So wheres she going to go, then? Listen, mate, a wifes like a hire car. As long as you fill the tank and pay for the MOT, shell take you wherever you want. And my LucyI bought her, lock, stock and barrel, twelve years ago. I pay, I pick the music. Simple. No backchat, no headaches. Absolute silk, she is.
Mark spoke loudly, brandishing the barbecue fork, letting fat drip and sizzle onto the flaming coals. He was as sure of himself as of the coming Monday. His old university friend Pete just made a noncommittal noise, sipping his beer. Lucy stood by the open kitchen window, a knife in her hand, slicing tomatoes. The juice ran down her palm, and Marks smug refrain rang in her ears: I pay, I pick the music.
Twelve years. For twelve years, she hadnt just been his wifeshed been his shadow, his sketch, his cushion against lifes bumps. Mark fancied himself a genius in lawa star at the solicitors office. He won impossible cases, came home with thick envelopes of cash, tossing them onto the hall table with the air of a conquering hero.
When Mark collapsed into bed, exhausted, Lucy would quietly fish the documents from his briefcasepapers hed sweated over for daysand go to work. Shed correct his glaring errors, rewrite the clumsy wording, trawl through the legal databases for amendments hed missed in his cocky haste. In the morning, shed mention, offhand,
Mark, I took a quick glance last night. Maybe refer to the Housing Act? I left a post-it.
Hed wave her off like always.
You and your womans advice. Fine, Ill look.
Then hed swagger home, triumphant, never onceno, not a single time in twelve yearssaying, Cheers, Lucy. Id be lost without you. Instead, he believed to his bones that it was his own stroke of brilliance. And Lucy, wellshe was just the housewife, making stews.
That night, at their cottage, she didnt start a row, didnt storm off to the patio or flip the barbecue onto the grass. She finished the salad, added a dollop of cream, set it quietly on the table. You pick the music, do you? she thought, glancing at her husband chewing his meat, tasteless as sawdust. All right thenlets hear some silence.
On Monday morning, Mark rushed round the flat, hunting for his lucky blue tie.
Lucy, wheres my blue one? Big meeting with the developer today.
In the wardrobe, second shelf, she called from the bathroom.
Her voice was even. Calmer than usual. When the door shut behind him, Lucy didnt turn on morning telly or finish her coffee. She opened her battered old address book. The number for Richard Harper, their former boss from twelve years ago, hadnt changed.
Hello, Richard? Its Lucy. Yes, Mitchells wife. No, he doesnt know. Ive got a matter to discuss. Do you still need anyone in records? Or maybe someone for sorting out impossible mountains of paperwork?
There was a pause on the line. Richard remembered Lucy. He remembered her sharp wits, her toughness, the way she could cut through a forest of useless arguments to expose the point. Hed been the only one, all those years back, to say, Wasted talent, Lucy, you are, being a housewife.
Come in, he grunted. Got a mess no one wants to touch. If you can handle it, Ill put you on payroll.
That evening, Mark trudged home in foul spirits. The developer had been stubborn, the case was foundering. He dropped his jacket on the hallway chair and called out,
Something to eat, Luce? I could demolish an ox. And iron my white shirt for tomorrow, will you?
Silence. He headed to the kitchen. The stove was spotlessno pots, no pans, just a sparkling surface. On the counter, a note: Dinners in the fridge. Frozen dumplings. Im tired.
What the? Mark stared, as if the note was in Mandarin.
At that moment, the front door clicked. Lucy entered, carrying a thick folder of paperwork. She wore a smart suit he hadnt seen since their sons primary school graduationand heels.
Whereve you been? Whats thisdressing up for a parade?
Ive been at work, Mark. Calmly she slipped off her shoes. Actually, working at your firm, in records. Richard took me on as an assistant.
Mark laughedhard, sharp, mocking.
You, work? Dont make me laugh! You havent touched anything heavier than a wooden spoon in twelve years. Youll choke on the dust down there in two days.
Well see.
She poured herself a glass of water.
So Im supposed to survive on dumplings, am I? Im the one bringing home the bacon. I keep this family afloat.
Not anymore. Im working now too. Its not much, but it covers the dumplings. Iron your own shirtirons where its been for the last decade.
It was the first warning. Mark put it down to a midlife crisishormones, whatever women go through. “Shell play at it for a week,” he thought, chewing rubbery dumplings, “Shell see what earning your ways likeshell be butter in my hands again.
But a week passed. Then another. The crisis didnt pass. The house changed. It no longer ran as if powered by invisible clockwork, as Mark had always expected. His socks no longer paired themselves miraculously in the drawer; now they piled, dirty, in the bathroom. Dust hed never noticed before lounged brazenly on the bookshelves. Shirts needed ironingby himand to his dismay, it was agony: a crease here, a bunched-up sleeve there.
The worst part, though, was loneliness. Lucy was no longer his shoulder to cry on. Before, he could come home and moan for an hourabout the crazy judge, the stingy client. Shed listen, make tea with mint, and, best of all, offer adviceadvice hed borrow for tomorrow, passing it off as his own. Now, he tried to get her attention.
Can you believe Graham rejected that claimagain? I told him straight
Lucy didnt even look up from her laptop, surrounded by legal texts.
Mark, quiet, please. Ive got a complicated bankruptcy review tomorrow. Im deep in it.
Who cares about bankruptcy? My deal’s at risk!
My job matters to mefor my own dignity.
Anger gnawed at him: his world slipping away. Without her evening consultations, he started to make elementary mistakesmissing deadlines, mixing up names on contracts. His superiors noticed. At meetings, Richard would frown at Markthen, suddenly, look over at Lucy, nodding his approval.
Shed organised that hellish file room in three days flat. She found lost evidence. She was promoted from the basement to a desk beside the trainees. Mark saw her straight-backed, purposefulher walk no longer the tired shuffle of a homemaker, but confident, heels clicking across the office.
It all came to a head after a month. The firm landed a golden client: Dame Margaret Clifford, head of a private clinic chain. Hard as nails, no patience for fools. She was suing her former partner, who was trying to claim half her business with forged, she claimed, documents. Mark was given the casea chance at redemption.
Ill tear them apart, he boasted at home, slicing sausage straight on the countertopcouldnt find a clean chopping board. Open and shut. Get an expert report, bring in witnesses.
Lucy read her thriller in silence.
You hear me? He elbowed her. Im telling you, its in the bag. Bonus timemaybe Ill buy you a new coat. Youll come to your senses then?
She lowered her book, gazed at him with a long, unreadable look.
I dont need a coat, Mark. I need you to stop acting like a peacock. Margaret Clifford wont tolerate strong-arming. Shes old-school. With her, you need dialogue, not court threats.
Enough, Dr Freud, he snorted.
On the big day, the meeting room crackled with tension thick enough to slice. Dame Margaret sat at the head. A tiny woman, elderly, with eyes like gimlets. Mark paced, spouting jargon, waving charts.
Well freeze their accounts. Well force them to crawl.
Youre not listening. I dont want to destroy him. That man is my godson. Yes, hes wrong, but I dont want him in prison. I just want my business back and for him to vanish from my lifequietly, with no scandal. And what do you offer?
Mark lost his stride.
But, Dame Margaret, theres no other way. This is litigation. If we show weakness
Youre off this case, she said softly. Rose, picked up her handbag. Richard, Im disappointed. I thought you had professionals here, not bulldozers.
Richard paled. To lose her would gut the firms finances for half a year. Mark stared, red as a beetroot. At that moment, the door opened. Lucy entered, carrying a tray of tea. The secretary was ill, and staff were helping out. Lucy took in the scene: Dame Margaret about to leave, Marks face panicked. Anyone else would have smiled, vindictiveYou wanted to pick the musicnow dance. But Lucy was a true professionalthe one whod slept below the surface for twelve years was wide awake now.
Dame Margaret.
Her voice rang outquiet but firm. The older woman paused at the door, not turning.
Sorry, just brought you the thyme tea you like, Lucy continued. Youre right about your godson. There was a similar case back in ’98. They settled out of courtnon-disclosure, shares transferred as a gift. Both sides saved face.
Dame Margaret slowly turned and stared.
How do you know? That was a sealed case.
I read the files.
Lucy placed the tray downher hands steady.
And if I maythe bonds could be set aside not for forgery, but a technical flaw. Theyre missing a mandatory condition. Its a technical issue, not a criminal one. Your godson made a mistakeyou keep your clinics, he keeps his freedom, and theres no scandal.
Silence swept the room. Mark stared, as if his wife had grown a second head. Did he know about the technical flaw? Nohe hadnt even read the actual papers, just charged in.
Dame Margaret returned to the table, sat.
Thyme tea, you say? For the first time, her face softened, warm as a baked apple. Pour me a cup, dear, and tell me more about that flaw. And you she nodded at Mark, without a glance, sit and listen.
For the next two hours, Lucy led the meeting. Mark sat quietly, fiddling with his pen. He listened as his easy wife unravelled a complex legal knot in plain English. She didnt blustershe listened, suggested, offered solutions.
When Dame Margaret left, happy and under new contract, Richard approached Lucy and shook her hand.
Mrs. Mitchell, he said formally, see me in my office tomorrow about a promotion. Time to leave the archives behind.
The car ride home was silent. Some pop song played on the radio. Mark usually switched to the news, but now he barely breathed. His little worldwhere he was king and his wife, a servicewas gone. In its ruins stood a stranger: strong, brilliant, beautiful. Worst of allshed always been that woman. Hed simply been blind.
They entered their flat. Darkness, quiettheir son wasnt home yet. Mark took off his shoes, wandered to the kitchen, sat at the empty table. Lucy changed into her loungewear and wiped off her make-up. Though tired, her eyes were brighter than they’d been for years. She opened the fridge, grabbed some eggs, set the frying pan on the hob.
Luce
Marks voice wavered. She didnt turn, cracked an egg against the pan.
Ive got it, he said.
He jumped up, clumsily trying to take the spatula.
Sit down, love, youre knackered.
Lucy let him have the spatula, stepped back, sat at the table. She watched as Mark fumbled over the eggs, the yolk breaking, mumbling curses under his breath. He put a plate in front of hera sorry sight. Scorched, uneven eggs. His masterpiece.
Im sorry, he said, staring at the table.
Lucy picked up her fork.
But the eggs look edible.
I realised something today He struggled for words. Youve saved memore than just today. I remember you fixing my documents at night. I got complacent. Arrogant.
He looked up. In his eyes, fearthe fear shed get up and leave. Now she could: she had a job, respect, money. She needed him no longer.
Im not leaving, Mark, Lucy answered his silent dread. “Not yet, anyway. We have more than property to dividetwenty years is something. But the rules are changing.
How? he blurted. What am I meant to do?
Respect me, she replied, taking a bite of bread.
Thats it. Just respect. Im not silkIm a person. Im your partner. At home and at work. We split lifes chores down the middle. Not helping the wifedoing your share. Understand?
I do, he said.
And, for once, he meant it.
Mind if I eat? Mark smiled, picking up his fork.
The eggs were burnt, bland, and yethe hadnt tasted anything so good in years. Because this wasnt a service. This was dinner between equals.
