Sam, were out of sunflower oil. And theres only enough washing powder for one more load, Emily stood in the doorway, drying her damp hands on her apron. Well need to pop to the shops, love. The lists a long one today.
Sam barely looked away from the telly, where some tense football match was on, and gave her a jaded shrug.
Em, you know how things are, he drawled, not even glancing at her. The factorys behind with wages again. Foreman said theres no hope for a bonus this month. I gave you the last sixty quid I had the other night. Youll have to make it stretch.
Emily let out a slow sigh. Shed heard this stretch it every week for the past six months. As if the family budget were some magic elastic band that would keep on stretching no matter what. She went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared sadly at a solitary jar of pickles and a pot of yesterdays soup. The soup was barebones, made from chicken backs, since a decent bit of meat hadnt graced their fridge in weeks.
Emily worked as the senior nurse at the local clinic. Her paycheck came in steadily, but it was nothing to write home about. Things used to be different, back when Sam brought in a good wage. They could manage: take a week by the seaside each summer, get new bits of clothes now and then, and the fridge was always brimming. But then, according to Sam, the factorys luck dried up. His wages shrank, bonuses vanished, and now he barely handed over enough to cover the utilities and his petrol.
The whole load of groceries and household bits landed on Emilys shoulders. She picked up extra shifts, covered at weekends, did whatever she could just to keep them afloat. And Sam well, Sam would get in from work, flop on the sofa, moan about the state of the world, and still expect a proper three-course dinner.
Stretch it, Emily muttered, eyeing the empty butter dish. Theres nothing left to stretch, its all at breaking point.
Next evening, after work, Emily did her usual round in the supermarket. She hovered longingly by the meat counter, eyeing the juicy pork chops, but walked off with a tray of chicken gizzards cheap and almost cheerful. Stewing them slowly with a bit of cream usually made them edible. At the till, she emptied her purse right down to the last coin. There were three days to payday, and her wallet was empty.
That evening, while the gizzards bubbled away on the hob, Emily decided to dust the hallway. Sam was already snoring, full from his dinner and a couple of cans of lager, which he swore he bought from pennies found in his coat.
Straightening his coat on the hook, Emilys hand brushed something in the inside pocket. She knew poking through pockets wasnt on, but habit always checking before a wash took over. Her hand closed around a folded bit of paper.
It was a receipt. But not from Sainsburys. It was from a cash machine, dated that very evening at 6:45pm. Emily opened it and suddenly felt like the floor had dropped away.
Balance: £3,200.
She blinked, wondering if shed misread. Maybe a smudged comma? No, the numbers were clear as day. Above, a line: Salary Credit: £720.
Seven hundred and twenty quid. And hed brought home sixty, claiming that was all theyd paid him.
Emily slumped down onto the hallway stool. Her mind was spinning. She remembered trudging to work in leaky old boots last month because Sam told her, Just hang on, no money at all right now. She remembered avoiding the dentist, popping painkillers instead, because they couldnt afford it. The endless stews and those blasted chicken gizzards.
Anger, hot and sharp as vinegar, rose up inside her. This wasnt just hurt this was betrayal. While she scrimped on teabags and tampons, he was stashing away thousands. For what? A new car? Someone else? Or just to be spiteful, letting her foot the bill while he hoarded?
She carefully tucked the slip back in his coat pocket. She wanted to barge into the bedroom and shove that receipt under Sams nose, raise hell, throw his dinner at the wall maybe kick him out on the spot. But she held back. Drama like that would solve nothing. Hed spin some story, claim it was a surprise or a bank error.
No, she had to be clever.
Back in the kitchen, Emily switched off the hob. The stew was ready, but her appetite was long gone. She packed the food into a container and instead of putting it in the fridge, slipped it in her work bag.
If theres no money, theres no money, she thought with a touch of glee.
The next morning, Emily left for work early, not bothering with Sams breakfast. She left him an empty plate and a note: Sorry, foods all out, no money left. Have some water.
All day at the clinic, she went through the motions, her mind on her new plan. At lunch, she treated herself to the works: stew and mash, a roll, even pudding and a cup of tea. Shed not eaten so well in ages.
That night, she came home light-handed no heavy bags, no shops. Just her, straight-backed and empty-handed.
Sam greeted her at the door, looking like thunder.
Youre late, Em. Im ravenous here. Fridge is empty, not even an egg left. Didnt you go shopping?
Emily calmly took off her coat.
No, Sam, I didnt.
What do you mean, didnt? Whats for tea, then?
Nothings for tea. I told you before no money till Thursday. I had a cup of hot water at work. Nothing else. Youll have to wait. Thats the crisis, isnt it?
Sam stared at her.
Youre joking? Wheres the soup, wheres dinner? You always found something.
Ive run out of ideas, love. You cant make dinner out of thin air. And Ive spent what little cash I had on bills and my bus fare. Thats that.
He stood there, mouth opening and closing, clearly baffled. He probably expected Emily to pull a rabbit out the hat; borrow from a friend, dig up some secret stash all women have, or just magic food out of the back of a cupboard.
Honestly he muttered after a moment. So what am I supposed to do now?
Try some water. Or get some sleep, hungers easier when youre dreaming.
Sam huffed, slammed the kitchen door and rattled around the cupboards, slamming drawers and clattering pans. In the end, she caught the scent of plain boiled pasta wafting down the hall. No sauce, no sausages, just plain pasta. Pretty fitting for someone with over three grand hiding in his bank.
The next day, it happened again. Emily had a hearty lunch at work, stopped for a takeaway coffee and a Danish from the bakery, and even had time to read in the park before heading home, well-fed and calm.
This time, Sam wasnt confused he was fuming.
This isnt funny, Emily! Ive had pasta with nothing two nights in a row, are you taking the mick? Are you the wife or what?
Im your wife, Sam not a magician. Cant buy food with no money, can I? Give me cash and Ill rustle up dinner. Bangers, mash, the works. Whats the problem?
I told you I havent got any! Its late, innit!
Well, neither do I, so were on a health kick. Might do you good.
That evening Sam made a show of storming out. He came back after an hour, stinking of a kebab. He must have found money for that in a flash. But he didnt bring back a thing for her.
This carried on for a week. The house felt colder everything ringing and strained. Emily stopped making dinner, stopped washing Sams crusty plates (he left dirty dishes on the table, she just ignored them), and refused to wash his clothes.
Theres no powder, shed reply if he grumbled about his shirts. Nowt left, cant buy more.
Sam fumed, tried guilt, then had a go at making her feel bad.
Youve turned stone cold! he yelled that Friday night. I work, Im run off my feet, I come home to a pig sty! No dinner, shirts all wrinkled! What use is a wife like this?!
And what use is a husband, said Emily evenly, staring him right in the eye, who cant sort out basics like food or a scoop of powder? I work too, Sam. Im just as tired. But somehow the shopping and cooking and scrubbing is all on me.
Because youre the woman! Thats your job!
My job is to care for you as long as you care for me in return. Playing this one-way game? Thats over.
On Saturday morning, Emily woke up to the smell of fried eggs and sausage. She found Sam in the kitchen tucking into a full fry-up: eggs, tomatoes, slices of fancy sausage, a steaming mug of coffee, thick wedges of cheese on toast.
He almost choked when he saw her, but quickly tried to play it cool.
Oh, morning. You want some? Found a bit of spare change in my old winter coat, nipped down the shops.
Emily sat down. On the table: a pack of expensive sausage, posh cheese, a dozen of the best eggs. Spare change in his coat, she thought, smirking.
Thanks, but Im not hungry, she lied, wanting to see how far hed go. You eat up. Youll need the energy.
Sam ate, eyes fixed on his plate. He didnt want to look at her, but hunger won out over shame.
Look, Em, he said, cramming in the last bit of toast. Can we stop this now? Borrowed a hundred off Pete. Here. Go and do a proper shop, will you? Make a nice stew or something. We cant go on like this.
He slid a crisp £100 note across the table. Emily looked at the money, then at Sam.
From Pete? How generous of him. How will you pay it back if were so brassic?
Ill sort it! Not your problem. Just get some shopping in.
Emily turned the note over in her hands.
Fine. Ill go to the shop. But Ill buy what I want for myself. You can always get fed at Petes, since hes your new best mate.
Whats that supposed to mean?! Sam snapped, pushing his chair back so hard it nearly toppled. Im giving you money! For us! For the family!
For the family? Emily stood up too, her voice ringing like a bell. But three days ago when you got that £720 in, whose money was that, Sam? All yours? And those thousands in your account whos that for, then? New cars for secret wives?
Sam froze. His face went from grey to red. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again.
You you rummaged through my pockets? You snooped on me?
Dont start with that, Sam. I found the slip by chance while sorting your coat. And you know whats most vile? Not the sneaking around. Not even the lying. Its sitting by while you watch me scrimp, count pennies, go without, wear broken shoes, eat chicken bits while you secretly salt away a fortune! Dont you feel a shred of shame?
I was saving! he roared, thumping the table with his fist. Saving for a car! My old bangers done for! I wanted to surprise you! And you all you care about is money!
Surprise? Emily laughed, bitter. Surprise is buying a car together, deciding together to scrimp for it. What you did that was just mean. You lived off me, kept your pay all safe and sound. You leeched off me, Sam.
Im a bloke, I need a decent motor, dont I? Cant look like a mug in front of everyone! And you with your stupid chicken bits Honestly, a months scrimping, you didnt die, did you?
No, didnt die, Emily said. But a bit of me did. My respect for you. My trust.
She pushed the £100 note back towards him.
Here. Save it for a ticket.
Ticket to where? Sam stammered.
The future. Or your mums. Or some bedsit. I dont care. I wont live with someone who treats me like a mug and a maid.
Youre chucking me out? Over money? Sam blurted, eyes all pain and disbelief. As if a bit of penny pinching for the family good was all just an ordinary bit of married life.
Not over money, Sam. Over respect. Pack your bags.
Sam didnt leave straight away. There was shouting, blaming, apologising, promising her a fur coat with his hoarded cash, more shouting the whole lot. But Emily barely even saw him any more just a petty, selfish stranger.
By the evening, his bag was by the door.
Youll regret this! he spat as he left. Whos going to want you at forty-five? Youll sit here alone with your cats! Ill find someone who values their husband!
Best of luck, said Emily, and closed the door behind him.
When the lock clicked shut, she slid down against the door, totally drained. There were no tears left just a vast, echoing emptiness.
She went to the kitchen. The fancy sausage still sat forlornly on the counter. Emily picked it up and binned it. Then she opened the fridge, now nearly bare save for her tub of chicken gizzards, which shed forgotten.
Its all right, she told herself. At least now I know where my money goes.
A month passed.
Emily strolled home from work, taking her time. May was in the air, lilacs blooming, the scent of fresh grass. She popped into her favourite Waitrose, wandered unhurried down the aisles.
She bought: a little jar of red caviar (on special, but still a treat), a hunk of blue cheese, a bottle of dry white wine, fresh veg, a salmon steak.
At the till she paid by card, never once worrying if it would bounce. Turns out, living alone was a lot less expensive. Bills went down (water, electric all half what theyd been), there was little food waste, and no more give us a fiver for petrol or vanishing cans, cigs, or emergency takeaways.
Back home, she put her music on, cooked her fish, and poured herself a glass of wine, watching the sunset.
Her phone pinged. A text from Sam.
Hey Em. How are you? Fancy a coffee sometime? Ive realised I mucked up. Didnt buy the car. Still got the money. Why dont we start fresh? I miss you.
Emily stared at the screen, took a sip of her chilled wine. She remembered his face, red and shouting about stupid chicken bits. She remembered the humiliation, having to beg for money to buy washing powder.
She deleted the message and blocked his number.
I missed you too, she said to her reflection in the window. Missed myself, the real me. Im never giving that up again.
The next day, Emily bought herself new boots: soft leather, expensive, Italian. And a holiday for two weeks in Cornwall, all paid from the money shed finally been able to save.
Life after divorce, it turns out, doesnt end. It gets richer. And so much more honest.
