You cant be serious, Oliver. Please tell me this is just one of those ridiculous jokes of yours. Or maybe the sound of the kettle threw me off and I misheard?
Emily turned off the tap, dried her hands with a tea towel, and gave her husband a slow, pointed look. The kitchen was thick with the scents of steamed vegetables, fresh parsley, and satsumasquintessential whiffs of an upcoming English Christmas. Only six hours to go till New Years Eve. The worktop groaned under the weight of meticulously chopped bits for the potato salad, the oven was working its magic on the duck with apples, and the trifle she toiled over all last night was setting in the fridge.
Oliver loitered in the doorway, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. He fidgeted with the buttons on his tatty house shirta sure sign he knew this was bonkers but was undeterred nonetheless.
Em, please, lets not start, he pleaded, wearing the worlds most hangdog expression. Lauras had a plumbing disasterpractically a tsunami. Well, maybe just a water shut-off, but theres no heating either. Can you imagine facing New Years huddled up for warmth with the kids? Cmon, love, I couldnt just tell them to shiver. They are my boys, after all.
Your boys, yes, Emily tried to sound measured, although inside she was seething. And Laura? Is she suddenly your third child? Why cant she stay with her mother? Or her mates? Book a hotelGod knows your monthly support would easily cover the Ritz for a week.
Mums at the spa, friends are all away, Oliver mumbled, not quite meeting her eye. And anywayChristmas is meant to be a family affair. Itll mean a lot to the boys, having Dad home for a proper party. Well just have a meal, maybe catch the fireworksno big deal. This flats big enough for all of us, isnt it?
Emily surveyed the kitchen, remembering how shed spent a week cleaning, decorating the tree, matching napkins to the curtains, and splashing out on that designer aftershave she knew Oliver would love. Shed daydreamed about this night: candles flickering, fairy lights making the place sparkle, just the two of them, finally celebrating New Years at home with nobody else to please. Instead, her vision was collapsing like a soggy trifle.
We agreed, Oliver, she reminded him softly. We both agreed it would just be us, for once. I dont mind your sonsI never have. Every other weekend, theyre welcome. But Laura? Youve invited your ex-wife to our dinner table. Do you hear how that sounds?
Youre blowing this out of proportion, he attempted bravado, waving it off. Were all grown-ups, arent we? Lauras finea perfectly normal woman who just happens to be the boys mum. Dont be selfish, Em. Its Christmas. Itd be heartless to turn them away. Theyll be here in an hour.
With that, Oliver scarpered out of the kitchen, presumably to avoid a saucepan being launched at his head. Emily slumped against the worktop, appetite vanished. Dont be selfish. The words stung more than any slap. Shed spent three years trying to be the perfect wife: running the house, never objecting to Olivers time with his sons, even tolerating Lauras incessant calls at all hourscan you fix the tap, pick up the cat from the vet, you name it. And this was her reward.
Gritting her teeth, she robotically resumed chopping potatoes. Maybe it wouldnt be so bad. Maybe Laura would be gracious. After all, Christmas was a time for miracles, right?
No such luck. Fifty minutes later, right on cue, the doorbell rang. Emily barely had time to swap her robe for a sparkly dress and throw on some mascara. Oliver dashed to the door, beaming like a newly-polished trophy.
In stormed the whole lotfirst came the boys, ten-year-old Archie and seven-year-old Hugoploughing across the cream carpet in muddy boots. Trailing behind, in high drama, was Laura.
She made her entrance clad in blinding red, her cleavage leading the way, wielding a mountain of shopping bags. The air heavy with her syrupy perfume, which promptly suffocated all trace of festive satsuma.
Well, its about time! she bellowed, shaking snow from her coat straight onto the nice clean hall floor. Traffic was a nightmareI practically chauffeured the cabbie myself! Oliver, grab thesepresents for the boys and proper champagne. Not that cheap swill you pick up off the shelf, darling.
Emily plastered a polite smile across her face as she surfaced.
Evening, Laura. Boyshello.
Laura gave her a sweeping look, lingering a tad too long on Emilys understated dress.
Hello, Em, she drawled. Blimey, its stuffy in hereever heard of a window? And where are my slippers? The pink ones I left here last time you paid me the maintenance, Ollie?
Right you are, Laur, hang on, Oliver mumbled, rummaging in the depths of the shoe cupboard.
Laur? Emilys eye twitched. The ex-wife had slippers at their place? And Oliver knew exactly where?
The circus rolled forward. Archie and Hugo had claimed the sofa, cranking the telly to its limit and using the couch as a trampoline. Emily wincedthe pale new sofa only a week old.
Boys, easy on the sofa, please, she said quietly.
Let them jump, theyre only kids! Laura trilled, sprawling into an armchair. Ollie, fetch us some water, Im parched.
The next hour devolved into the Laura Show. She critiqued the tree (Bit dull, isnt it? In my day, the decorations were actually fun), tutted at the table setting (How many forksare we eating at Buckingham Palace?), shrieked at the boys, then swooned over them the next minute. Oliver darted about on ordersget a cushion, turn it up, turn it down, pass me my phone charger. He barely glanced at Emily.
Emily busied herself laying the table, feeling more like a caterer at someone elses wedding.
Emily! Lauras voice rang from the lounge. Is that potato salad with ham in it? Oh, how, erm, retro. Ollie likes his with beef. Didnt you know? We always did it that way.
Olivers been quite happily eating mine for three years, Emily called back, placing the salad bowl with a decisive thud.
Well, perhaps hes just too polite, Laura laughed. My poor Ollie, suffering in silence.
Oliver, loitering nearby, gave an uneasy smile and said nothingno support, no, Emily is a superb cook. Just silence, reluctant to rile his ex.
First warning bell. The next one came when Emily proudly produced the oven masterpiecea bronzed duck with Bramley apples and prunes, positively glowing.
Tuck in! she said, setting it centre stage.
The boys peeked and pulled faces.
Eugh, its burnt! Hugo declared. Not eating that! Dad, we want pizza!
Thats not burnt, thats crispy skin, Emily tried.
Oh, honestly. Kids dont eat that sort of stuff, Laura sneered, poking at the duck leg. Look at all that fat. And pruneswho puts prunes in a roast? Oliver, order them a pizza. But not just the boys, Ill have some too. I wouldnt risk your birdmy tummys sensitive.
Oliver flashed Emily an apologetic look.
Perhaps shes got a point, Em? The kids deserve a treat. Ill orderwont take a tick.
Youre joking? Emilys voice wobbled. I slaved over this for four hoursmarinated overnight. Its the best thing I make.
Dont be upset, Oliver half-hugged her, but Emily shrugged him off. Just means more variety, eh? Duck and pizzawho says we cant have both?
He was already calling pizza delivery, consulting Laura over toppings like PEPPERONI OR MUSHROOM, YOUR MAJESTY?
Emily sank onto a chair, adrift in a bizarro universe. Her home, her food, her celebrationwhile her husband smugly planned the pizza order with his ex-wife critiquing dinner.
Oh, remember, Ollie, Laura announced, pouring herself bubbly uninvited, that New Year when you dressed as Father Christmas at the holiday camp, and the beard fell off? We howled with laughter!
Oh, absolutely, Oliver laughed, face lighting up. And you were the Snow Maiden, falling flat on your face in the snowdrift.
The memories flowed: funny holidays, buying their first car, Archies first steps. Laughing, interrupting each othertheir past, their nostalgia, with no room for Emily. She couldve been a lampshade, for all they noticed.
The boys charged about and disaster struck. Red wine toppled onto Emilys pristine white tableclotha tragic badge from the hour she spent steaming it. The stain spread, unmissable.
Oh, dear me, Laura exclaimed. Oliver, dont just stareclean it up! Why do you put wine near the kids anyway? Emily, got any salt? Thatll never come out, though frankly, for such a basic cloth, who cares?
Emily stood. The Christmas telly shrieked, but all she heard was white noise. Oliver was on hands and knees, dabbing the stain, completely ignoring her.
At that moment, Emily realised: she was wallpaper. Present, but unseen. There was Laura, the boys, and Olivers guiltthe shadow family to whom he now devoted himself entirely, while Emily was just expected to top up glasses and make herself scarce.
She glided from the lounge; no one noticed. Laura was already regaling them with tales of her mother-in-law, Oliver giggling away.
In the bedroom, the world was quietjust the yellow glow from the streetlamp outside. Emily pulled out her gym bag, movements calm and purposeful. Jeans, a chunky jumper, pants, toiletries, phone charger. And passport. She changed, leaving her sparkly dress in a pile, zipped on boots, and checked herself in the mirror. From the reflection stared a woman who looked shattered, but determined.
As she passed the living room, the pizza had arrived.
Yay! Pizza! came the shrieks.
Ollie, pay the blokeIve only got notes! Laura barked.
While Oliver faffed with the delivery, Emily tiptoed out, quietly shutting the front door behind her. The lift ride was silent until it started to move, and then she finally exhaled.
Outside, fluffy snow was falling. London was warming up for midnight, fireworks crackling in the distance. Emily pulled out her phone.
Sarah, are you up? she asked as soon as her best friend picked up.
Are you daft? Its ten oclock on New Year’s Eve! Ben and I have only just cracked open the fizz. Whats wrong? You sound haunted.
Ive walked out on Oliver. Can I come over?
Good grief. Yes! Ben, set another placeEms coming! Where are you? Ill call you a cab!
Forty minutes later, Emily was curled up in Sarahs snug kitchen. It smelt of cinnamon and pure peace. Ben tactfully vanished to the living room to sort out the telly, leaving the pair alone.
Spill, Sarah said, producing bracing tea with a squeeze of lemon. What did that numpty do now?
Emily told her everything. Lauras plumbing disaster, the potato salad razz, the pizza gate, the torch-lit ex reminiscing over their family memories.
You see, Sarah, its not even about the guests, Emily said, hands wrapped round her mug. Its Oliver. He turned into Lauras butler. I just stood there, invisible, while they played happy families. Why would I stay for that?
Sarah shook her head. Classic nice guy syndromewants to please everyone and ends up betraying his own wife. You did the right thing leaving. If youd stayed, hed never have changedyoud be the doormat forever.
Emilys phone, abandoned on the table, finally came alive an hour later. Theyd clearly just noticed shed vanished.
Oliver. She pressed reject.
And again.
Then came the messages:
Emily, where are you? We cant find you.
Gone to the shop? The pizzas getting cold.
Em, pick upits not funny. The guests are asking for you.
Have you taken offence? Seriously, this is childish. Come home now, Lauras embarrassed.
Emily scrolled through and gave a hollow laugh. Lauras embarrassed. Not a word about his wife being humiliated by her own husband in her own home.
Dont reply, Sarah advised. Let him stew. Let him play waiter for his darling Laur and their cherubs.
Emily turned off her phone.
That New Year, she didnt wish for miracles or make any desperate resolutions at midnight. She just sipped prosecco with her best mate, watched Love Actually reruns, and felt the strangest lightness. As if the rucksack shed carried for three years had suddenly fallen away.
On New Years Day, the sun streamed in, frosty and crisp. Emily woke up to the smell of coffee, checked her phone: fifty missed calls, twenty texts. The tone had shifted from demanding to desperate.
The boys smashed your favourite vase. Sorry.
Lauras had a strop, says the sofas too firm.
Theyve left. Emily, the flats wrecked. Ive no idea where to start.
Emily, love, darling, please forgive me. Im an idiot. Please, call me.
Around noon, the bell rang. Oliver. He looked like hed survived a small war: hair wild, shirt crumpled and wine-stained, shadows under his eyes. He clutched a ridiculously large bunch of roses, no doubt bought from a service station for a scandalous amount.
Sarah, never one to mince words, folded her arms, blocking the doorway. Well, look who it is. Casanova himself. What do you want?
Sarah, please, can I speak to Emily? I know shes here. I need to talk properly.
Emily came to the door. Looking at Oliver, she felt nothingno pity, no vindication. Just exhaustion.
Emily! He moved toward her but stopped when she met his gaze with icy calm. Im so sorry, he blurted. I get it now. It was hell after you left. Laura took over, the boys demolished the flat, the trees gone, she called me a rubbish dad I threw them all into a minicab by 3am.
He paused, searching her face.
I was wrong, Emily. Utterly wrong. I was spineless. Trying to be a good father, I became a dreadful husband. You are my family. Only you. Im beggingplease forgive me. Come home. Its empty without you. Ive cleared upwell, most of it.
Emily glanced at the roses, water still dripping onto the hall floor.
It wasnt just about being offended, Oliver. You showed me where I rankbelow the chef and somewhere above the soft furnishings. You let someone else take over my home and put me down, and you let it happen.
I promise, never again! Oliver fervently declared. Ill block Laura everywhere. Only discuss the boys, and only in neutral spots. No guests, no pop-ins, no daft phone calls in the middle of the night. I will change, I swear.
Emily said nothing for a little while. She could see he was genuinely remorseful, genuinely spooked. But could she ever erase that feeling of being left out in the cold?
Im not coming home today, she finally said. I need some time. Ill stay with Sarah for a bit. And you you go home and think. Not about how to win me back, but about why you let this happen at all. Why your ex-wifes feelings mean more than your own wifes.
Ill wait, he whispered, shoulders sagging. All the time you need. I love you, Emily. I really do.
He laid the bedraggled roses on the hall table and left, shoulders bowed.
Emily returned to the kitchen. Sarah was already pouring another cup.
Well? Will you forgive him? asked her friend.
I dont know, Sarah. Maybe. Hes a good man, just lost his way. But if I do come back, it wont be as the background help. Never again.
She watched the snowy city from the windowthe rooftops blanketed in pure white, like an untouched page. Life moved on, and Emily knew for sure: this time, she had to hold the pen herselfnot hand it to someone still haunted by stories best left in the past.
