Ann, come on now, really Sarah studied her faded cotton dress with an air of someone examining a questionable relic at the British Museum. Do you honestly go out in that rag? With your husband?
Anne instinctively tugged at her hem. The dress was comfortable, softened by dozens of washes over the years.
I like it…
She likes it, piped up Jane, eyes glued to her mobile. You like all sorts, dont you? Sitting at home, making shepherds pies, knitting little doilies. Do you realise youth slips by? You should be living, not just existing.
Sarah nodded vigorously, her new gold hoops swinging enticingly at every movement.
We went to that new restaurant on Soho last night. Heavenly! And you no doubt made fried potatoes again?
Anne had. With mushrooms, just the way Michael liked. Hed come home exhausted, eaten two plates, and promptly dozed off on her shoulder in front of the telly. Anne saw no point in telling them this. They wouldnt understand.
…Many years ago, the three friends married within months of each other. Anne remembered that year vividly: her modest registry ceremony, Sarahs extravagant affair with a live band and fireworks, then Janes grand event where every guest received a personalised favour, handmade, no less. Even then, Anne felt the sideways looks when she spoke of plans to honeymoon at Michaels parents cottage in Surrey. Sarah snorted into her prosecco, and Jane rolled her eyes so dramatically it couldnt be missed.
Subtle digs became the backdrop of their meetings. Anne learned to ignore them, though something always ached inside.
Sarah was one of those women who swept into a room and made heads turn. Loud laughter, sweeping gestures, endless tales of who said what to whom. Her flat with Andrew became a revolving door: friends, colleagues, random acquaintancespeople came and went, leaving behind empty glasses and red wine stains on the pale rug.
Were having a crowd round on Saturday, Sarah would announce on the phone. Come over! Andrews doing a roast.
Anne always declined politely. Michael craved quiet after a long work week, not a kitchen full of strangers.
Fine, hide away in your little burrow, Sarah would say, her voice carrying a trace of pity.
Andrew supported his wife at first. Hed help lay the table, joke with guests, and patiently clear up after the parties. Anne saw him on the rare occasions she went: tired eyes, taut smile, mechanical movements. He poured wine, laughed at the right moments, but his gaze drifted off, elsewhere.
Andy, whats with the sour face? Sarah would pinch his cheek in front of everyone. Smile, or theyll think I never feed you!
Andrew smiled. The guests laughed. And Anne wondered how long you could wear a mask before it fused to your face or until you wished to rip it off, skin and all.
…After ten years, the mask cracked. Andrew left for a colleaguea quiet woman from accounting rumoured to bring homemade pasties for his lunch and speak only in a whisper. Sarah was the last to know, even though the whole office had been gossiping for weeks.
He left me, Sarah sobbed down the line, as Anne heard crashing noises in the background. Ungrateful! I gave him my best years! And now hes gone!
Anne just listened. What could she say? That Andrew had spent a decade drifting off to sleep to other peoples laughter, waking up to other peoples chatter? That a home isnt meant to be one long party?
After the divorce, it turned out the flat was mortgaged and the debts piled up to the price of a small car. Sarah was left to dig herself out alone, and her raucous laugh became rare.
Meanwhile, Jane was constructing her empire of the good life. Her social feeds brimmed with photos: rooftop bars, boutiques, weekends in Cornwall, perfect makeup and captions about gratitude and happiness. Denis appeared somewhere in the blurry backgroundjust a shadow behind the sleek display.
Look, Jane thrust her phone at Anne. Susies husband bought her a necklace from Tiffany. And what about mine? Hell just bring home some nonsense again.
Maybe he enjoys picking it out himself?
Jane looked at Anne curiously.
Oh no. I send him a list, and he has to choose from that.
Anne kept quiet. Just last night, Michael brought her a book shed been wanting. Hed found it in a little shop near the station, wrapped it up himself. Anne withheld the storyJane would have only laughed about such poverty.
For five years, Denis lived up to expectations. He worked overtime, took on extra jobs, always striving for the next goal Jane set higher each time. Then he met a booksellera divorced woman, child in tow, no polish, no name-brand bags. She looked at him as if he was good enough, just as he was.
The divorce was swift and messy. Jane claimed all she could, got half by law, not by wish. By then, their finances were drained to the last penny: spa memberships, beauty treatments, endless shopping trips. No savings left.
How will I manage? Jane sat in a café, tears streaking her face. With what?
Anne sipped her coffee, realising Jane had never once asked about her. How Anne was. How Michael was doing. But Janes world had always revolved around Jane.
Both friends found themselves in similar shoes: no husbands, no money, no familiar routines. Sarah took a second job to cover her debts. Jane moved into a smaller flat and stopped posting photos.
Anne kept on as ever. She cooked Michaels suppers, asked about his day, listened to his work problems. She didnt demand presents, set up dramas, compare him to other men. She simply stayed near. Like the sturdy walls of home. Like a warm kitchen lamp.
Michael appreciated it. One evening he came home with a sheaf of papers and set them in front of her.
Whats this? She asked.
Half of the business. Its yours now.
Anne stared at the documents for ages, afraid even to touch.
Why?
Because youve earned it. Because I want you safe. Without you, none of this would exist.
A year later, he bought a new flatlight and spacious with big windows. Put it in her name. Anne cried against his shoulder, and Michael stroked her hair, calling her his treasure. His safe harbour.
The old friends dropped by for tea now and then. At first rarely, then more often. They sat on her new sofa, fingers tracing the silk pillows, eyes wandering over paintings on the walls. Anne saw their faces: puzzled, anxious, trying not to show envy.
How did you get all this? Sarah scanned the lounge.
Michael gave it to me.
Just like that?
Just like that.
Her friends exchanged glances. Anne topped up their coffee and said nothing.
On one of these visits, Sarah couldnt hold it in. She set her cup down so sharply the coffee spilled onto the saucer and burst out:
Tell me. Why? Why did we lose everything, but you, the grey mouse, keep on being happy?
Silence pressed on the table. Jane gazed out the window, pretending disinterest, though her fingers twisted her ringcheap costume jewellery instead of the diamond she used to wear.
Anne could have answered. She could have spoken about patience. About noticing the small things. About how real happiness in marriage isnt a spectacle, but daily work. That love means listening, seeing, cherishing. Not demanding, but giving.
But what was the use? For twenty years these women had looked right through her, treating her like background furniture. Twenty years of advice to get out more, let yourself shine. Twenty years of never hearing anything but their own voices.
Perhaps I was just lucky, Anne replied with a gentle smile.
After that conversation, her friends stopped coming so often. Eventually, they stopped visiting at all. Jealousy proved stronger than friendship, stronger than shared past, stronger than reason. It was easier to turn away than admit their mistake.
Anne did not grieve. Oddly, the space left by those friendships was filled with a calm clarity, as if shed at last slipped off tight shoes and could finally breathe.
…Another decade passed. Anne turned fifty-four, and life was good. Grown children, a grandson, Michael still bringing books wrapped in brown paper. Through an old acquaintance, Anne heard Sarah had never remarried, worked two jobs, always complaining about her health. Jane had cycled through three men; all the relationships ended the same way: with endless demands, complaints, drama.
Anne listened without malice. She simply thought how sometimes its the quiet mice who find their secret happiness. Silent from the outside, priceless within.
She switched off her phone and started on dinner. Michael had promised to come home early, and hed asked for fried potatoes with mushrooms.
