Stingy with the salt again, are we? How many times do I have to tell you, its bland as waterweed, Richard announced in that performative way of his, shoving the plate of steaming stew aside and snatching up the salt cellar. My mum always says, Better under-salted than over-saltedyou can always add, never take away. But you, Laura, youve got no touch. She can just sense a dish. You just lob in whatevers written. Theres no heart in it.
Laura stood by, silent, watching Richard heap salt onto the vegetables shed been sautéing for nearly an hour. Inside, she felt a familiar spring coil tighter and tighterafter three years of marriage, it was nearly ready to snap. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against letting irritation show, and turned to gaze out at the street, where the golden glow of autumn streetlights flickered through the dusk.
I only followed the diet the gastroenterologist suggested, Rich, she replied softly, rearranging the cups on the drying rack. Your heartburn last weekdoctors orders.
Oh, dont start hiding behind doctors again! Richard huffed, chewing a mouthful of meat. Just admit cooking isnt your strong suit. Remember how we went round Mums at the weekend? Those stuffed cabbage parcels she did? All neat, all perfect, every one identical. And the sauceproper crème fraîche, that special tomato concentrate, not this shop-bought ketchup rubbish. Mum knows how to create a home, you know? Her house smells of baking. Ours? Bleach and cleaning sprays.
Laura bit her lip. The whiff of cleaning chemicals was there because shed spent half the afternoon scrubbing the kitchen after Richards last attempt at cooking had somehow covered even the lampshade in bacon grease. But what was the point in mentioning it? Richard had a rare gift for ignoring his own mishapsand magnifying every flaw, real or imagined, of hers.
The evening dragged on, accompanied by the televisions drone and Richards running commentary about how a household should be run. Laura nodded absently, mind already on the report due at work tomorrow. She was senior analyst at a major logistics company, and quarter-end meant every ounce of energy spent. All she craved at home was quiet. Instead, she received daily reminders of how she fell short of the untouchable, saintly, and apparently infallible Mrs Margaret Barker.
Margaret Barker, Laura’s mother-in-law, was a force of nature: formidable, energetic, and, one had to admit, properly house-proud. House-proud here was code for hurricane in an apronwhen Margaret cleaned, the entire flat was rearranged, dust banished from crevices you’d never even notice. Richard had grown into adulthood convinced that sacrificing yourself for domestic perfection was the only path, and couldnt for the life of him understand why Laura didnt wish to do the same.
As night deepened, so too did the tension. Richard sprawled on the sofa with his tablet; Laura set up the ironing board, switched on the iron, and pulled a blue shirt from the laundry. The fabric was good quality, thickbut a nightmare to press.
Laura, not like that again? Richards voice was suddenly at her ear, making her jump.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked as he watched her steam the collar.
What now, Richard?
Who irons like that? Youll crease it. Mum always does the sleeves first, back second, collar last, over a damp clothnot all this steaming. Youll ruin it, I promise.
Laura slowly placed the iron upright. Steam hissed, echoing the pressure in her chest.
If you know how to do it so perfectly, maybe you should iron your shirts yourself, she managed, voice even.
He gave a theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes.
Oh, there we go. Cant say a word to you, can I, before you get in a strop. Im just trying to help! Mum always says, a wife ought to look after her husbands wardrobeits the pride of the family. But youre always too busy, always too tired. Work, reports and the house left to gather dust.
Left to gather dust, really? Laura replied, casting her eyes over the spotless lounge. Its clean, clothes washed, dinner cooked. My working hours and earnings match yoursif not surpass them, by the way. Why do I have to spend my spare time taking domestic goddess classes in honour of your mother?
Oh, here we go with the money again! Richard winced in disgust. This isnt about money. Its about care, Laura, real womanly care. Mum used to run the library, rememberand still, there was always three courses on the table, puddings, cakes, and Dad dressed to the nines. With you Honestly. Well, press however you likeno doubt Ill end up crumpled again tomorrow so the office can see what a fine wife Ive got.
He stormed out, leaving Laura with the iron cooling at her side and a solid knot growing in her throat. All she wanted was to pack a bag and leavebut there really wasnt anywhere to go, or any real reason why she should. After all, the flat was hers, inherited from her grandmother long before Richard arrived, suitcase in hand. Now, three years on, he acted like he lorded over a manordispleased with his ever-inadequate housemaid.
The next days dissolved into a cold war. Richard made sure to sigh whenever he spotted the tiniest fleck of dust or ponderously salted every plateful, no matter how it tasted. Laura stayed silent, burying herself in work. Saturday was looming, the day they always lunched at Margaret Barkers.
Saturday morning, the pacing began. Richard threw open wardrobe doors, urging Laura to hurry.
Laura, honestly, youll make us late! Mum loathes tardiness. And wear that blue dress, for goodness sakenot jeans. Mum says you look like a teenager, and youre thirty-eight! Try for a bit of dignity.
Laura, adjusting the zip on her smart, comfortable trousers, froze.
Im fine in jeans, Richard. Were visiting family, not Buckingham Palace.
Its about respect for your elders! Mums spent all morning cookingyou could make an effort instead of turning up looking like youre skipping sixth form.
In the end, she wore jeans and a crisp white blouse. Richard sulked all the drive to his mothers, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel of their shared carthe repayments for which Laura, incidentally, mostly handled.
Margarets flat greeted them in a cloud of frying and pastry. She answered the door, round and regal with her hair lacquered into a helmet, hands wiped on her starched apron.
At last! Richard, youve lost weight, havent you? Lauras not feeding you? She enveloped her son in a tight hug, her nod toward Laura perfunctory. Go on, Lauraslippers by the mat. Mind the floor, Ive just polished.
What followed was a well-worn one-woman monologue. Margaret set the best helpings before Richard, admonishing his pallor.
Try some duck, Richardslow-cooked with apples, three hours in the oven. Not like todays lotthrow it all in some electric gubbins and hope for the best. Thats not food, Laura, thats slop, isnt it?
Laura smiled politely, dissecting a lettuce leaf.
Everyones pace of life is different, Mrs Barker. A slow cookers a lifesaver for busy people.
Busy doing what? sniffed Margaret theatrically. Social media? We juggled it alljobs, kids, spotless homes. Now youve got robots, dishwashers and no soul in the place. I was at yours last weeknet curtains filthy, windows smeared. Shameful, Laura. A womans home is her mirror.
Richard, cheeks stuffed with duck, nodded eagerly.
I tell her all the time, Mum! I say, lets wash the curtains, lets do the windows! She says, Ill call a cleaning service. Can you imagine, strangers traipsing in with muddy boots, for cash!
Cleaning service? Margarets eyes bulged, as if Laura had suggested they open a gambling den. Have you lost your mind? A woman must touch every inch of her home herself. Letting strangers in brings misfortune. No wonderexcuse me if Im bluntyou havent managed children yet, or youre always arguing.
A low blow. Laura and Richard were seeing specialists, but nothing had come of it yetMargaret, of course, never passed up a chance to jab.
It isnt cleaning services we argue over, Mrs Barker, Laura replied firmly, setting her fork down. We argue when Richard compares me to you.
A clanging silence. Richard almost spat out his drink.
Whats wrong with aspiring for the best? Margaret looked genuinely perplexed. Richards proud of his mum. Is it so awful if he wants a wife as good as me? Set your pride aside, Laura. Jot my recipes down, if you likewhile Im still here to share them. Richard needs a certain standard, thats all.
Precisely! chimed in Richard, dabbing at his mouth. Dont start arguing now, Mums right. You could be softer, Laura, more domestic. Just look aroundher house gleams. Ours? Dust gathers on the skirting for two days straight.
Something in Laura snapped. Some lever flipped from endure to take action. She glanced between Richardwell-fed, smug, basking in maternal approvaland Margaret, victorious.
Thank you for lunchit was delicious, Laura said, standing.
Going already? Margaret feigned surprise. But Ive baked a Victoria sponge!
No, were not both leaving. I am. Richard, I think you should stay for tea. Good for you to soak up the family atmosphere.
Laura, dont you dare! Richard hissed, gripping her wrist behind closed doors. Dont make a scene in front of my mum!
Im going home. My heads pounding. Come back whenever you liketaxi, car, what have you. Youve got the keys.
Stepping out into the chill damp of English autumn, Laura filled her lungs for the first time in months. By the time shed returned to her flat, her mind had cast aside last traces of doubt.
That evening, Laura worked with a steadiness that felt almost meditative: out came the big holiday suitcases from the loft, and into them went all Richards possessions. Shirts, jeans, jumpers, socks. Even his precious suitshe pressed it, folded it just so, and stowed it in the garment bag.
It was gone midnight by the time Richard returned, reeking of his mothers cooking and smugness.
So what were you playing at, then? he began, toeing off his trainers. You upset Mumher blood pressures sky high. Selfish, thats what you are.
He entered the bedroom and froze. Lined up were three huge suitcases and half a dozen boxes. The wardrobe stood bare.
Going somewhere? Where toSpain? Am I missing the invite?
Laura, sitting calmly in an armchair with a novel, looked up. She closed the book and watched him steadily.
No trips, Richard. You are moving.
He laughed weakly.
Not funny, Laura. Unpack, I need to get some sleep.
Im not joking. Everythings packed: clothes, shoes, vinyls, your daft mug. Removers are coming for you at nine tomorrow.
His face turned steadily crimson.
You youre throwing me out? Out of my own house?
My house, Richard, Laura corrected. Lets be clear. This place is mineyou moved in, remember? Judging by your constant complaints, youre miserable here.
Miserable! I break my back for you, try to help you improve! I mean well!
Thats right. You want everything your way: food not like Mums, cleaning never as good as Mums, shirts never ironed quite right. And as for meIll never be your mother. Competing with Margaret Barker is a lost cause. I dont intend to try.
But were married! he spluttered, losing all his swagger.
Marriage means support, not a weekly appraisal and constant comparisons. Youre dissatisfied, Im exhausted. Soheres your solution.
Laura stood, gesturing at the cases.
Go home to Mum, where the shepherds pie is always right, the carpets always vacuumed, and someones delighted to devote their days to you. Youll be happy. And Ill finally be at peacenobody looming over my ironing.
Richard gaped at her, fish-like, before an ugly spark lit in his eye.
You dont think Ive got rights here? I did that bathroom upyou think you get to keep it all? Ill see you in court!
Laura almost pitied him.
Youre a solicitoror were, at least. You know the law. Flats in my name, bought and mortgaged before we met. The tiles? I paid for themreceipts all in my name. You did what? Five rolls of wallpaper and some paste. That, in total, comes towhatone hundred pounds? Ill transfer it now, or cash in hand, your call. DIY is maintenance, not investment. Sue me all you likecourt fees will cost more than youll ever claw back.
He wilted, knowing she was right. His wage as junior manager barely covered groceries; Lauras career paid for every significant thing.
So thats it? Over a few words about your stew, you want a divorce? His voice cracked. Laura, I love youI just its how I was raised, Mums always
For a year? A month? Richard, this isnt about stew. Its about your refusal to grow up. You need a mother, not a wife. I want a partnera grown man. Were not the same.
That night, they slept in separate rooms. At nine sharp, the movers hauled the boxes away.
Richard looked forlorn, standing in the doorway in his parka.
Laura, pleaseMumll go mad if I turn up with all this. What do I tell her?
Tell the truth. Your wife never met her impossible standards, so youve come home. Shell adore ithasnt she always said I wasnt good enough? Dreams do come true.
She closed the door behind him, double-locked it, and let her forehead rest against the cool metalbefore bursting into laughter, not hysteria, but bright, liberating joy. The flat was quiet. Nothing but peace.
A week of calm followed. Laura ordered a cleaning servicemiraculously, the place gleamed, and nobody gasped about bad energy. She bought takeaways, met friends for dinner, indulged in bubble baths and box setsno shirts waiting for her.
Thursday, the phone rang. Margaret Barker, the screen read. Laura sighed, picked up.
Laura! What on earth have you done? Chucking Richard onto the street? Hes driving me barmy!
Good evening, Mrs Barker. I havent chucked him anywhereI simply returned him to a place suited to his needs. You always said this wasnt a home, so now hes where hell be happier.
Dont get cheeky with me! Hes a grown man Well, hes on my sofa demanding pork chops, leaving socks everywhere, ruining my routine! I need peace, Im not a young woman! I told him to go to you, and he wailed, Laura never appreciated me.
There you go, Mrs Barker. Hes after that care you taught him to expect. I simply cant provide that level of service. I work.
At your age? Wives belong by their husbands! Take him back! Yesterday, he said Id over-salted the soup. Me! Can you imagine?
Laura stifled a laugh.
Im sorry, but I cant take him back. The papers are being filed. He deserves the bestperhaps with you, perhaps on his own.
A divorce? Laura, for pitys sake, think of your age! Wholl want you at forty, divorced? But Richardhes still got prospects!
Perfect. A man with prospects and a perfect mothersomeone else will be lucky. Ill manage fine, Mrs Barker. Goodbye.
She hung up, then blocked the number. And Richards too.
A month later, the divorce went through. Richard looked worse for wear, his shirt wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes.
Laura, cant we try again? He looked at the floor. Mums impossible. She picks on me all day. I thought she loved me, but she just likes being in charge. I see now how peaceful it was with you. OK, your stews bland, but at least you didnt nag.
Laura gazed at him, kind but unmoved.
You only understood once youd stood in my place. Thats not love, Richard, its looking for comfort. You want a soft habitat, not a wife. Im not a habitatIm a person.
Ill get a place! Cook, cleando it all myself
Go on then. Learn. Grow up. But Im done. No more comparisons. I quite like my peace.
They parted as strangers on the court steps. Richard trudged off to the bus stop; Laura slid into her car, a travel brochure on the passenger seatItaly, at last. No more trudging round allotments. Just her, her choices. She started the engine, cranked up the radio. Finally: a life aheadsure, maybe a little under-salted. But hersdelicious, either way.
