Brilliant that you suggested separate finances. In that case, Ill simply keep all of mine for myself.
The moment my husband pushed aside his dinner plate with the countenance of a man served a summons rather than a chicken and mushroom pie, I knew the mood was ripe for another of his grand monologues. Jonathan adjusted his napkin, cleared his throat, and, gazing somewhere through meno doubt picturing a shiny future in the citypronounced with the gravity of a newsreader:
Emily, Ive crunched the numbers. Our budget is buckling, thanks to your lack of financial sense. From tomorrow, well be having separate finances.
Any intrigue fizzled out at once, but the scent of idiocy in the room was as potent as greasy fish and chips. I slowly set down my fork.
Thats jolly good of you to suggest separate accounts, Jon, I replied with the well-oiled cheer of a fox greeting a curious hen. That means Ill just keep hold of all my own money.
Jonathan blinked. In his headresembling a snooker table where thoughts bumped into the cushions once in a blue moonmy words simply didnt quite fit the pocket. He was clearly bracing for tears, perhaps some accusing words, possibly even a row, but certainly not this calm acceptance.
Good girl, he nodded magnanimously, already mentally spending the money he imagined saving on me. Ill start saving for my status. A man needs status, Em. You well, youll have enough for your tights, I suppose.
My husband, Jonathan Peter Smith, was a remarkable man. He firmly believed he was a financial shark, though he merely worked as a middle manager for a double-glazing company in Reading. His idea of status was invariably expressed by purchasing gadgets, using three percent of their features, and quoting motivational memes hed stumbled upon online.
Righto, I nodded. Will you be finishing your pie? Or is that now outside your allowance?
He ate the pie. For free. For the last time.
The first week of our so-called new economic policy was fuelled by pride. Jonathan strutted around the house ostentatiously, acting above questions like how much Fairy washing liquid costs. He bought himself a premium leatherette planner and began jotting down every personal expense.
By Wednesday, he arrived home with a forlorn Sainsburys bag rattling with two tins of cheap lager and a bag of value-range sausage rolls. Meanwhile, I was unpacking my Waitrose delivery: salmon, avocado, a selection of cheeses, fresh veg, a nice bottle of chardonnay.
Jonathan loitered in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the jamb like a battle-weary knight. Living the high life, are you? he said, nodding at the fish. Thats why we never had any savings. Your extravagance.
Not we any more, Jon. Its just me. Youre saving up for your status, after all. By the way, have you found your fridge shelf? The bottom drawers all yours. Good for your… assets.
He snorted, fetched his sausage rolls, and started microwaving them in my Pyrex dish.
Electricity, I remarked, without turning.
What?
The cost of the electricity, the water, the wear and tear on the microwave, a little washing-up liquid. Were splitting everything now, arent we?
Oh come off it, Em, dont be so petty! he waved his hand as though dismissing an annoying fly.
Petty? I asked. No, this is market economics.
He tried to smirk, but a bit of hot sausage roll stuck to his palate, and the resulting grimace looked more like a bulldog licking a lemon.
Youre just miffed Ive closed off my bank card to you, he concluded, picking pastry from his teeth. Women always lose it when they lose control.
On Saturday, his mother popped round for tea. My mother-in-law, Rosemary, is a unique woman. She loves me precisely as much as she despises her sons stupidity. She was once head accountant at a large factory, and respected numbers far more than she ever did people.
We had Victoria sponge with our tea. Jonathan sat across from us, gnawing on his own bargain-brand digestive, hand-picked with loyalty card points, eyes like those of a prisoner.
Mum, honestly, can you believe it? Emily even hides her toilet paper now! I get that rough, one-ply stuff in the bathroom, but shes got some triple-quilted peach-scented thing tucked in her cupboard! Its outright segregation!
Rosemary set her cup down with perfect composure.
Jonny, darling, she began sweetly, what exactly were you thinking when you announced this segregation? With the part of your body for which the papers intended?
Mum! Im just economising! I want to save up for a car!
A car? She raised her brow so high it nearly vanished into her fringe. On the pittance you squirrel away from your wife? Son, youre scrimping on toilet roll so you can drive some clapped-out banger and call yourself king of the M4?
Its an investment! Jonathan squawked.
An investment? Rosemary cut him off. If anything is an investment, its Emily, having the patience to put up with you in her flat. By the way, Em, this cake is heavenly.
Jonathan reached for the cake. My hand, holding the butter knife, gently barred his way.
Thatll be five quid, Jon. Or you can stick with your digestive.
You cant be seriouscharging your own husband? In front of my mum?
The market is merciless, darling. Fork rental, another fifty pence.
Jonathan jerked, blushed, snatched his digestive, and stormed out of the kitchen.
Histrionic, Rosemary muttered. Just like his father. Always hoarding capital until I sent him packing to his mothers with nothing but a suitcase full of pants. Stay strong, love. Now begins the phase: Ill freeze my ears off to spite my face.
After two weeks, the great experiment reached crisis point. Jonathan was thinner, his pride having kept him from giving in. He now sported crumpled shirts (since washing powder and softener were mine; he disdained his own bar of soap), reeked of cheap deodorant, and looked at me with the sad determination of a beaten spaniel still convinced hes a wolf.
The final reckoning came one Friday evening. I came home from work tired but buoyantId landed a bonus. On the table, a surprise: a limp bunch of carnations and a bottle of the cheapest sparkling wine.
Jonathan sat at the table, grinning like a magpie.
Emily, have a seat. We should talk. I think we can ease the terms a little. Im prepared to contributehe gave a dramatic pause£50 a week. For food.
I looked at him. At the wilted flowers, the sparkling wine guaranteed to cause heartburn.
Fifty quid? I repeated. How unspeakably generous, Jon. But theres a catch. I pulled a folder from my bag. Inside was a neatly printed Excel spreadsheet.
Whats that? he frowned.
An invoice, love. For room rental in a central London flat (since you use the lounge and kitchen)£500 a month. Utilities (you do budget for 40-minute showers)£100. Cleaning services (since I clean and you dont)£60. So thats £660 per month. Two weeks comes to £330. Plus wear-and-tear, of course.
Jonathan went pale.
You youre charging me to live in my own wifes flat?!
In the flat of the woman with whom you now have entirely separate finances, I corrected softly. You said yourself: whats mine is mine. The flat is mine, Jon. So, youre now a tenant. And since theres no lease agreement, I have the right to give you 24 hours notice.
Thats mercenary! Thats low! Im the man here! he leapt up, toppling his chair.
Youre the man who decided to economise on his wife, forgetting who pays the bills, I answered quietly, each word like a pebble dropping in a well. You wanted to be a partner? Act like one. Pay your share. Or find out where status goes for less.
He gasped, opened and shut his mouth, waved his arms in protest.
Youll regret this! Im leaving! Ill find someone who appreciates me, not just how many square feet I take up!
Good luck, Jon. And dont forget your sausage rolls from the freezer. Theyre your assetI dont covet whats yours.
He dashed about, stuffing things haphazardly in a holdall, shouting that I was heartless, that Id killed love, that he was plunging out into the cold, cruel world…
Ring your mum for a bed, I advised as I poured myself a soothing glass of chardonnay. And get an Uber Savermustnt let the status slip.
He slammed the door with such exaggerated drama that, if he hoped to rouse my conscience, all he managed was to wake the neighbours dog instead.
The peace in the flat was as sweet as honey. I curled up in my armchair, gazed over the London rooftops, and felt a pleasant, buoyant lightness. My phone chimeda message from Rosemary: Hes here. Furious, starving, demanding justice. I told him that justice is pricey, and he cant afford it. Charged him for supper and a bed. Best to get used to capitalism. You holding up, love?
I smiled and typed back, Doing well, Mum. Planning to buy new curtains with the savings.
Its pointless trying to explain to someone that theyre being a fool. Far more effectiveand educationalto let them pay full price for their foolishness. And if a man proposes your independence, make sure he knows how to stand on his own once you grant it.
