My husband told me, Dont argue. And so I didnt argueI stopped agreeing. And thats when it all began.
James waltzed into the kitchen like hed just personally brokered a peace treaty between two warring nations, although, in reality, hed only picked up a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. Since hed been made Acting Deputy Manager a week ago, James no longer walkedhe paraded.
Emily, he said, inspecting my dinner (roasted trout) with the air of a health and safety inspector.
Im exhausted today. Ive been making strategic decisions. So lets agree on something: peace and total acceptance at home. No arguments, please. I just need you to say yes. My brain needs a rest from conflict.
I froze, fork in hand. He was bold, Ill give him that. The fact that we lived in my flat and my salary as a financial analyst meant we barely noticed inflation just made the request all the more charminglike a hamster asking a cat for his own room.
So you want me to be your echo? I clarified, feeling that steely resolve that made me respected at work and mildly feared by James mother stirring inside me.
I want you to acknowledge my authority, he intoned, adjusting the tie hed inexplicably donned for supper. Men are vectors. Women are the atmosphere. Dont bend my direction, Emily.
I looked at him. His eyes gleamed with the pure confidence of someone about to cross the motorway at rush hour.
Alright, darling, I smiled, slicing my fish. No arguments. Only agreement.
Thats when my favourite game began: Beware what you wish foryou just might get it in spades.
The first act of this little ballet unfolded on Saturday. James was preparing for a work team-building eventwhich he called the Summit of Leaders and I secretly dubbed herding the office sheep for sausages.
He fussed in front of the mirror in new trousers hed bought himself, without my input. They were what he considered a fashionable mustard colour, but fit him like theyd been sewn for a kangaroo with a pouch full of joeys. Too loose around the thighs, glued to the calvesit was a sight.
How do I look? he asked, chest puffed up. Stylish? Shows my managerial status?
Normally Id gently suggest he looked more like a circus entertainer than an executive in those trousers. But Id made a promise.
Absolutely, James, I nodded, not looking up from my book. So bold. Everyone will know exactly whos in charge. The colour and fit really showcase your personality.
He lit up.
See! Youre learning, love!
He left looking as proud as a peacock. He returned later, fuming, bright red, and wearing a colleagues jeans. Apparently, during the Tug of Success contest, the mustard marvels had ripped at the seams with the force of a ships sail tearing in a storm.
Why didnt you tell me they were too tight in… key locations? he bellowed, flinging the fabric in a ball.
Oh, darling, but you said they showed off your status. I didnt argue. I suppose your status was just too much for the material.
The real drama began when heavy artillery arrivedJanet, James mother. She came for an inspection, and, buoyed by my newfound compliance, James decided he could say whatever he pleased.
We sat at the table. Janet, hair done in the style of poodle in a breeze and with the eyes of a Crown Court judge, surveyed my living room.
Emily dear, your curtains are a little dismal, she declared, munching on my pie. And looka layer of dust on the rail. A good housekeeper never lets dust settle! James needs a cosy home, not an office.
James, sensing support, chimed in, Shes right, Em. Youre working too hard and the house has slipped. Maybe you should cut your hours. Wed be fine moneywise, now Im in management.
Which was funny, seeing as his managers allowance was barely enough for his petrol and a weekly Greggs. But I remembered: no arguing.
Youre absolutely right, Janet, I replied sweetly. And you, James, too. I do invest too much time in my career. Curtains are the soul of a woman.
There we are! Janet beamed. Youre getting wiser before my eyes.
Thats why Ive decided to let go of our cleaner.
A hush fell. Janet stopped chewing.
What cleaner? James frowned.
Mrs Walsh? The lady who comes twice a week and cleans the place while were at work. You said we should economise; your mum said I should create the homeliness myself. I agree. Ill sack her and do the cleaning weekends.
And… on weekdays? James asked warily.
On weekdays, darling? Well simply enjoy the natural evolution of entropy. Wouldnt want to exhaust myself after a hard day at work.
For the next fortnight, James lived in the throes of domestic realism. Id come in, smile, and curl up with a book. Dishes piled up. Dust, once erased by the cleaning fairy, now blanketed every surface with Siberian dignity. James shirts were no longer crisp, but hung limp and haunted.
Emily, I havent a clean shirt! he groaned one Tuesday morning.
I know, love. I spent last night browsing curtain catalogues, as per your mothers advice. No energy left for ironing. But youre a manager, arent you? Time to delegate the ironing to yourself.
James grabbed the iron, burned his finger, scorched a hole in his sleeve, and pulled on a jumper, looking like a man bested by the system.
The grand finale came when James planned a business dinner at home. Victor Lewisthe actual department head whose chair James was keeping warmand a couple of key colleagues were coming.
Emily, this is my shot, he paced nervously. I need to show Ive a solid home front. Im the man of respectthe patriarch. So: the table must look proper, but traditional. None of your sushi or fancy nibbles. The lads want meat. And no butting into the mens talk. Just serve, smile, and be quiet. No one cares about your thoughts on logistics. Got it?
Got it, I nodded obediently. Proper, traditional, and silent.
And wear something feminine.
Whatever you say, dear.
By evening, I was ready. I donned the most garish floral dressing gown Janet ever gave me (Id saved it for fancy dress), and built something on my head somewhere between a birds nest and the Tower of Babel.
Dinner was jelly (from the supermarketwobbly as James before his boss), mountains of boiled potatoes, and a monstrous roast pork leg that looked like the pig had died of old age and excess. No frills. No napkin rings. Traditional, just as ordered.
The guests arrived. Victor Lewis, a refined man in specs, glanced at my gown in surprise, but said nothing. James blushed so fiercely that he almost merged with our maroon wallpaper.
Come along to the table, dear guests! I trilled, like an enthusiastic vicars wife.
Dinner commenced. James tried to hold court, but tension lingered in the air like a thundercloud. He spouted nonsense about optimising workflows through redeploying man-hours, using words he clearly didnt quite grasp.
James, pardon me, Victor interrupted gently. But if we redistribute as you say, well lose the contract with the Chinese. Emily, whats your view? Ive heard youre the lead analyst at Global Finance?
This was a watershed moment. James froze. His eyes screamed at me: Stay silent!
I smiled sweetly and gazed up at him with utter devotion.
Oh, Victor, dont be silly! I said, jingling my bracelets. How would I know? In our family, James is in charge of all things clever. Hes the vectorIm just the background. My job is boiling potatoes and listening to hubby. Hes banned me from getting involvedsays itll spoil my complexion.
Victor nearly choked on his potato. The colleagues exchanged glances.
James paled. A bead of sweat slipped down his brow.
No, truly, I went on, really getting into it. James says his decisions are at the level of million-pound profits. What would I know with my humble reports? Oh, James, tell Victor about your plan to switch to… what did you call it? Cloud-based Excel?
That was the kicker. The Excel idea was James most notorious disastera running joke at his office, though presented at home as his boldest innovation.
James? Victor removed his glasses and looked at my husband as if he were a curious, but useless, insect. Did you really propose that?
It was… just a theory… James mumbled, face sinking toward his plate. Emily didnt understand…
Hows that, darling? I said brightly. You explained for an hour yesterday how the bosses were fossils and you a visionary. I didnt argue. I agreed!
James jerked, elbowed the gravy boat, and a shiny red tide began to snake toward his trousers. He looked like the captain of the Titanic whod just rammed the iceberg himself.
The guests left in twenty minutes, citing urgent business. Victor shook my hand and said, Emily White, if you tire of boiling potatoes, Ive got a vacancy for Head of Strategy in my team. You have a knack for putting everything in its place.
After the door closed, James turned to me, shaking.
You… you destroyed me! You made me look a fool on purpose!
Me? I peeled off the ridiculous gown. James, I did precisely as you asked. Didnt argue, kept quiet, provided the background. If you looked a fool against that background, perhaps the issue isnt the backgroundits whats in the foreground?
He opened his mouth to start a tirade, but I raised my hand.
And now, darling, listen to me. Please, dont argue. My brain needs a rest from your nonsense. Your things are packed. Your suitcase is in the hallway. Your vector is now directed towards your mothers flat in Croydon, where the curtains are proper and no one will argue.
You wouldnt dare Im your husband!
You were my husband as long as you were a partner. The moment you tried to become a master, you forgot the throne sits on my deeds.
I watched at the window as he loaded his suitcase into a cab. I didnt feel sad. I felt free. The flat smelt of freedomand a bit of roast porkbut that, at least, was easily cleared with a good airing.
Girls, a word to the wise: never argue with a man who thinks hes smarter than you. Just step aside and let him run headlong into the brick wall of reality. The sound of a fallen crown is the sweetest music to a womans ears.
