Marianne absently stirred the beef stew simmering on the Aga. Outside the kitchen window, Mr. Geoffrey Pritchard from number seven was meticulously arranging compost around his tomato plants, a bouquet of crimson roses resting on the garden bench nearby.
“Good grief, Marianne, look at him!” whispered Mrs. Ethel Crabbe from next door, nodding towards Geoffrey’s impeccable garden. “Now *that’s* what I call a husband! Buys Vera blooms every week like clockwork, washed the Volvo before dawn to drive her to the station. Where’s your Nigel?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Ethel,” sighed Marianne, not turning from the stove. “We all manage things our own way.”
“Manage? Look closely! Garden straight out of Chelsea Flower Show, adores his wife, ferries the grandkids about every weekend on their scooters. And Vera looks radiant! Saw her at Waitrose Tuesday, she banged on for half an hour about how Geoffrey gives her foot masshes in the evenings.”
Marianne winced. Geoffrey Pritchard truly was the paragon. All the neighbourhood wives murmured about it; it was practically Tesco gossip fodder. He’d be out first thing to clear a path through the snowdrifts, not just his own drive but Mr. Higgins’ next door too. He’d mend fences, lend out his power drill, never raised his voice to Vera above the rustle of his newspaper.
“And why is that my business?” Marianne turned the Aga off, facing Ethel. “My Nigel is a good man.”
Ethel scoffed. “Good! Blasted heavy metal at eleven last night, woke little Chloe, she wailed till dawn. Day before that, his Land Rover blocked the entire lane, barely left room for Bert Higgins’ mobility scooter.”
“Just had a bad day, that’s all,” Marianne defended half-heartedly, knowing the excuse wore thinner than old varnish.
Nigel wasn’t perfect. He forgot their anniversary, left cereal bowls lurking in the sink for days, splashed half his wages on new fishing tackle. But Marianne loved him. Loved his clumsy attempts at scrambled eggs when she was poorly. Loved his gentle snuffling in his sleep. Loved, oddly, the socks perpetually orbiting the bedroom floor like wayward satellites.
After Ethel left, Marianne went to water the runner beans. Over the privet hedge floated the gentle murmur of Geoffrey and Vera.
“Vera, darling, let me fetch you a stool? Kneeling isn’t good for your back.”
“No need, Geoffrey love, just checking these strawberries.”
“Right-o, I’ll pop the kettle on. Earl Grey or PG Tips? Jammy Dodger?”
“PG with a spoonful of your blackberry jam, pet.”
Marianne couldn’t help contrasting it with her own morning exchange.
“Nigel! Breakfast!”
“‘S’coming!” echoed from the bathroom, followed by, “Coffee made?”
“Instant in the blue tin. Find it yourself.”
“Where’s it blinking hiding…”
Nigel left for work, gulping only tea, too lazy to hunt for the coffee. Marianne spent the day mentally kicking herself for not putting a mug out.
That evening, tucking in her visiting granddaughter Poppy, Marianne heard a sigh.
“What’s up, poppet?”
“Granny, why does Mr. Pritchard from number seven buy Mrs. Pritchard flowers every day? Grandpa Nigel never buys you flowers.”
Marianne perched on the bed, straightening Poppy’s duvet. “Would you like him to?”
“Yes! You’re lovely. You read me stories and make flapjacks. Why doesn’t he?”
Truth from small mouths cuts deep. Marianne kissed Poppy’s forehead. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”
Next day at Sainsbury’s, Marianne studied Vera Pritchard. She *did* look blissful. Immaculate in a floral tea dress, hair perfectly coiffed.
“Marianne! Lovely day! How’s things?” Vera smiled, selecting courgettes.
“Not bad. You?”
“Marvellous! Geoffrey decided to attempt shepherd’s pie tonight! Said, ‘Wife, give yourself a night off!’ Can you credit it?” Vera laughed. “Mind you, I’ll be hovering. Might confuse the Oxo cubes for Battenberg.”
“Lucky you,” Marianne said, a twinge of envy sharp in her voice.
“Lucky,” Vera agreed, her expression shifting thoughtfully. “How’s Nigel? Heard he bought a new float?”
“He did. Off to the River Wye most weekends now.”
Walking home, Marianne imagined Nigel offering to cook or just suggesting a walk. Home offered the usual tableau: Nigel slouched before an Antiques Roadshow repeat, pint glass in hand, grubby work boots discarded on the Persian rug (inherited, velvety, perpetually muddy), a plate from his beans on toast languishing in the sink.
“Marianne, what’s for tea?”
“Reheated stew. Bit of cold ham?”
“Sound. Starving I am. Ravenous.”
As Marianne sorted tea, her mind drifted to Geoffrey Pritchard. Probably polishing cutlery for Vera right now, asking about her WI meeting. Over their cold ham, Nigel grumbled about his dreadful boss, waxed lyrical about bream, planned his Saturday escape. Marianne nodded absently until she blurted out, “Nigel? What about the pictures tomorrow? Or just a stroll round the village green?”
He looked startled. “Pictures? What’s on? Any John Wayne marathons?”
“Dunno. Just… together time?”
“Ah, mate, I’m fishing the Wye with Pete Saturday. He’s got a hot spot for perch. Next time?”
“Next time” felt perpetually postponed. Nigel always had more pressing business.
One evening, gossiping on the bench outside her terraced house with Ethel and Gladys from number three, the Pritchards came up as usual.
“Seen? Geoffrey bought Vera a new washing machine!” Ethel declared. “One of those fancy American ones with God knows how many settings. And double-glazing! Said he wanted his Vera cozy.”
“Proper jealous,” sighed Gladys. “My Arthur’s promised to fix the leak over the airing cupboard since Easter. Still polishing the bucket collection.”
“Remember their silver wedding bash last month?” chimed in another neighbour. “Geoffrey booked the Red Lion function room! Fifty guests! Vera looked like royalty, new frock from John Lewis, hair done proper posh. And his speech! Had half the WI dabbing their eyes.”
Marianne stayed quiet, recalling her last birthday. Nigel presented her with a set of Pyrex dishes. “Practical gift, love,” he’d said. No candlelit dinner, no Red Lion. He’d watched a rugby match with mates while she washed the new dishes.
“D’you reckon,” Ethel mused, “we could retrain ours? Got the blueprint right there – Geoffrey Pritchard! Proves it can be done!”
“Retrain at our age?” Gladys snorted. “Set in their ways like concrete.”
But the seed was planted. What if Marianne tried? What if she told Nigel she craved a bit of attention?
That night, she steeled her nerves. “Nigel? Can we chat?”
“‘Course,” he paused his mobile game. “Out of milk?”
“No. It’s just… sometimes I wish you were a bit more thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?” He frowned.
“Well. Flowers once in a blue moon. Lend a hand. Maybe go out together. Like… proper couples do.”
“Marianne! We’re fine as we are! What’s to change?” He looked genuinely baffled. “I’m home, aren’
Geoff slid a steaming cuppa beside her knitting without a word, and that – the comfortable silence broken only by the telly murmuring about EastEnders drama – felt infinitely warmer than Harry Harrington’s perfectly timed roses ever could.
The Perfect Husband: Just Not for Me
