So youve got out that dinner set again? I told you I wanted the one with the gold trim, the one Mum gave us for our anniversary. Looks much classier, grumbled Victor, his nose wrinkling as he eyed the plate Clara had just set on the crisp white tablecloth.
Clara paused with a bunch of parsley in her hand, biting back a retort about dishwashers and midnight scrubbing after guests left. But she held herself together. Today was Victors birthday, the big five-oh, and she didnt want to spoil the mood so early in the evening.
Victor, that set seats twelve, and theres only four of us tonight. These are deeper just right for the roast, she replied with a calm smile, arranging sprigs over the jellied starter. Why not check if the gins chilled? Graham and Emily will be here any minute.
Victor grunted something unintelligible and slouched off to the fridge. Clara watched his retreat and let out a heavy sigh. Shed been surviving on adrenaline all week: the end-of-quarter madness at the accountancy firm, and now the marathon preparations for Victors birthday. Hed refused point blank to hire a pub room, declaring, “No one cooks like you, Clara, and paying double for some posh nonsense is crazy.”
It was flattering sort of. But behind his praise lurked simple penny-pinching and a horror of restaurant bills. So Clara had spent three long evenings marinating joints, peeling veg, baking layers for Napoleon cake, rolling up courgette slices with feta for the birthday boys favourite appetiser. Her legs ached, her back throbbed, and thered been no time for a manicure shed slapped on clear polish and hoped for the best.
A ring at the door made her jump.
Ill get it! Victor shouted, his demeanour flipping from gruff to welcoming host in an instant.
Emily swept in, more gliding than walking. Grahams wife Victors best mate always looked like she belonged on the cover of Harpers Bazaar. Slender, immaculate, her beige dress fitted perfectly, her hair styled, her makeup flawless. She carried a little bag from Harrods. Graham trailed behind, loaded down with presents and wine.
Clara, darling! Emily air-kissed her cheek, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume. It smells divine in here! Honestly, I couldnt do what you do. I said to Graham, you want a party? Book a table somewhere nice; I wont go near the cooker manicures too precious.
Clara discreetly tucked her hands behind her back.
Well, someones got to keep the homely touches going, she said, smiling and taking Emilys coat. Come through everythings ready.
The meal began with the usual: toasts to Victors health, talk of presents (Graham gave him a fancy fishing rod hed coveted for months), jokes, laughter. Clara darted back and forth from the kitchen, swapping plates, topping up snacks, making sure glasses were never empty. She barely had time for a forkful of salad and a corner of cheese.
Victor, fuelled by his first glass of gin, loosened up. He leaned back, gazing admiringly at Emily as she expertly forked a piece of fish.
Emily, youre stunning, as always, he pronounced, voice booming. I look at you and wonder: are you a witch? Eat what you like, never gain an ounce. And that dress! Shows a woman who cares for herself.
Emily tossed a perfected curl.
Oh Victor, you flatterer. Its just discipline. Three gym sessions a week, no bread after six, and of course a strict skincare routine. Ive found this amazing cream absolute magic.
There! Victor lifted his finger as if hed discovered the Holy Grail. Discipline! Hear that, Clara? Discipline! And youre always saying youve got no time, youre tired. Emily works too, and look at her like a teenager.
Clara, carrying in a huge platter of roast beef, froze. She ran the accounts for a big firm, managed the house, garden, even helped with grandkids homework. Emily, meanwhile, was a part-time beauty spa manager, no kids, no frantic schedules.
Victor, lets not compare, Clara said gently, careful not to spark a row with guests present. Different lives, thats all. Try the roast I did it with prunes, new recipe.
But Victor was on a roll. Gin had loosed his tongue, and now all his petty gripes and bombastic bravado tumbled out.
Its just roast, he scoffed, forking a slab onto his plate. Foods food. What matters is the vibe… Graham, mate, youre lucky. Go home and youve got a fairy, not some cook in old slippers. Puts a smile on your face. Me? Just pans, frying onions. I told Clara: join a gym, sign up for pilates. She just moans about her back, her blood pressure. All excuses. Pure laziness.
Graham shifted, trying to change the subject:
Come off it, Victor. Your Claras a star in my book. That roast out of this world! Em cant cook for toffee, we survive off ready meals or takeaway.
Exactly! Emily chimed in, but her effort to lighten things only made it worse. I hate cooking, its true. But Ive time for myself. A man should be proud of his wife, Victor, right?
Victor beamed, eyes lingering far too long on his friends wife.
Well said! Proud of his wife! But look at mine He nodded toward Clara, now seated opposite, hands knotted in her lap. You dressed up, did your hair, but theres something tired about you. Like an old aunt. Emilys sparkling, full of life. You look like youre counting pennies at Tesco.
An awkward silence fell. Graham stared into his plate; Emily fiddled nervously with her napkin. Clara felt as if shed been slapped. She remembered Victor moaning yesterday about the pile of shirts not ironed, and her staying up till one just to get him that blue one he now wore while belittling her. The sacrifices; skipping her beautician to buy him that fancy fishing rod, pooling her money with his colleagues for the gift.
Victor, stop, Clara said quietly but firmly. Youve had enough.
I have not! Victor barked. Im telling the truth! You know your friends in trouble but wives, you only know by comparison. I compare, Clara, and you just dont measure up. Why can Graham take Emily out and she turns heads, and I get embarrassed? Seen yourself lately? All puffy and wrinkled. And youre the same age!
Were not the same age, Victor, Clara replied coolly. Emilys thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And she doesnt drag bags of groceries up five flights when the lifts out, while you lounge on the sofa.
Oh, here we go! Victor rolled his eyes. I work! I bring in the money! I have a right to expect my wife lives up to my status. But you? Hen in the kitchen. All you can do is chop salad. Speaking of salad, he jabbed his fork at the bowl of layered herring even your salads bad. Emilys, last Christmas, was light and airy. Yours is just mush. Like you.
That was it. Clara felt a thread snap inside her: twenty-five years of patience drained away, leaving cold steel and empty space.
She stood. Victor kept babbling, oblivious, turning to Graham:
Tell me Im wrong! Wives should inspire, not bore. Dressing gown, slippers, stew night after night. Smothering
Clara picked up the large bowl of herring under a coat a British version shed crafted for the night, heavy with mayonnaise and beetroot, nearly two kilograms.
She walked around the table, stood beside Victor. He finally silenced and looked up at her.
What are you doing? Forgot the salt? Skimped on the mayo?
No, Victor, she said evenly, voice steady as granite. Its just occurred to me youre right. If all Im good for is chopping salad, then perhaps you need it most of all.
Clara upended the bowl.
Time slowed. Grahams mouth fell open in silent astonishment. Emily gasped, hand to mouth. The thick, pinkish mound leaned, then slid with a sticky slop onto Victors lap, right onto his brand-new, pale trousers bought for the occasion.
*Squish.*
It was a juicy, wet sound. Rivers of mayonnaise ran down his legs, beetroot stained the fabric instantly, bits of fish decorated the zip.
For a second, the room was dead silent. Victor gazed at his knees in disbelief, beetroot juice pooling on his beige trousers, painting mad patterns.
What the hell have you done?! he bellowed, leaping up. Clumps of salad tumbled to the carpet and his shoes. You lunatic! These were new trousers! Youre mad!
Clara calmly placed the empty dish back on the table.
Tastes nice, Victor. Fills you up. And, look, completely natural. No chemicals all made with my own hands.
Ill Victor raised his fist, but Graham, finally shaken out of shock, grabbed his arm.
Victor, stop. You pushed her too far!
I did?! I?! Victor was roaring now, waving his sticky legs. I told the truth and she dumps food on my trousers! Clean it! Now! Clean all of it! Crawl and get it done!
Emily, chalk white, shrank into her chair. The party was very much over.
Clara shot her ranting husband a look of utter disgust, as if seeing a pest.
Youll clean it yourself, she said crisply. Or hire a cleaner. You love to boast your status and income pay someone. As for me, Im off. Im going to look after myself for a change. Isnt that what you said to feel inspired?
She strode out. In the hallway, she put on her coat, shouldered her bag. Shouts from Victor and Grahams soothing murmurs echoed behind her.
Clara, are you leaving? Emily hurried into the corridor, mascaraed eyes blinking frantically. Please dont, hes drunk, he doesnt mean it
Oh, he means it all right, Emily, Clara looked at her, but felt no anger, just pity. Hes always thought it. Drinking just made him say it out loud. Thanks for coming, though you opened my eyes.
Clara stepped out into the chilly autumn night. She had nowhere particular to go, but couldnt stay in that flat. She sat on the bench outside, called a cab. To Mums, she told the driver. Her mother had passed two years earlier, but the house was empty, waiting for some final decision. Tonight it found its purpose.
Victor called her over and over that night. Angry at first, then pleading when the gin wore off. She didnt answer. She stopped at a twenty-four hour Tesco Express, picked up a bottle of wine and some chocolate, went to her mothers place, breathing in dust and old books, and for the first time in years just lay on the sofa, not fretting about laundry or breakfast.
For the next fortnight, Victor lived through his own version of hell.
Clara did not come back the next day. Or the day after. She stayed at her mothers, went to work, and in the evenings she booked herself a massage. The very one shed denied herself for three years.
Left alone, Victor discovered food didnt magically reappear in the fridge and socks didnt hop into the washing machine on their own.
He bluffed for three days; eating oven chips, living in jeans (the trousers were ruineddry cleaner refused to guarantee beetroot stains). He moaned to Graham on the phone about Clara being moody and hysterical.
Shell come crawling back, he bragged. Wheres she going to go at her age? Just drama. Ill decide when or if I forgive her.
But day four brought the end of clean shirts. Ironing was foreign and hateful. Day five, stomach cramps from processed ready meals. Day six, no loo roll forgot to buy any.
The flat started to stink. The stain from the salad on the carpet fermented into a rotten mayonnaise-and-fish cloud. The comfort hed taken for granted turned to chaos.
Meanwhile, Clara blossomed. She stopped lugging heavy bags; just cooked for herself and ate sparingly. She began to sleep deeply. At work, everyone noticed.
Mrs Taylor, you look positively radiant! Fallen in love? teased the other accountants.
I have, girls, she replied. At long last with myself.
Two weeks later, Victor lay in wait outside her office. He was unshaven, shirt wrinkled, eyes desperate. In his hands, a pitiful bunch of limp carnations wrapped in cellophane.
Clara… he shuffled nervously.
She stopped and met his gaze with cool detachment.
What do you want, Victor?
Youve had your laugh. Time to come home. Someones got to water the plants. The cat misses you.
Theyd never owned a cat.
Im not coming back, Victor, she said. Ive filed for divorce. Papers will be with you shortly.
His jaw dropped.
Divorce?! Are you mad? Over a sodding salad? A couple of words? Weve spent twenty-five years together!
Exactly. Twenty-five years as your function: cook, cleaner, laundry maid. Never quite a person. You want a fairy, Victor? Find one. Emily, maybe. Though I doubt Graham would appreciate it. Or someone else who flutters around smelling of perfume and never doing a thing. Just remember: fairies dont clean toilets or make stew.
Clara, please! he begged, grabbing her sleeve as passers-by glanced over. I was just being stupid, didnt mean it! What do you wantfur coat? Gym membership? Anything, Ill buy it!
Clara laughed madly bitter and somehow bright.
Gym membership? So I can be your trophy, like Emily, so youre not embarrassed by your wife? No, Victor. I already go for myself. And the coat? Ill buy it, if I fancy one, with my own money. Turns out my salary covers plenty, if Im not splashing out on your flashy fishing rods or posh food for your mates.
But what about me? he stammered. Ill be lost! I cant even work the washing machine, all those buttons
There are instructions online, Victor. Or hire a housekeeper. Im done. Im resigning as your wife. No redundancy payment.
She slipped her arm free and walked toward the Tube station, spine straight, steps light.
Victor stood for ages on the pavement, clutching fading carnations. He remembered that evening: the perfect roast, the warm glow of the lamps, and the moment salad slid down his legs.
Silly cow, he muttered, but it came out weak. Silly old cow
But in the silent, smelly flat, the mountain of dirty plates beginning to fossilise, he knew who the real fool was. He called Graham.
Graham, mate, can I come round for some proper home food?
Sorry, pal, Grahams voice was tense. Me and Emily had a row. I suggested she make some proper dumplings just once, and she blew up accused me of turning her into a cook. Said, “Look what happened to Victor: trouble with his meals, and the wife dumped salad on his groin. Im not risking it.” So Im stuck with Pot Noodles.
Victor hung up and gazed at the stain on the carpet. It looked, oddly, like a heart. A pulpy, ragged, beetroot-red heart.
Six months passed.
The divorce was swift and quiet. Their grown children tried to reconcile them, but seeing their mother glowing and their father perpetually sulking, chose Claras side.
Victor never learned to cook properly. He lost weight, went gaunt, had to shell out for professionally pressed shirts expensive, but what choice did he have? He tried dating, but no one was right. One couldnt fry a burger, another demanded daily restaurants, a third immediately asked his salary and sneered.
Clara celebrated her forty-ninth birthday in a snug little café with her friends. She wore a new dress, her hair freshly cropped.
Clara, do you regret it? her friend asked quietly. All those years together.
Clara stirred her coffee and smiled.
I regret it, she answered truthfully. I regret not dumping that salad on his head ten years earlier. Wasted so much time trying to be perfect for someone who never cared.
She looked out the window. Couples strolled spring streets some happy, some not. But Clara knew for absolute certain: her happiness wasnt tied to how neatly she sliced salami or how many compliments were lavished on someone elses wife. It was hers, always in her hands. And now those hands no longer reeked of onions. They smelled of freedom and expensive lotion.
And the salad? Now she just gets a tub from Marks and Spencer. Only when she fancies it.
