My dear, you do realise Dads back is knackered? said Michael, with all the earnestness of a vicar about to break bad news. He absolutely cant manage the sofa, otherwise hell seize up completely. And Mumshe doesnt sleep well as it is, she needs somewhere quiet and dark. The streetlight beams straight into the lounge! Come on, its just a weekwell manage, wont we?
Emily froze in the act of ladling soup into bowls, the spoon hovering mid-air as Michaels words seeped into her brain like cold gravy on a white shirt. She turned slowly to face him, where he sat at the kitchen table pretending to find the pattern on the tablecloth fascinating.
Let me get this straight, Mike. Your parents are coming for all of Christmas and New Yearfrom the 23rd right through to New Years Day. Fine, we discussed that. But now, youre suggesting we give them our bedroom. Our actual bed. The memory foam mattress we spent two months choosing and paid a fortune for. And we get…the floor?
Well, yes, he said, with the guilty defiance of a spaniel thats just eaten a roast chicken. Its just good manners. Hospitality. Respect for our elders, and all that. I cant put Dad on the camp bed; its poking through with springs.
I know you cant sleep on that thing, Mike. Thats why we dont, Emily replied, steeling herself. But you seem to have forgotten something. I also have a back. Ive got a slipped disc, remember? After that crash. And its not your parents wholl be back at work in a week, doing the annual accounts.
Em, dont start, please, Michael pleaded, as if she were threatening to serve boiled celery for Christmas dinner. Look, Ive sorted it. The sofa stays as it is. And my mate Dave loaned me this double blow-up mattressabsolutely state-of-the-art, honestly, nearly like a proper bed. We’ll put it on the lounge floor. Itll be just like our camping days, only without the rain.
Romantic? Sleeping on the floor? At our age? Emily placed the ladle down, feeling an irritation begin to simmer. Its not a camping trip, its my home. The only place I can sleep properly. And your mum gets up at six and starts crashing about with the pans. If were in the lounge, with only that silly arch to the kitchen, well be up with her, whether we like it or not.
Ill tell her to be quiet, Michael promised, with all the confidence of a man who has never successfully managed to silence his mother. Em, come on, be a sport. Theyve got the train tickets and everything. Theyre coming to see the grandkids. I promised Mum theyd be comfortable: Dont worry, itll be like a palace, youll sleep like royalty, I said.
Oh, you promised, did you? Emilys tone had the calm of a woman contemplating murder. So you didnt care what I thought? Just went ahead and donated our bedmy only refugewithout asking?
I was only trying to do the right thing! Michael snapped indignantly. Why make me out the villain? Its just for them, Em! Theyre old!
Naturally, it ended in an argument. Emily retreated to the bathroom and stared at her reflection for a solid ten minutes, negotiating with her pride. She loved Michael, loved their poky little flat, regardless of the mortgage. But visits from Dorothy always left her in meltdown. The woman treated assertiveness as a competitive sport, and Roger, gentle but seriously high maintenance, could spot a speck of dust from twenty yards.
Emily knew shed lost. If she said no, Dorothy would launch a vendetta, and Michael would mope around sighing like a Victorian ghost.
The build-up to their arrival felt like moving house. Emily cleared all her clothes out of their wardrobe, cramming party dresses and work jackets onto the coat rack in the hall. She hid her decent toiletries in the bathroom cabinet; Dorothy loved nothing more than poking about, sampling creams, then criticising them.
See? Room to spare! Michael announced, pumping air into the monstrous blue inflatable mattress in the lounge. The sound was like a jet taxiing for take-off. Bouncy castle luxury!
Emily eyed it with the suspicion of someone whos just discovered an animal nesting in the sofa. A chemical whiff of plastic filled the flat.
Luxury, eh? The sheets will slid right off, you know, and the floors freezing.
Well put a wool blanket underneath. Proper snug! Michael replied, utterly undaunted.
On 23rd December, the doorbell rang at 7am precisely. In stormed Dorothy, swathed in an enormous faux fox hat, radiating the energy of a bingo caller at full volume.
At last! It was like being shaken inside a biscuit tin on that train, and the guard was a right misery, she boomed, casting her eyes around. Emily, dear, you look pale. Are you ill, or just tired? Roger, mind the suitcase, theres chutney jars inside!
Roger manhandled two vast bags over the threshold, eyes darting in search of slippers.
Come in, take your coats off breakfasts ready, said Emily, forcing a smile despite her sleep-deprived headthe previous night had been spent rushing through her end-of-year report.
First on Dorothys list: a military inspection of the bedroom.
Well, its tidy, she observed, running a finger along the headboard. Curtains are rather drab, if you ask me. The mattressmemory foam, is it? Looks hard as a park bench. Roger, go on, give it a try, see how your back gets on.
Obediently, Roger collapsed onto the marital bed, still in his travel-worn trousers. Emily bit her tongue with heroic restraint.
Sort of alright, he grunted. Bit odd, these weird sausage pillows. Dont you have any decent feather pillows?
No, Roger, we prefer ergonomic onesfor your neck, Emily responded as politely as she could manage.
Hmph. We survived thirty years with feathers and never did us any harm, sniffed Dorothy. Anyway, where are you two sleeping, then? The lounge?
Yes, Mum, the lounge. Got a state-of-the-art blow-up mattress. Deluxe, Michael puffed.
The day unfolded in a blur of kitchen prep, salad chopping, and Dorothys Olympics-standard chat about ailments, neighbours, and who was on the telly last night. Emily soon felt like a paid skivvy. The moment she tried to sit down with a coffee, Dorothy called out: Emily, love, the tea towel in the kitchen needs changing, or Emily, did you remember brown bread? Roger wont touch white.
The night was a test of endurance.
The supposed King of Comfort mattress was, in actuality, an instrument of torture. If one of them shifted, the other bounced into orbit. Plastic squeaked with every movement, and the sheet wriggled into a knot after an hour. No matter how many blankets, the floor leaked cold up through the lot.
Emily lay under the twinkling glow of Christmas lights from outside, listening to Michael snore and feeling her spine protest. The mattress gave no support at all; she felt like she was in a poorly strung hammock.
At 3am, Roger shuffled through to the bathroom, slippers slapping. Thirty minutes later, Dorothy followed to get water. With only an archway, every trip meant the hallway light pierced straight into their faces.
By the morning of Christmas Eve, Emily was stiff and sore, her neck refusing to turn and her back punctuated by sharp complaints.
Morning, everyone! Dorothy proclaimed, gliding out in a silk dressing gown that, Emily noted sourly, shed bought her as a present two Christmases ago. We slept beautifully. Such peace and quiet. Mattress a bit hard, though, Rogers backs given him gyp. Shouldve gone for something softer, really.
Emily silently reached for the cafetiere, grinding coffee as if it were Dorothys bones.
Whats happened to you two? You look rough as old boots, Dorothy asked, eyeing them with concern. Didnt get on with the floor?
Were fine, Mum. Just not used to it yet, Michael yawned, massaging his arm.
Oh, when youre young you can sleep anywherebrick wall, park bench, doesnt matter! Dorothy cackled. Emily, dear, do you put pickled gherkins in your potato salad? I always use fresh cucumberits lighter. And whats this mayonnaise? Far too thick…
Emilys hand trembled around the spoon.
Dorothy, she said, barely above a whisper, I make potato salad the way my family likes it. If you want it different, you can chop your own. Cucumbers right there in the fridge.
Lengthy, awkward silence. Dorothy pouted. Michael shot Emily a rabbit-in-headlights look.
Theres no need for that tone, Dorothy managed. I was just offering some advice. Roger, did you hear that? Not allowed to speak at my own sons house.
Emily Michael began.
Im having a shower, Emily cut him off, and left the kitchen.
In the bathroom, her favourite shampoo had mysteriously migrated to the highest shelf, replaced by Dorothys endless tubs of this and that. There was even someone elses hair on her flannel. The final straw hit when she opened her skincare drawer: her best anti-ageing creamone she’d scrimped and saved to affordhad a bloody great hole scooped out of it.
She stormed back to the lounge, waving the near-empty pot.
Dorothy, did you use my face cream?
Oh? That one? Dorothy didnt even glance over from the TV. Yes, Rogers feet looked like cracked old bricks after the journey, so I grabbed something moisturising. Lovely cream. Bit rich for my taste, but did the job. Surely you dont mind?
On his feet? Emilys voice slipped into a hiss. That cream costs £110.
WHAT? Dorothy shrieked. £110 for a pot of gunk? Michael, are you hearing this? Whats your wife wasting your money on? And we help buy you socks!
Its my money, Emily replied icily. I earned it. That was my personal cream.
Oh, well, we know where we standit starts! Just because we needed a bit for heels… Dorothy huffed.
Michael hovered helplessly, looking from Emily to his mum. Emily, she didnt know. Well just get you a new one. Come onits Christmas.
That was it for Emily; her composure finally went POP, just like the mattress should have. Days of biting her tongue, only to watch Michael try to keep all parties happy, the horrors of that inflatable atrocity, Dorothys smug smilea perfect storm.
Youre right, Mike. It is Christmas. And for once, I wont spoil it with my grumpy moods or stinginess, Emily said, with calm finality.
She picked up her handbag and stepped into the hallway.
Where are you going? Michael demanded.
Out. Ill be back, she replied.
She escaped to the street, letting the icy air clear her head. Out came her phone. She found the website for that luxury spa hotel shed daydreamed about for ageseven though Christmas prices required a lottery win. Right now, she didnt care.
One suite left. King-size bed, jacuzzi bath, breakfast in bed. Click. Booking confirmed. Half her savings evaporated in seconds. She felt nothing but relief.
Ten minutes later, she was back in the flat. Dorothy was ostentatiously sniffing smelling salts in the kitchen.
Emily walked to her heap of clothes, methodically packed them into an overnight bag.
Em, whats going on? Michael asked, genuinely befuddled.
Im going to a hotel, she said simply.
What? Why? What about Christmas? The family? Us?
You she zipped her bag and turned to face him can celebrate the way you promised. Your parents have the bed. You two can have all the hospitality you could wish for. Enjoy the romance of that magic mattress. I just want to sleep like a grown-up and wash without mystery hairs in my sponge.
Youre leaving me? With them? Michaels voice sounded strangled. Em, you cant! What’ll I tell Mum?
Just tell her Im a selfish spendthrift who ran off to pamper herself. Shell love it. Plenty to complain about.
Emily, dont do this! he yelped, grabbing her arm. I mean…this is our homeyours and mine!
Exactly. And since I cant get any peace in my own home, Im going to buy myself some. Ill be back the 27th, after theyve gone to see your Aunt Liz, or the 1st if not. I havent decided.
Dorothy, hearing the commotion, poked her head round the door. What on earths going on at this hour?
Stay out of it, Mum! Michael snapped, for the first time all day.
Im off for a rest, Dorothy, Emily beamed. Enjoy! There are leftovers in the fridge, and the turkeys ready to pop in the oven. Merry Christmas!
She slung on her puffer coat and strolled out, the sounds of drama building behind herDorothy in full voice, Michael floundering. She barely heard.
The hotel was silent, scented with pine and someones very expensive perfume. Reception handed over a key with a gracious smile.
Emily entered her suite and almost wept with pleasure: a huge bed with white linen. Silence. No hints of cooked onion or PVC. She flung down her bag, ran a foamy bath, ordered prosecco and strawberries. Bliss.
Her phone buzzed and buzzed: Michael, Dorothy, even Roger sent a guilt-trip text: Emily, come home. This isnt right. She switched it off.
She saw in Christmas Eve draped in a fluffy bathrobe, sipping bubbly, watching festive fireworks from a tenth-floor window. Shed never spent Christmas by herself, anddare she admit it?this was easily the best in years. No shouting. No running about. Just…peace.
On Boxing Day she woke at noon, her back pain gone. She got a massage and a swim. Only at tea-time did she check her phone.
Ten missed calls from Michael, plus one long text:
Em, Im so sorry. I was an idiot. The mattress deflated at 3am. I ended up sleeping on the bare floor. Mums been having a go at me all morning for losing my wife and Rogers glum. The turkey burnt because no one could use the timer. I finally get how tough Ive made things for you. Please, come back. Well swap it all aroundyou get our bed, or well put them in a hotel. Anything. Please!
Emily allowed herself a smile. No, Michaelsometimes you need the lesson to stick.
She returned on the 27th, as planned. She let herself in to utter chaos: wellies in the hallway, washing-up mountain in the kitchen.
Michael was slumped on the limp blue mattress, looking as if hed spent Christmas in a skip. He sprang to his feet as soon as he spotted her.
Youre back! he gasped, as though hed witnessed a miracle.
Dorothy charged out from the bedroom, looking determined but slightly cowed.
Had a nice time, did we? she began, but faltered under Emilys impassive gaze.
Emily, radiating wellness, placed her bag down.
So. Good Christmas?
Horrible! Dorothy wailed. Michaels caught a chill, theres been nothing but takeaway, my digestions in bits! And you left us high and dry!
I didnt leave you, Dorothy. I just let you all have that comfort you were after, Emily said sweetly. You had the bedroom. I found some comfort elsewhere, so I could come home nice and calm.
Mum, enough, Michael interjected, firmly. He went to Emily and squeezed her hands. Weve talked it over. Dad agreesit was daft. Were moving their stuff into the lounge. I sorted the sofa, put a board under the springs, its fine now. The bedrooms yours again.
Emily arched her eyebrow. Michael fixed the sofa himself? Two nights on the floor really are transformative.
And what about Dads back? she asked innocently.
Oh, apparently its fine if he sleeps alright, Roger called cheerfully from the kitchen. We might go visit Beryl and Ron on the 29th anyway.
Dorothy opened her mouth, but stared at her resolute son and quietly content daughter-in-law, and finally, just shrugged. Do as you please. Raised a proper henpecked son, I have.
That night, with the parents relegated to the lounge (and turns out, the sofa was bearable with ingenuity), Emily and Michael returned to their bed.
Did you really spend all that money on a hotel? Michael whispered.
I did. Best money I ever spent.
Ill replace it, I swear. Out of my January pay.
Forget it. Consider it the tuition fee for a crash course in boundaries.
He nuzzled her shoulder, contrite.
Next Christmas, Ill never ask you to sleep on the floor. I promise. And Ill buy you that creamit really did cost £110?
Absolutely. Hold you to that. Oh, and please bin that wretched mattress.
I already have, he chuckled. With scissors. By mistake. Sort of.
And finally, safe back in her own bed, Emily was home again. Her borders restored, her sanity renewed, and yesit turns out self-respect is worth more than any luxury face cream going.
If youve ever found yourself in this pickle, do give this a like or a follow. And tell me in the commentshow would you have handled things in Emilys slippers?
