My husband declared, No arguments. So, I didnt argueI simply stopped agreeing. And thats when things really started happening.
I still remember the way Charles swept into the kitchen that evening, as though hed just orchestrated a peace treaty between warring empires, when in fact all hed managed to do was pick up a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. His entire stance had shifted, somehow more grandiose and statue-like. Ever since hed been named acting assistant manager at his office a week earlier, Charles didnt just walk anymorehe processed, as if accompanied by a fanfare.
Eleanor, he addressed me, eyeing the baked trout Id just plated for dinner, assuming the air of a Home Office inspector.
Im absolutely worn out today. Strategic decisions. Solets agree: silence and total acceptance at home. No arguments. I simply want you to go along. My brain needs a respite from all opposition.
I froze, fork poised. It was audacious, even fresh. Considering that we were living in my flat, and my salary as a financial analyst smoothened out any bumps of inflation, his command sounded a bit like a hamster demanding its own bedroom from a cat.
So, you want me to be your echo, is that right? I clarified, feeling that dignified inner beast stirthe one for which my colleagues praise me and my mother-in-law regards with wary respect.
I want you to acknowledge my authority, Charles intoned, straightening the tie hed inexplicably donned for dinner. Men set the direction. Women provide the environment. Dont bend my direction, Eleanor.
I looked at him. In his eyes, I saw that rare and blissful confidence usually reserved for those about to dash across the M25 at rush hour.
Of course, love, I smiled, slicing some fish. Not a single argument. Only agreement.
Thus began my favourite game: Be careful what you wish for, lest it actually come true in every literal detail.
The first act of this farce took place that Saturday. Charles was off to a corporate team-building exercisewhich he called a leadership summit and I privately dubbed the annual exodus of office drones to a pub garden.
He was fussing in front of the mirror, admiring the new trousers hed bought without consulting me. They were, in his view, a very fashionable mustard, but they fit him as if tailored for a marsupial expecting triplets. The hips gaped empty, and the calves were wrapped tighter than cling film round a sausage.
Well? he asked, puffing out his chest. Stylish? Does it affirm my managerial status?
Ordinarily, I might have gently hinted that in those trousers he resembled an event entertainer at a small-town circus. But, I had promised.
Undoubtedly, Charles, I nodded, not glancing up from my book. A bold choice. Everyone will know straight away whos the alpha in the room. That colour and cutpositively roar with personality.
Charles beamed.
See? Before, youd have said, Take them off before you embarrass yourself Youre learning, my dear wife!
He left, proud as a peacock. He came back sulking and red-faced, wearing someone elses jeans. Evidently, during the Tug-o-War for Success, his mustard masterpiece tore right down the seam with a sound reminiscent of an empires hope shattering.
Why didnt you tell me they were too small in the vital areas?! he wailed, flinging the tatters into a corner.
But dearest, didnt you say they emphasised your status? I didnt argue. Perhaps your status is just too grand for that fabric.
The real drama began when the heavy artillery arrivedDorothy, Charless mother. She came calling, determined to inspect, and Charles, buoyed by my docility, decided all doors were now open.
We sat at table. Dorothybouffant hair and the steely gaze of a Crown Prosecutorsurveyed my living room.
Eleanor, your curtains are dreadfully bleak, she pronounced through mouthfuls of Victoria sponge. And dust! A good housewife never lets dust settle. Charles needs warmth and comfort, not to live in an office.
Charles, emboldened by backup, chimed in:
Mums right, El. You work too muchthe flats beginning to look uncared for. Perhaps you should knock your hours back? Moneys not a worryIm in management now, remember?
The notion was pure comedy, since his extra management allowance barely covered his petrol and Pret sandwiches. But I held firm: only agreement, no contradiction.
Absolutely, Dorothy, youre both right, I replied meekly. I have focused too much on work. Curtains are definitely a womans face to the world.
There you are! Dorothy crowed. Youre improving by the day.
So, I continued, Ive decided to let our cleaner go.
There was silence. Dorothy stopped chewing.
What cleaner? Charles furrowed his brow.
The lovely woman who comes in twice a week and leaves the place spotless while were out. You insisted we should economise, to reflect your new responsible landlord status. And Dorothys quite righta wife should handle the house herself. So, Im letting her go. Ill do all the cleaning myselfat weekends.
And weekdays? queried Charles, suddenly cautious.
Dearest, well simply enjoy the natural march of entropy. You wouldnt want your wife overtaxed after work, would you?
The next fortnight descended into a kind of domestic realism that Charles found intolerable. Id come home from the office, smile sweetly, and set about reading. Crockery piled up. The glorious dust, which the cleaning lady once efficiently dispatched, now spread with the consistency of a light Yorkshire snow. Charless shirtsusually crisp enough for a boardroomhung about like limp, creased ghosts.
Eleanor, I havent a clean shirt left! he howled over breakfast one Tuesday.
I know, darling. But last night I was busy picking out curtains, as Dorothy advised. Just no energy to iron. But youre a managersurely you can delegate the ironing to yourself?
Charles seized the iron, scalded his hand, burned a hole in his cuff, and, muttering darkly, retreated into a jumper. He looked, frankly, like a man who tried to outwit the system and found it wearing chainmail.
The farce reached a crescendo the night Charles decided to demonstrate his solid home life by hosting a work dinner for Victor Williamsthe real department manager, whose job Charles was mindingand a couple of other dignitaries.
This is crucial, El, Charles flapped about the kitchen. I need to show them Ive a strong home base. Head of a proper family. Food on the table must be ample, but traditional. None of your foreign fancies. Men want proper English fare. And dont join in the conversation. Just serve and smile. Your thoughts on logistics really arent relevant tonight. Understood?
Perfectly, I murmured. Hearty, traditional, silent.
And tryjust this onceto wear something feminine.
If you insist, love.
When evening arrived, I dressed for the occasion. I donned a gaudy floral housecoat, all flouncesone of Dorothys less subtle gifts, saved up for just this sort of carnival. Piled my hair into a monument that was part birds nest, part Tower of Babel.
On the table, I served jellied beef (from the shopwobbling just like Charles before the boss), an Everest of boiled potatoes, and a hulking roast pork leg, looking every bit as though the pig had died directly from gluttony. No stylish touches. No serviettes in rings. Traditional, precisely as requested.
The guests arrived. Victor Williams, a bespectacled, scholarly man, gave me a puzzled look but said nothing. Charles blushed so deeply he almost vanished into the maroon wallpaper.
Come along, esteemed guests! I sang, channeling a village matchmaker.
Dinner began. Charles attempted small talk but tension hung dense, like condemned rain. He blathered about optimising flows by redistributing man-hours, deploying jargon he patently didnt understand.
Charles, forgive me, Victor cut in gently. But if we optimise as you suggest, we risk losing the Chinese contract. Eleanor, whats your take? Ive heard youre the lead analyst at Global Finance?
Moment of reckoning. Charles went rigid. His gaze was thunderous: Dont you dare!
I beamed, gazed admiringly at my husband.
Oh, Mr Williams, dont be silly! I trilled, bracelets tinkling. Charles is the mastermind in our house. Hes the vector! Im just the background. Boil potatoes, obey, look after my skinnothing taxing. Charles reckons womens brains wither from business talk.
Victor choked on his potato. The others exchanged glances.
Charles grew ashen. Sweat made its debut across his brow.
No, truly, I pressed on, relishing the moment. Charles explained just last nighthis decisions run to millions in profit. My humble reports are nothing beside that. Charles, do tell Victor how you suggested we replace our software withwhat did you call it again?Excel in the Cloud?
That was a direct hit. Excel in the Cloud was Charless most infamous proposal, office legend for all the wrong reasons, though at home, he pitched it as genius.
Charles? Victor removed his glasses and studied him as though hed discovered a rare, but pointless, beetle. Did you actually suggest that?
I it was a hypothesis Charles stammered, trying to salvage some dignity, but it was swiftly sliding down into his plate of jellied beef.
How not, dearest? I feigned bafflement. You explained at length what dinosaurs your bosses are, and what a visionary you are. I didnt argue. I agreed!
Charles jolted, elbowed a gravy boat, and watched in horror as a fatty, red puddle set sail towards his trousers. He looked like a captain whod personally walked the Titanic into the iceberg.
The party vanished twenty minutes later, citing urgent business. Victor shook my hand firmly at the door.
Miss White, if you ever tire of boiling potatoes, theres a deputy position in my department. I daresay you have a knack for putting things in order.
When the front door shut, Charles turned, trembling.
You you destroyed me! You did it on purpose! Made me look a complete fool!
Me? I asked, peeling off the ridiculous housecoat. Charles, I did nothing but as you wished. I didnt argue. Stayed silent. Provided your backdrop. If you looked foolish against itperhaps the issue isnt with the background, but the subject?
He opened his mouth but I held up a hand.
And now, darling, listen to me, and pleasedont argue. My brain needs a rest from your stupidity. Your belongings are packed. Your suitcase is in the hall. Your direction now leads back to your mums place in Croydonwhere the curtains are always tasteful, and no one will ever disagree with you.
You wouldnt dare I am your husband!
You were a husband, while you were a partner. The moment you tried to turn lord and master, you forgot whose roof stands under that throne.
I stood by the window, watching him load the taxi. I felt no sorrowonly lightness. The flat smelled of freedom, and a lingering hint of pork roast, but airing out would soon fix that.
Let this be a lesson, ladies: never argue with a man who considers himself much brighter than you. Just step aside and let him run full tilt into reality. The clatter of a crown hitting hard ground is the sweetest melody to a womans ear.
