you are, like I’m the Queen of Sheba! And of course, in all your years, you’ve never once *bothered* to learn how a washing machine works!” Olivia snapped.
Jack was properly offended now.
“Liv, that’s out of order! You’re pushing it! I know you’re cheesed off I’m between jobs, but it’s temporary! I can’t just take *any* rubbish job slaving like a mule for pennies. A man’s got to find his proper calling—it doesn’t happen overnight! And you treat me like dirt! What for?”
His survival instincts were clearly off that evening. Otherwise, he might’ve noticed the dangerous quiet that followed. But no—he ploughed on.
“You’re a woman, Liv! You’re supposed to be soft and caring! Instead, you’re yelling and clattering about like a builder on a bender! Can’t you at least walk softly and put things down gently?”
Olivia let out a sharp huff through her teeth, but Jack’s self-preservation was still fast asleep—possibly snoring. He finished his meal, dumped his plate in the sink, and started pacing the kitchen like Churchill in wartime.
“And another thing—you could show me a bit of respect! I’m your husband, for crying out loud! Look at Emily next door—waits on her Tom hand and foot! They never argue, never raise their voices. *That’s* how it’s done. Why do I have to teach you basics?”
He pivoted by the window—only then noticing the danger. Olivia was narrowing her eyes like a cat eyeing a mouse, and in her right hand rested the handle of a cast-iron skillet. Five kilos of solid wrath. And Olivia? Strong, tall—she handled it like a pro.
“Emily, eh? With Tom,” she hissed through her teeth.
Everyone knew Emily and Tom. The young British couple had been gifted their flat by family—pooled savings from cousins twice removed. Both had grown up proper English, spoke like it, lived like it. Traditional, but not over the top.
“Emily,” Olivia repeated, and Jack froze mid-step. “You’re right, love. She *is* a good wife. But you forgot something. Or rather—*someone*. Tom.”
Jack blinked.
“See, *darling*, Tom’s up at dawn—building, then unloading stock at his brother’s shop, even working weekends behind the counter. Doesn’t spend his days ‘finding himself’—does it *after* work. And Emily? Always flashing some new ring, earrings, dresses. Course she dotes on him—she’s got a proper man! Doesn’t worry about bills, does she? *He* does. So yeah, she can fuss over him—she’s got the time!”
Jack gaped, lost. Olivia tapped the skillet against her palm.
“Now look at *us*. Who’s working two jobs, picking up extra shifts? *Me*, love. And who’s at home? *You*. So if we’re comparing—*I’m* Tom. And you, Jacky-boy? You’re Emily.”
His jaw dropped. That logic hit like a lorry. And Olivia wasn’t done.
“So *you* don’t get to lecture *me* about being Emily! You’re the man in name only—bedroom, pub, and loo. The rest? Emily. And a *rubbish* one at that! Floors dirty, laundry piled up, dinner not started—and look at you! Wrinkled shirt, saggy joggers, and a belly coming in! How’s *that* meant to charm me?”
Jack stood there, slack-jawed. Olivia slammed the skillet down.
“Right. Dishes. Now. Then clean this kitchen, shower, and present yourself *properly* in the bedroom. Or I’ll organise a matriarchy quicker than you can blink. *Emily*, my foot!” She marched off, boots thudding.
***
Jack was so terrified, he wordlessly tied on an apron and attacked the dishes. Slow going—inexperience—but he scrubbed, wiped, swept. Even splashed on aftershave. Tiptoed into the bedroom—thank God, Olivia was already asleep.
He edged onto the far side of the bed. Took ages to sleep—too wound up. And when he did? Worse.
Dreamt he was in sheer harem pants, belly-dancing in the lounge. Not alone—Steve from number 12 and Vic from upstairs were at it too. Only Tom, dressed normally, sat in the corner playing *Call of Duty* on Jack’s console.
On the sofa, in silky dressing gowns, sat Tina (Steve’s missus), Vicky (Vic’s), Emily, and Olivia—queen of the lot. They critiqued the performance like judges on *Strictly*: “That one’s got a gut,” “Look at those hairy legs,” “Might as well be jelly dancing!”
And he, Steve, Vic—twirling, shimmying, batting eyelashes. Hair tidy, nails clean, stone-cold sober. Still not good enough!
Then Olivia waved a regal hand. “Off you pop, you useless lot. You—dishes. You—hoover. You—ironing. Tom stays. *He’s* the only proper man here.”
Jack woke up on the floor—fallen out of bed in terror. 5 AM. Staggered to the kitchen for water—no idea where the valerian was. Olivia always handled the medicine.
***
Morning brought surprises. Her layabout husband bolted out before her, mumbling about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and left for work.
But the real shock came that evening.
First—spotless hallway floors. Before she could wonder what apocalyptic event caused *that*, Jack called from the kitchen:
“Liv! Kettle’s going cold. Got a cake—figured better not risk my cooking…”
He popped out—clean shirt, proper jeans. Olivia stared.
“Jack. You ill?”
“Right as rain! Celebrating—got a job. Electrician. Tom introduced me to his foreman. Loads of new builds with dodgy wiring—absolute mess!”
***
Knitting needles clicked rhythmically. Olivia sat on a bench by the playground, scarf-in-progress in hand.
“Oi, Liv—your Max caught up to my Tommy again! And he’s younger!” Emily grinned, rocking little Mo’s pram. Olivia smirked, flipping her knitting.
“Well, my Jack’s a strapping bloke—takes after his dad!”
Four-year-old Tommy and three-year-old Max tore around the playground. Emily nodded eagerly.
“True that! Good man you’ve got—hold onto him. Tom says Jack got promoted?”
Olivia preened. “Works hard, doesn’t he? Who else’d they pick?”
Her phone buzzed. She packed up.
“Em, gotta dash. Jack’ll be home soon—need to fry up some chops and heat the stew. Starving after work, isn’t he?Jack whistled as he parked the car, already tasting Olivia’s stew and wondering if little Max had finished the puzzle they’d started last night.
