Olivia unlocked the door, dragged her heavy bag over the threshold, and caught her breath. Immediately, a voice called from the living room:
“Liv, finally! What’ve you brought for dinner? And where’ve you been? I’m starving here!”
Her mood, already sour, twisted into a prickly knot. Right—James had spent the day like a king, lounging on the sofa in front of the telly or glued to his console. The floor was still dirty, the laundry untouched. But of course, *she* was the one running late—never mind that the grown man couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger! And money? Oh, it must just magically sprout in the nightstand!
With the weary shuffle of a plumber after a double shift, Olivia marched to the kitchen, unpacked the bags, and—still in her coat—started slapping together dinner. Hunger gnawed at her too. Pots and pans bore the brunt of her irritation, clattering violently.
James listened from the sofa, wincing at the noise drowning out the news. He finally groaned and hauled himself up to investigate.
“Liv, what’s with the racket? I can’t hear a thing!”
She slammed a plate onto the table.
“Eat. And I’ll make as much noise as I like! You wouldn’t know hard work if it punched you in the face!”
James pouted but sat down, attacking the potatoes and beef. Olivia kept banging about, eating standing up. Her question caught him off guard.
“While you were *royally* occupying the sofa, did you even think to start the laundry?”
He threw his hands up.
“Laundry? You’re having me on! That’s women’s work—I wouldn’t know where to start! Last time, you screamed bloody murder because I ‘ruined’ your delicates!”
“*Women’s work*? You’re about as much a man as I am the Queen of Sheba! Couldn’t possibly learn how to press a button in thirty years, could you?” Olivia snarled. James huffed, properly wounded now.
“Liv, that’s out of line! I know you’re cross I’m between jobs, but I can’t just take any rubbish work! A man’s got to find his calling! And you—you treat me like dirt!”
His survival instincts were clearly asleep. Otherwise, he’d have noticed her ominous silence. But no—he plowed on.
“You’re a woman, Liv! You’re meant to be soft, nurturing! Instead, you stomp about like a bloke on a building site! Couldn’t you at least *place* things instead of throwing them?”
A sharp snort escaped her. Still, James—oblivious—finished eating, dumped his plate in the sink, and paced like a politician delivering a speech.
“And you should show me some respect! I’m your *husband*—it’s my right! Look at Sarah next door—she dotes on her Tom, waits on him hand and foot! Never a cross word between them! *That’s* how it’s done!”
He spun by the windowsill and froze. Olivia was squinting at him like a cat eyeing a mouse. In her right hand—cosy as you please—was the cast-iron skillet. Five kilos of solid doom.
“Sarah… and Tom,” she hissed.
The neighbors. A young British-Pakistani couple, gifted a flat by their family. Conservative, but modern—Sarah wore jeans, not a hijab. Still, they kept their traditions.
“You’re right about Sarah,” Olivia purred, tapping the skillet against her palm. “Lovely wife. But you forgot one thing, darling. *Tom.*”
James blinked.
“See, *Tom* leaves at dawn for the construction site, then stocks shelves at his uncle’s shop. Weekends too. Doesn’t ‘find himself’—he *works.* Buys Sarah rings, earrings, dresses—she brags nonstop. Course she fusses over him—he’s her rock! Her *provider!*”
James gaped. Olivia smirked.
“Now look at *us.* Who works two jobs and picks up weekends? *Me.* Who sits at home? *You.* So if we’re comparing—*I’m* Tom. And *you*, Jamie… you’re *Sarah.*”
His jaw hit the floor. This logic was *brutal.* The skillet gleamed.
“So *you* should be the one doting! You’re the ‘man’ in bed, the loo, and the pub—but everywhere else? *Sarah.* And you’re *rubbish* at it! Floor’s filthy, laundry’s moulding, dinner’s unmade—and look at you! Wrinkled shirt, belly pooching—how’s *that* meant to tempt me?”
James stood slack-jawed. Olivia *slammed* the skillet down.
“Right. Dishes. Kitchen spotless. Shower. Then *present* yourself—or I’ll instate a matriarchy so fast you’ll *wish* you’d learned the washing machine!” She marched off, footsteps echoing.
***
Terrified into silence, James yanked on an apron and scrubbed every dish. Slow going—but he managed. Wiped counters, swept floors, even splashed on aftershave. When he tiptoed into the bedroom, Olivia was already asleep.
He edged onto the mattress. Sleep eluded him—nerves. When it came, the nightmare was *grotesque.*
He dreamt he was in translucent harem pants, belly-dancing in the living room. Next to him—*Steve from flat 12* and *Dave from upstairs*, writhing awkwardly. Only *Tom* sat dignified in the corner, casually playing James’ console.
On the sofa, lounging in silken robes, were *Tina, Shaz, Sarah,* and *Olivia*—queen of the lot. They critiqued the performance with brutal honesty:
“*Pathetic. Look at his gut.*”
“*Legs like a yeti!*”
“*That one’s just… sad.*”
They *tried*—gyrating, batting eyelashes, freshly showered, *sober!* No mercy.
Olivia raised a regal hand.
“Off you pop, useless lumps. James—dishes. Steve—hoover. Dave—mend the shirts. *Tom* stays. He’s the only proper man here.”
Tom smirked, turning back to the game.
James woke in a heap on the rug—*fallen* in terror. 5 a.m. He staggered to the kitchen, gulping water. No idea where the valerian was—Olivia always handled that.
***
Morning brought confusion. James—*her* lazy layabout—raced out early, muttering about “errands.” Olivia rolled her eyes and left for work.
The *real* shock came at home.
First—*clean floors.* Before she could process *that*, James’ voice rang from the kitchen:
“Liv! Kettle’s going cold. Bought a cake—you know I can’t cook.”
He peeked out—*clean shirt, proper jeans.* Olivia gaped.
“James… are you *ill?*”
“Right as rain! Celebrating—got a job! Electrician. Tom introduced me to his foreman. Bloody nightmare wiring in these new builds—who lays cables like *that?*”
***
Knitting needles clicked rhythmically. Olivia sat on a park bench, watching the kids.
“Oi, Liv—your Max just overtook my Musa! And he’s *younger!*” Sarah rocked her pram, baby *Ali* snoozing inside. Olivia grinned.
“Well, *Jamie’s* tall—takes after his dad!”
Four-year-old Musa and three-year-old Max chased each other. Sarah nodded.
“Good man, your Jamie—keeper! Tom says he got promoted?”
Olivia preened. “Knows his trade! Who else would they pick?”
Her phone buzzed.
“Best dash—Jamie’ll be home soon. Borscht to warm, quick fry-up! *Max! Home! Dad’s coming!*”
Sarah stood too. “Smart! I’ve got samosas ready. Pop by for the recipe—Jamie’ll love ’em! When’s yours due?”
Olivia rubbed her bump. “Two months. *Girl.*”
Sarah beamed. “Little beauty! With *your* genes—course she will!”
***
James—*James William* now—strolled off-site, smiling at the sunset. *Just* caught those lads before they crossed live wires! Honestly…
He nodded at the crew, heading for his car. Not luxury—but why bother? Reliable, quick, fit the *whole family.* Max *loved* rides.
Olivia promised borscht tonight. *God, yes*—hers was *perfect.* Garlic, lard, *proper* bread. Then, while she tidied, he’d build that Lego set with Max. New ones were *mad* complicated.
Oh—He turned the key, humming as the engine purred to life, already imagining the warmth of home, the smell of fresh bread, and the sound of Max’s laughter ringing through the door.
