Mary, come on, be serious Claire stared at my old cotton dress like it was some questionable antique at a jumble sale. Do you really wear that rag? Even with your husband around?
Without thinking, I straightened my hem. That dress was soft, worn in after years of washing, and it felt just right.
I like it
Oh, you like lots of things chimed in Susan, her eyes glued to her phone. Sitting at home, making shepherds pie, crocheting little doilies. Do you realise youre letting your youth slip away? You need to live, not just exist.
Mary nodded energetically, her gold hoop earrings jingling with every dramatic gesture:
We went to that new place on Marylebone last night. Absolutely divine! Let me guess, you were making chips again?
I was, actually. Fried with mushrooms, the way Michael likes. Hed come home exhausted, ate two helpings, then fell asleep on my shoulder watching the telly. I kept that to myself. Whats the point? The girls wouldnt understand.
Years back, all three of us got married within months of each other. I still remember: my simple registry office do, then Marys grand affair with live music and fireworks, and Susans glamorous bash with handcrafted favours for every guest. Even then, I caught the look they shared when I said wed have our honeymoon at Michaels parents cottage in Norfolk. Mary snorted into her prosecco; Susan rolled her eyes so hard you couldnt miss it.
From then on, the teasing became part of every get-together. I learned to tune it out, even if something always ached inside.
Mary was the sort you couldnt help but notice in a room. Loud laughter, wild hand motions, endless stories about the neighbours and the office. Her place with Andrew was always full friends, colleagues, some random plus-ones. People came and went, leaving behind dirty glasses and red wine stains on the cream rug.
Well have about fifteen over on Saturday! Mary would announce on the phone. You should come, Andrews making his famous roast!
I declined politely. Michael preferred quiet after a week at work, not a swarm of strangers crowding the kitchen.
Suit yourself, stay in your little burrow Mary would shoot back, her voice edged with something like pity.
At first, Andrew joined in. Hed help lay the table, joke with guests, tidy up all night. I saw him on the rare occasions I went weary eyes, tight smile, moving like a robot. He poured wine, he laughed at the jokes, but all the while, his gaze was somewhere far away.
Andy, why so glum? Mary would pinch his cheek in front of everyone. Smile, or theyll think Im starving you!
Andrew smiled because he had to. The others laughed. I wondered how long you could wear a mask before it stuck. Or before you wanted to tear it off, skin and all.
Ten years later, the mask cracked. Andrew left her for a quiet woman in accounts, who, rumour had it, baked him homemade pies and never raised her voice. Mary was the last to know, though the whole office had been whispering for weeks.
Hes left me! Mary sobbed into the phone, with banging noises in the background. Ungrateful sod! I gave him my best years!
I listened in silence. What could I say? That Andrew spent a decade falling asleep to someone elses laughter? That a home isnt meant to be a perpetual party?
After the split, it turned out their flat was mortgaged to the hilt, and her debts could have bought a small aeroplane. Mary had to dig herself out, and her laughter became a rare sound.
Susan, meanwhile, was living the high life. Her social media was a stream of restaurant snaps, boutique hauls, seaside breaks. Perfect shots with flawless makeup, captions about happiness and gratitude. Dennis was always just out of focus the blurry silhouette funding it all.
Look Susan shoved her phone in my face Claires husband got her a necklace from Tiffany. And mine? Hell bring home some random tat again.
Maybe he just likes picking out surprises?
Susan threw me a strange look.
No chance. I send him a list he picks from that.
I kept quiet. Michael had brought me a book Id wanted, hunting it down in a little shop near the Tube, wrapping it in brown paper himself. I didnt mention it Susan wouldve had a laugh at such a pathetic present.
Five years Dennis kept up. Working late, chasing extra contracts, stretching to keep pace with Susans ever-rising standards. Then he met a woman working in the bookshop single mum, no manicures, no designer bags. She looked at him as though he was enough, just as he was.
The divorce was quick and bitter. Susan demanded everything, but got half the law, not her wish. By then, their bank account had been drained for spa memberships, beauty treatments, endless shopping sprees. Not a penny saved.
How am I supposed to live now? Susan sobbed into her latte. On what?
I sipped my coffee and thought how, in all these years, Susan had never asked how my life was. Or about Michael. Or about our health. Her world always orbited one star herself.
The two of them ended up much the same: no husbands, no money, no lifestyle. Mary took a second job to pay off the loans. Susan moved to a smaller flat and stopped posting photos online.
And I kept living the way I always had. Cooking dinners for Michael, asking about his day, listening to his grumbles about business meetings and supplier wrangles. Never demanded presents, never made a scene, never compared him to anyone else. I was just there. Steady as the walls of our home. Warm as the kitchen light.
Michael treasured it. One day he came home with a folder of documents and set it on the table.
Whats this?
Half the business yours now.
I stared at those papers, afraid to touch them.
Why?
Because youve earned it. Because I want you to be safe. Because none of it would exist without you.
A year later, he bought us a bigger, brighter flat with tall windows. Put it in my name. I cried into his shoulder and he stroked my hair, saying I was his treasure. His quiet harbour.
The old friends started popping by for tea. Not often at first, more often later. They sat on the new sofa, touched the silk cushions, inspected the paintings. I saw their faces confused, lost, trying not to show their envy.
How did you get all this? Mary would scan the living room.
Michael gave it to me.
Just because?
Just because.
They exchanged glances. I poured some more coffee and stayed silent.
One visit, Mary snapped. She slapped her cup down so hard the coffee splashed over, and burst out:
Tell me why? Why did we lose everything, but you the quiet little mouse are still happy?
The silence hung. Susan stared out of the window, pretending not to care, but her fingers spun her ring an imitation, not the real gems she used to wear.
I could have answered. Explained about patience. About the little things. How a happy marriage isnt a performance, but daily work. How loving means listening, noticing, taking care. How you give, not just demand.
But why bother? Twenty years those women saw straight through me, as a bit of background furniture. Twenty years their advice came down to live a little and dont be so boring. Twenty years they never heard anything but their own voices.
Maybe I was just lucky I said, smiling.
After that, their visits grew sparse, then stopped altogether. Some envy is stronger than friendship, than shared memories, than common sense. Easier to turn away than admit youd got it wrong all those years.
It didnt bother me. Oddly, the void they left filled with a kind of peaceful clarity like taking off tight shoes and finally getting a decent breath.
Another ten years passed. I turned fifty-four and life was good. Grown-up children, a grandson, Michael still bringing me books wrapped in brown paper. By chance I heard from an old neighbour that Mary never remarried; she works two jobs now and complains about her health. Susans had three men, all the relationships unraveling the same way endless gripes, sulks, demands.
I listened, not smugly, just quietly. Sometimes, its the quiet little mice who find happiness. Not dazzling, not showy, but priceless all the same.
I switched off my mobile and started preparing dinner. Michael promised to be home early and asked for fried potatoes with mushrooms.
