Brilliant suggestion about separate finances. That means Ill just keep all thats mine, then.
When my husband pushed his plate aside at dinner, looking as though Id served him not shepherds pie but a court summons, I realised: we were in for a headline speech. James straightened his napkin, cleared his throat and, gazing somewhere beyond meno doubt into his shining capitalist futureannounced, Emma, Ive done the sums. Our finances are collapsing thanks to your lack of monetary discipline. From tomorrow, were switching to separate finances.
The suspense fizzled out before it began, but the idiocy hung in the air, sharp as the smell of fried kippers. I slowly put my fork down.
Wonderful idea, James, I replied, offering him my best python greeting a volunteer rabbit smile. In that case, Ill just keep everything thats mine, shall I?
James blinked. In his mindwhich always reminded me of an empty snooker table where thoughts occasionally ricocheted with a loud thudmy words simply refused to pot. He was ready for tears, accusations, maybe even a tantrumnot quiet agreement.
Good girl, he nodded, with that patronising air, already mentally spending the pounds he imagined hed save on me. Ill start putting money aside for my status. A man needs status, Emma. As for you youll manage for tights and such.
My husband, James Edward, was a fascinating sort. He possessed a rare skill for fancying himself a business shark, while working as a mid-tier sales manager at a double glazing company. His version of status usually meant buying gadgets whose features hed never quite figured out and reading those inspirational quotes online.
Agreed, I nodded. Would you like to finish your shepherds pie, or is that not in your new budget?
He ate it. For free. For the last time.
The first week of our new economic policy passed entirely under the banner of pride. James strutted around the house like a prize cockerel, deliberately avoiding questions about the cost of laundry powder. He bought himself a luxury leatherette planner and started jotting down expenses.
On Wednesday, he brought in a crumpled carrier bag containing two cans of cheap lager and a pack of discount frozen pies. Meanwhile, I was unpacking a delivery from a proper supermarket: salmon fillets, avocado, cheese, fresh veg, a nice bottle of Chablis.
James stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning in with the air of a weary soldier. Living it up, eh? he muttered, nodding at the fish. Thats why weve got no savings. Splurging everywhere. Not we, Jamesme, I replied, slicing a lemon. Youre saving up for status, remember? Oh, by the way, did you claim your fridge shelf? The bottom ones freeperfect climate for your assets.
He scoffed, took out his frozen pies and boiled them in my saucepan. The gas, I noted, back still turned. What? Gas, water, pan wear-and-tear, washing-up liquidsince were splitting everyones share?
Oh, Emma, dont be petty! he waved a hand grandly, as though swatting away a pesky insect. Penny-pinching doesnt suit you. Penny-pinching, James? Thats just the nature of market forces.
He tried to laugh but managed only a pained grimaceas if a pug had stolen a lemonwhen a piping-hot pie clung to his palate. Youre only annoyed because I cut you off from my card, arent you? he decided, prizing pastry from his teeth. Women always lose it when they lose control.
On Saturday, we had a visit from Susan. My mother-in-law is one of a kind. She loves me about as much as she despises her sons daft ways. Once the head accountant at a big factory, she put more faith in figures than in most people.
We had tea and eclairs. James sat opposite, gnawing his plain dry biscuit (bought on special offer) and looking every bit the martyr of his own regime.
Mum, you wont believe it, Emma actually hides the loo roll now! he complained, desperate for maternal solidarity. Just look! Coarse stuff in the bathroom for me, triple-ply, peach-scented rolls in her cupboard! Its discrimination!
Susan gently set her cup down. James, darling, she began sweetly, when you declared discrimination, what were you thinking withthe bit the loo rolls for? Mum! Im managing the household budget! Im saving for a car! A car? Her eyebrow vaulted high enough to vanish into her fringe. With the pennies youre stashing away from your wife? Son, youre scrimping on toilet paper to buy a second-hand rust bucket and parade about like King of the B-road? Its an investment! yelped James. Investment? Susan snapped. Thats Emma, who puts up with you in her own home. By the way, Em, this cakes divine.
James tried to take a slice. My hand, gently but firmly wielding the butter knife, blocked his advance. Five pounds, James. Or stick with your biscuit. Youre serious? Charging your own husband? In front of my own mother? Capitalism is tough, darling. Oh, and fork rentals a quid.
He jerked, turned bright red, seized his biscuit and darted out of the kitchen. Drama queen, observed Susan. Takes after his father. He hoarded every last asset until I sent him packing to his mums with just a suitcase of pants. Chin up, love. Next comes the cutting off my nose to spite my face phase.
After another fortnight, the experiment was at crisis point. James was thinner, looked weary, but would die before surrendering. He wore creased shirts (my detergent and conditioner were off-limits; he despised his own soap), reeked of cut-price deodorant, and gave me the soulful look of a dog who still fancies himself a wolf.
The finale arrived on a Friday evening. I came home from work, drained but pleasedbonus day. On the table sat a bunch of limp carnations and a bottle of discount sparkling wine.
James was waiting at the table, beaming like a freshly-polished fifty-pence piece. Emma, sit down. We need to talk. Ive decided to ease the terms a little. Im ready to contribute to the joint budget he paused theatrically, fifty pounds. For food.
I looked at him. At the sad flowers that looked like relics from the eighties. At the cheap wine that gave me heartburn at a glance.
Fifty pounds? I asked. Such stunning generosity, James. However, theres just one thing. From my bag, I pulled a folder. Inside was a neatly printed Excel sheet.
Whats that? he asked warily. An invoice, darling. For living expenses. Take a look: rent for a room in a central London flat (since you use both the lounge and kitchen) £250 a week. Utilities (with all those forty-minute showers) £50. Cleaning (I do it, you dont) £30. Thats £330 a week; for the last two weeks, you owe £660. Plus a bit more for wear and tear on the appliances.
James went sheet-white. You youre charging me to live in my own wifes flat?!
In the flat of the woman with whom you have separate finances, I corrected gently. You said: Whats mine stays mine. Well, the flat is mine. That makes you a tenant. And since theres no lease, I could evict you with 24 hours notice.
Thats mercenary! Thats just cruel! Im the man! he bellowed, knocking over his chair. Youre a man who tried to save money on his wife and forgot he was living off hers, I replied calmly, each word like a dropped brick. You wanted to be my equal? Then pay up. Or find somewhere status is cheaper.
He choked with outrage, tried to say something, flapped his hands.
Youll regret this! he finally spat. Ill go! Ill find a woman who values me, not how many square feet I take up! Good luck, James. And dont forget your frozen pies from the freezertheyre your asset, not mine.
He darted about, stuffing things into a bag, shouting that I was a money-grabbing wretch, that Id destroyed love, that he was heading into the night, into the cold
Ring your mum, have her make up a bed, I suggested, pouring myself a glass of that good Chablis. And book an UberX, save your status.
He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows, perhaps hoping to rattle my conscience. If so, he only succeeded in waking the neighbour downstairs.
The peace that settled over my flat was sweet as honey. I sat in my armchair, watched Londons night lights, and felt impossibly light. My phone pingeda message from Susan: Hes here. Grumpy, hungry, demanding justice. I told him justice is costly, and hes skint. Sent him a bill for dinner and a bed. Let him get used to the market. How are you?
I grinned and texted back: All fine, Mum. Planning to shop for new curtains. With the money Ive saved.
Never explain to a man why hes a fool. Its far more effectiveand educationalto let him pay for his own stupidity at the going rate. And if a man suggests financial independence, just make sure hes ready to survive when you give him exactly that.
