Left me alone at the festively laid table and dashed off to celebrate with his mates in the garage
Are you really leaving now? Just like that, getting up and going? My voice wavered, but I steeled myself so it wouldnt sound hurt, just cold.
James stood frozen in the hallway, one hand already pushing through the sleeve of his battered windbreaker. Instead of his usual house slippers, he was lacing up his old trainers, the ones he wore whenever he planned to tinker with his car. From the kitchen drifted the most tantalising aroma: roast duck with apples a dish that demanded four hours of careful marinating and basting. The dining table, dressed in my finest lace cloth, glittered with crystal glasses. There were salads Id been perfecting since dawn, the vegetables all diced to perfection.
Please, Sophie, dont start he frowned as if nursing a toothache. The lads rang. Marks cars broken down again, carburettors gone. Hes stuck and needs help. Quick job, promise. An hour, maybe ninety minutes, then Ill be back and well celebrate. Your duck wont even have a chance to cool.
Marks car breaks down every Friday at seven oclock sharp I replied coolly, leaning against the doorway. James, its our tenth wedding anniversary today. I left work early. I bought your favourite Shiraz, which cost nearly half my pay packet. I even put on this dress. And now youre off to the garage?
He finally shrugged on his jacket and patted his pockets nervously searching for car keys.
Youre making this bigger than it is. Its just a bit of metal, it needs fixing. Bloke stuff, you know? If Id needed help, Mark would come running too. Dont be selfish. Were not off to the Ritz just some work with the car. Stop sulking, Ill be back soon.
He pecked my cheek brisk, perfunctory, on the run and the front door slammed behind him. The sharp click of the lock echoed through the flat like a pistol shot.
I stood alone in the hallway. Reflected in the mirror was a well-dressed woman with an elegant up-do, in a navy dress that skimmed over flaws and flattered what was left of my figure. Only my eyes betrayed me they were dull and lifeless.
I wandered into the kitchen. The oven timer had switched off, but the fat in the duck still sizzled. I pulled out the heavy tray. The bird was perfect golden, the scent of Bramley apples and spices filling the room. A culinary masterpiece, now wasted on no one.
I carried it through to the dining room and sat at the beautifully laid table. Two plates, two glasses, candles left unlit. Silence pressed on my ears. Somewhere, the neighbours television droned on, but here in my own space there was only emptiness.
I knew he wouldnt be back in an hour. Or an hour and a half. The garage is a Bermuda Triangle. Times different there. First theyll look at the carburettor, then it turns out to be something else. Someone fetches a can of lager, the next bloke drops by with another story a new grandchild, or his cats disappeared and off it goes.
I poured myself a drink. Deep red, earthy. I sipped. Then I carved a piece of duck the leg, the best part. I chewed mechanically, the flavours lost on me. It wasnt panic, not even anger I felt. Only a cold, heavy clarity, as if a veil that had covered my eyes for years suddenly dropped away.
It hadnt been the first time, of course.
Last year, on my birthday, he was three hours late because he helped his mum move a sofa. As if we couldnt have just paid the removal men. But James insisted, Why waste money? Ive got arms. He arrived sweaty, dishevelled, worn out then spent the evening moaning about his back.
Or the summer before? Wed pre-booked a holiday cottage, but the day before leaving, James lent half our holiday stash to Mark again, cos hes got bills and deadlines. Were mates, Sophie; hell pay it back, James promised. Mark repaid it in dribs and drabs for half a year. Our holiday turned into dinner on baked beans, confined to the lumpy sofa-bed, instead of sightseeing or pub lunches.
I stared at the empty plate across from me. Ten years. Tin anniversary. They say tins flexible, but bend it in the same spot enough and it snaps.
I finished the duck, ignored the sides. Then I got up, snuffed the unlit candles, and started clearing up. Salads in the fridge, wine re-corked. I loaded the dishwasher but couldnt bring myself to run it.
At one in the morning, Jamess phone was out of range. At two, I saw now online. I didnt call. I got ready for bed, lay down and turned off the light. Sleep wouldnt come. I stared into the dark, listening to the whirr of the lift.
At half-past three, the key twisted in the lock. James tiptoed in, but every noise was thunder at that hour. He tripped on the cabinet, muttered a curse, then rustled endlessly getting his jeans off. He stank of cheap cigarettes, engine oil, and stale lager. That particular garage reek unmistakable.
He flopped under the covers and tried to drape an arm around me.
You awake? he whispered, his breath sharp and sour against my neck. Soph, Im sorry. It was a right saga it wasnt even the carb, the engine was knackered. We had to take it halfway apart. Elbows deep in grease, couldnt just abandon him. And my phone died no charger.
I pushed right to the edge of the bed.
Dont touch me, I replied quietly.
Come on, dont do this Im here, arent I? Alive, in one piece. So I was late. Well celebrate tomorrow. Well, today. Ill get a cake…
He was snoring within a minute. I got up, grabbing my pillow and quilt, and went to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. The scent of duck still just lingered the ghost of a celebration that never was.
Morning brought not an apology, but complaints. James ambled into the kitchen around noon, puffy and unkempt. I was drinking coffee, checking work emails.
Any chance of breakfast? he asked, rummaging the fridge. Oh, theres some salad left. Brilliant. Wheres the duck?
In the fridge, in a container, I didnt look away from the screen.
Will you heat it up? My heads pounding, need something solid.
I snapped my laptop shut.
No.
What do you mean, no?
I mean, I wont heat it up. Youve got hands those golden hands you used to fix Marks car last night. Use them.
He looked at me, baffled. Usually, after quarrels, Id stay cross for a couple of hours but carried on with the expected wifely duties cooking, tidying, handing things over. It was an unspoken routine: he messes up I sulk he brings some chocolate or says something soft I forgive.
Still harping on about last night? I told you it was an emergency. Thats what mates are for. Youre too clever not to get it. You cant keep a man on a leash.
Im not I replied, evenly. Youre completely free. And so am I. Free from having to look after you after your bender.
It wasnt a bender, it was repairs! he protested, helping himself to salad, eating straight from the bowl with a spoon. Honestly, youre getting all nervous these days. Maybe you need vitamins. Or is it that time of the month?
I studied him really studied as if he were a stranger. This man, chomping through an egg mayo salad and spraying crumbs about: thats my husband. The person I once trusted my life with. I remembered that the flat we lived in was my grans, left to me. James was just a name on the registration. Wed chipped in for the refurb, but really, most of the money had been mine James was always between jobs, or something was broken, or mum needed a hand.
James, I said, low, wheres the money we set aside for the new windows?
He choked on salad.
What do you mean? In the box, surely.
Its gone. I checked this morning. A thousand pounds vanished.
He looked away, his ears glowing red.
Oh, right… yeah, I took it. Yesterday, before Marks. Needed expensive parts, straight away. Lent it to him. Hell pay when he gets his wages.
So, you took a thousand from the joint account, to help Mark fix his old banger, without a word to me? After wed scrimped for months so we wouldnt freeze this winter?
Why make a fuss over paper money? he snapped, slamming the spoon down. Hell give it back he promised. Anyway, Im the man in this house, I make the money calls. What do you want, to sign off every nut and bolt?
Youre supposed to consult me when you dip into our savings pot. Especially since I put in seventy per cent of it.
Oh, so youre counting now? his eyes narrowed. Rubbing my nose in it? Thats low, Sophie, proper low. Thought you were above all that. Youve gone all grasping and petty.
He banged the chair and stormed off to the lounge, where he immediately turned up the telly to show how unimpressed he was with my nagging.
I stayed in the kitchen and felt, in some deep, invisible place, the final string snap. The one holding up this rickety circus called family. I suddenly realised: were never getting those new windows. Mark wont pay us back hes always skint, always has a new problem. And James will go on being the rescuing hero, using money Id scrimped from lunches and lipstick.
A week of cold war passed. Our conversations were strictly practical. James played the martyr, I the nagging wife who moans for no reason. Hed stay out late, come home, eat whatever he found, and go to bed with his back turned.
On Thursday, he turned up home early for once and in a chipper mood, clutching a bunch of chrysanthemums the plebeian kind, sold by the bus stop.
Soph, come on, lets stop sulking he said, offering the flowers. Truce?
I took the bunch and popped them in a vase.
Truce I replied tonelessly. It no longer mattered. The plan in my mind had fully formed.
Brilliant! he beamed. Enough of us moping. Listen, my birthdays on Saturday, remember?
Of course I remember.
Well, Ive been thinking… Skip the pub too expensive, soulless. Lets do it at ours. Ill ask the lads over. Mark, his missus, Tom, a few more six or seven. Youre the hostess with the mostest, right? Youll lay on a spread? Your French-style roast, salads, those nibbles you do. Well have a proper cozy knees-up. They keep going on about your cooking.
I looked into his eyes. Not a shade of doubt in them. After ruining our anniversary, draining the savings (and it was theft, really), and blanking me for a week he thought Id drop everything, run gleefully to the kitchen, and slog for two days just to feed his mates.
All right I smiled. The smile came out strained, but he didnt notice. Invite everyone. They can come at two on Saturday.
Thats my girl! He went to hug me, but I slipped away to straighten the tablecloth. I knew youd come through. Shopping list? Ill get it all.
No need I waved him off. Ill get it myself. I want to surprise you. You love surprises, dont you?
Love them! he grinned. Ill call the lads then.
Friday passed quietly. I really did go shopping, came back with bags. James tried to peek in, but I tapped his hands away: No peeking, its a surprise. All evening, I clattered pots and pans behind a closed kitchen door. The smells… werent the usual. Nothing festive, just bland, boiled things. He decided I must be prepping something intricate.
Saturday morning. James woke up excited. I was up already, smartly dressed in a business suit.
Why so formal? he blinked. Figured youd wear that red dress.
This is simpler for now I said. Guests arriving soon?
Yeah, in an hour. Mark rang, theyre on their way. Ill get scrubbed up.
While he showered and shaved, I laid the table. When he emerged reeking of aftershave, the doorbell rang and the entire gang piled in, arms full of bags clinking with booze.
Happy birthday, mate! Mark bellowed, thumping James. So, whats on your menu? Cant smell owt must be a good fan.
They crowded into the dining room and came to a halt.
The table wore my best cloth. Plates, cutlery, napkins all set to perfection. But the food…
In the centre stood a mountain of supermarket-brand frozen dumplings, glued into a swampy heap. Around them bowls of instant noodles, already soggy and swollen. Instead of cold cuts thick slices of the cheapest luncheon meat, plastic wrapper still clinging in places. The salad bowls held dry croutons from bags, and tins of sardines in tomato sauce, still in their tins, not even plated out.
Whats this? James voice dropped. He gestured at the table. Sophie, this some sort of joke? Wheres the roast? The salads?
Silence fell. Mark glanced between the dumplings, James, and me. His wife pursed her lips.
I stepped into the centre of the room, standing tall, calm, almost ceremonial.
This, James, is a garage-style birthday lunch. You seem to prefer your mates and the garage to family even on our anniversary so I thought Id recreate the scene that means so much more to you. Please, enjoy, all of you. Its what your club deserves.
Are you mad? James hissed, turning beetroot red. Youre making a fool of me in front of everyone! Get rid of this and bring real food! I saw you cooking yesterday!
I did for myself, for next week. Its in the fridge, in containers. This this is for you lot. On the money we had left after you raided the savings.
Mark coughed.
Erm, James, maybe… we should head off. Bit awkward, isnt it…
No ones going anywhere! James barked. Sophie, sort this out. Go into the kitchen, get the proper food, apologise to everyone well pretend this never happened. Or else…
Or else what? I asked, dryly.
Or else I cant promise what Ill do. Youre forgetting your place. My house, my guests.
Your house? I laughed, but there was no warmth, only ice. Lets clarify, shall we, in front of witnesses. This flat belongs to me, solely left to me by my grandmother three years before we were wed. By British law, property acquired before marriage or inherited during is not considered joint. Youre just listed as a resident. Thats right-of-occupancy, not ownership.
James stood stunned. Hed never heard me speak like this more used to gentle talk about recipes and sales, or holiday plans.
What are you on about? I did the kitchen tiles here!
A tradesman did the tiles, paid with my bonus. Ive kept all the receipts and contracts. Your contribution was fetching two bags of grout, then spending a week celebrating in the pub. Any contribution can, if you want, be offset with financial compensation not entitlement to the flat. Especially since youve continually siphoned off household cash for your own benefit. I doubt any court would be on your side.
Sod off! he shouted, losing self-control. Ill call the police, say youre making a scene!
Do, I nodded. Meanwhile, your bags are packed.
I rolled two large suitcases from the bedroom.
Everythings here. Clothes, shoes, your tools from the balcony. Even your favourite mug though its from my crockery set.
The guests started backing out. Marks wife was by the door, yanking his arm.
Well, er, wait outside, mate Mark muttered, vanishing. The others followed.
James stood alone in the middle of the room, with the cold dumplings and his luggage.
Are you serious? he asked, and the fight had gone from his voice, replaced by bewilderment. Sophie, OK, fine, we both lost our tempers. You want Ill kneel! I was a fool, I admit it, Ill pay every penny back. Please, dont chuck me out. Where can I go? My mums? Boxroom?
Thats up to you, James. Youre a grown man. Youve got mates, a garage, a car with a working engine. Live your life as you wish. Just not here.
Youll regret this! he was bubbling again as he packed up. Thirty-eight and freshly single, wholl want you? Ill have a new girl in a week, and youll be here with your cats!
Ill take the risk I said, opening the door. Out you go.
He grabbed the cases, face twisted with rage.
Cow! Money-grabbing bitch! Ill sue for half the furniture! That tellys mine!
The tellys on credit in my name. I have the statements ready. Out, James. Leave the keys on the table.
He hesitated, but my resolve was absolute. He threw the keys on the floor.
Choke on your precious flat!
He lugged his suitcases into the hall and the door slammed shut.
I double-locked it. Slid on the chain. Leaned back against the cold metal and closed my eyes. My heart thudded, hands shaking but strangely, I didnt cry. Instead, a lightness crept in, as if Id shrugged off a ponderous rucksack full of rocks Id carried for a decade, believing that was happiness.
I went back in, scooped the cloth, dumplings, instant noodles, cheap meat the whole lot into a bin bag. No sorting needed. Straight in the bin. I flung open a window, letting out the fishy stink and the stale aftershave.
Then I fetched the remaining wine the expensive bottle, still half-full from that ruined anniversary. I poured myself a glass, sat in the armchair.
My phone trilled. Mums text: Darling, hows the party? Is James enjoying himself?
I replied: Its been the perfect celebration, Mum. His best birthday ever. And the first day of my new life.
Tomorrow, Ill change the locks. And on Monday, Ill file for divorce. It wont be easy. There will be shouting, threats, arguments over the cheese knives, perhaps. But now none of that matters. For tonight, Im not dining alone for the first time in years. Im dining with myself a woman who is clever, strong, and finally respected by the only person who truly counted: me.
