Hold on! I havent even finished! I roared, my voice bouncing off the plastered walls of our flat, echoing through the lofty ceilings of the council tower.
Emily stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching a towel so hard her fingers turned white. She turned slowly, the usual calm in her eyes now clouded with a heavy, dark fatigue.
Victor, Im exhausted. Weve been at this for three hours. I have a night shift at the hospital tomorrow, I need to get some sleep.
My shift, love! I gestured wildly, pacing the kitchen, nearly bumping the table with my hip. Exactly! Thats what Im talking about. Youre wrapped up in your patients, the IV bags, the old men who never stop complaining. And at home? Whats the state of things? The husbands not fed, the shirts arent ironed?
Dinners on the hob, the shirts are hanging in the wardrobe, Emily replied, soft but firm. I manage everything.
You call that manage? Those are storebought cutlets, premade meals, arent they? I earn enough that my wife doesnt have to live off a surrogate diet. I want homecooked food, a house that smells of pies, not of the chemicals you haul in from the ward every mile of the way!
Instinctively I sniffed my own cotton robe. All it smelled of was fabric softener. Lately any scent reminded me of the hospital. Since Id been promoted to deputy director of a large construction firm, my expectations had grown exponentially.
Emily, Im the senior sister in the cardiology ward. Its my profession, my life. Im needed there.
People? And Im not needed? Not to the family? I stepped in close, my bulk looming over her. The air carried the faint trace of expensive cologne and a hint of brandy. Listen, Emily. Im fed up. Im embarrassed in front of my colleagues. Every other blokes wife is tidy, hits the gym, does charity work. Mines a nurse. Did you see the look on Mr. Blackwells face when he found out you spend your nights on the ward?
I dont run the ward, I organise the department, she said.
It doesnt matter! I cut her off, slapping the air. Youre support staff. Im status. It doesnt mix.
I paused, savoring the moment as if I were about to hand down a verdict.
Im giving you an ultimatum. Either you file for divorce tomorrow, stay at home, tend to yourself, become my mothers caretaker shes complaining of loneliness, you know and keep my life comfortable, or were done. Choose: your meagre nursing job or a secure family life. I give you until Friday.
I turned and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the dishes in the drying rack rattled.
Emily stood alone in the kitchen, her head pounding. Twenty years of marriage. Wed started out in a tiny dorm room while she was at nursing college and I was at the polytechnic. Shed cleaned toilets at night so I could finish my dissertation without worrying about the freight trains. She remembered us sharing one sausage, thinking it was romantic.
When did the man I married turn into this pompous stranger who saw her only as a function, an inconvenient piece in his perfect picture of success?
She mechanically hung the towel, switched off the light and headed to the bedroom. I was already snoring, stretched out on the kingsize bed. She lay on the edge, curled up like shed done the past six months, trying not to touch me. Sleep never came. The mantra in her head: Either family or work.
In the morning she rose before me, brewed a pot of coffee, made me fish sandwiches on wholegrain bread, just the way I liked them, with no butter. She didnt even take a bite herself.
At work the chaos was the usual: a heavycardiacarrest patient, then a healthboard audit, then endless reports. Emily sprinted around like a hamster on a wheel, but among the smell of antiseptic and the beeping monitors she felt alive. Emily Watson, look at the ECG, nurses called. Thank you, Emily, the patients father is stabilising. Here she was a professional, respected. Emily, could you check this? Thanks, Emily, you saved his life. She was a person of substance.
During lunch her old friend and colleague, Lucy, popped into the staff room.
Emily, why so pale? Blood pressure again? Or has your billionaire boyfriend gone mad?
Emily gave a bitter smile, stirring her lukewarm tea.
Hes given me an ultimatum. Quit, stay home, make borscht. Or divorce.
Lucy choked on her biscuit.
Youre serious? He thinks youre the best nurse in the ward! He cant see you leaving. Youd go mad cooped up in four walls!
He says its shameful to have a nurse wife, Emily replied.
Shameful?! Lucy slammed her cup on the table. When you dragged him home drunk from a corporate party and stayed up all night nursing him back to health, was he ashamed? When you juggled two jobs while he built his business and went bankrupt three times, did he mind? Youre a parasite to him! What do you think?
Emily stared out at the grey rain washing the pavement.
I dont know, Lucy. Its terrifying. Im 43. The flat is in his name; he signed the deed when we expanded. I was foolish, trusted him, signed a waiver. The cars his. I only have my salary and my mum in the countryside. Where would I go?
To your mums, if shell have you. Or a cheap flat. Your salarys decent, enough for one. But endure that humiliation Hell swallow you whole. Stay home and youll be nagged about everything, forced to beg for money for stockings. We all know that sort of lifeowner.
That evening Emily trudged home like a condemned prisoner. I was already lounging in the living room, eyes glued to the massive TV, watching the news.
Whats up? I asked, not even turning when she entered. Thought about it? Fridays two days away.
Victor, lets talk calmly. Why this? I wont quit my job, but I could go parttime
I flicked the TV off and hurled the remote onto the sofa.
No halfmeasures! I said home. Period. I need a wife who greets me with a smile and a threecourse dinner, not a workhorse. And my mother called. She needs care, Ill bring her in a month, into the spare room youve got with your books and sewing machine. Well clear out the junk, put a bed for her. Youll look after her. Use your skills for the family, not for strangers grandparents.
A cold splash of water hit me. My motherinlaw, Agnes, was a forceful, biting woman whod never liked Emily, calling her a country bumpkin. Living under her roof as a servant was the hell Victor was offering as a secure life.
You want me to be a freeofcharge carer for your mother? Emily asked quietly.
Free? Ill give you a household allowance, an extra card for groceries, medicine, even a bit for cosmetics. Whats wrong? Youll live in a plush flat, eating like royalty. Anyone else in your shoes would be over the moon!
Im not anyone else, Victor. Im a person.
Dont get all philosophical! Bottom line: bring your work record to the table Friday night, or pack your bags Saturday.
Midweek crawled by like fog. Emily kept working, smiling at patients, but inside a hollow ringing echoed. She realised she was being cornered.
That Thursday evening I invited a couple of my business partners and their wives over. I gave Emily an hours notice: Set the table, order something from the restaurant, look presentable, and for Gods sake, keep your needle talk quiet.
The night turned into a torment. The partners wives, polished ladies with perfect lips and diamond bracelets, chattered about Maldives holidays, new spas, and their housekeepers.
So, Emily, what do you do? one asked, lazily poking at a rocketsalad with shrimp.
Emily opened her mouth, but I beat her to it.
Emily here is the keeper of the hearth. She does interior design, will soon set up my mothers room, and is a brilliant nurse. I laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, squeezing so hard she thought she might scream. I was lying, smooth and effortless, cloaking the truth of her life.
How admirable! a guest cooed. Its rare to find women who devote themselves to the home these days. Men need a solid backing.
Exactly! I smiled, pouring wine. A strong back. My fortress.
Emily sat, eyes down, feeling herself shrink to a speck on my expensive jacket, something to be brushed away.
When the guests left, I was satisfied.
See? All good. You didnt ruin anything with your silence. Youre clever. Remember, Fridays coming. Youve got no real choice. Who do you need at fortythree, without a home?
I gave her a pat on the backside, as if rewarding her, then slipped into the shower, humming a tune.
Emily stayed to wash the crystal glasses, and suddenly it all clicked. No choice. Hed convinced himself he owned her, that she was just a convenient slipper by the door.
She dried her hands, looked at her reflection in the dark windowa tired woman with sad eyes. Was this all that remained? To spend her life as a footnote to a capricious husband and a tyrannical motherinlaw?
She recalled rescuing a young man whose heart stopped in the emergency ward a week earlier, firing the defibrillator, shouting Charge! The boys mother wept, kissing her hands. Could that be traded for ironing shirts and enduring Agness lectures?
Friday morning, Emily rose as usual. I was still asleep. She didnt brew coffee. She quietly pulled an old suitcase from the cupboardthe one wed taken on our first holiday to Brighton.
She packed only the essentials: clothes, underwear, favourite books, her sewing machine, documents. No fur coat hed gifted her, no jewellery.
As she zipped the suitcase, I shuffled out of the bedroom, rubbing my stomach, and froze in the doorway.
Whats this performance? I asked, yawning. Going to the country house? Moving mum already? Nice initiative.
Emily fastened the suitcase, straightened, met my gaze. For the first time in ages, her look was steady and firm.
Im leaving, Victor.
I laughed, a genuine, booming laugh.
Where to? Into the fridge box? Emily, stop the circus. Put the suitcase down and make breakfast. Im late. And dont forget the divorce papers, todays the last day.
Ive already written them, she said.
I stopped laughing.
Show me.
I filed for divorce on Gov.uk half an hour ago, and Ive asked for a days leave to move. Im not quitting my job.
My face flushed crimson.
Youre joking? A divorce? Youll be left with nothing! Naked, barefoot, out on the streets! Ill take the car! The flat is mine! Youll die by the fence!
The cars not needed; Im fine on the tube. The flats yours; live there if you like. As for die, Im a nurse, Victor. I survive. Ive got a room with a kindly old lady near the hospital. Ill manage.
She grasped the suitcase handle.
You wont get out of this flat! I roared, stepping toward her. Ill lock you in! Youre my wife, you must obey!
Dont come near me, she whispered. If you lay a hand on me, Ill press charges. All the doctors at my hospital are friends. Want a scandal? Deputy director assaults wife? How would Mr. Blackwell rate that?
I froze. The thought of my reputation and that old executive board member, Sir Reginald, hit me like a cold splash. I was a coward; she knew it. I could only be fierce with those weaker than me.
Leave, I spat, saliva flying. Leave! Try to crawl back on your knees and I wont let you! Stay by the door with my mother and I wont open it! Fool! You swapped a nice life for ducks!
I chose myself, she replied.
She slipped past me, avoiding my shoulder, slipped on a coat, and headed for the hallway. Her heart hammered, but her hands stayed steady.
She opened the front door. The stairwell smelled of fried chips and dampness, but to her it was the scent of freedom.
Leave the keys! he shouted after her.
She took the bunch of keys, placed them neatly on the table.
Goodbye, Victor. Theres soup in the fridge for two days. After that, youre on your own. Call my mum if you like.
She slammed the door, cutting off his cries, called the lift. As the cabin descended, her phone buzzed with a bank alert: Your card has been blocked at the cardholders request.
She smiled. Shed expected it. In her bag lay her salary card, half a years savingsshed stopped spending her wages on groceries, knowing this day would come. It wasnt much, but it would cover the first months rent and food.
Outside the rain fell, now feeling cleansing. She breathed deeply. Ahead lay uncertainty: a room with a kindly old lady, long shifts, solitude. No more fear. No more pandering.
A week later Victor turned up at the hospital, drunk and dishevelled. Security wouldnt let him in, and he caused a scene in the reception, demanding that idiot be brought to him.
Emily, in her white coat, approached calmly.
What do you want? she asked, looking at a stranger.
Emily, enough, he slurred. My mums arrived, the house is a mess, the shirts are gone, theres nothing to eat. Come back, Ill forgive you. I was out of line. Ill even let you work parttime.
Around them staff gathered, watching.
Victor, go, Emily said. Ive filed for divorce. Itll be final in a month, no children, no joint assets.
Youll regret it! he shouted, desperate, Youre nothing without me!
Security! Emily called loudly. Remove this man, hes breaching public order.
Two burly guards hauled Victor out, despite his curses and threats, and he was escorted out the door.
Back in the ward Lucy asked, Did he show up?
Yeah, Emily replied.
Regret?
Emily glanced at the steady ECG on the monitor. Life kept beating.
You know, Lucy, she said, smiling, I only regret not doing this five years earlier. Now Im fine. Im breathing.
That evening she returned to her tiny rented room. It was clean, quiet, scented with dried herbs. The landlady, a sweet old lady named Annie, offered her a warm bun.
Sit down, Emily, lets have tea, Annie said.
Emily sat at the simple table, bit into the hot bun. It tasted better than any oyster or foie gras served at Victors parties, because it held no bitterness of humiliation. She was home, at last. Tomorrow her beloved work awaited, where she saved lives, not egos.
