The Perfect Husband: Just Not for Me

The Perfect Husband. But Not for Mine
“Claire, look at him!” her neighbour Florence Whittaker whispered, nudging towards the house opposite. “That’s what I call a proper husband! Buys his wife flowers every week, washed the car at dawn to drive Eleanor to work. Where’s yours?”
Claire mechanically stirred the stew simmering on the stove, not looking up. Across the lane, Anthony Edwards from number seven was evident, carefully planting tomato seedlings while a bouquet of scarlet roses lay on the bench beside him.
“Florence, please stop,” Claire murmured wearily. “Everyone lives differently.”
“Differently? Have a proper look!” Florence retorted, pulling out a kitchen chair. “His garden’s picture perfect, adores his wife, takes his grandkids cycling every weekend. And Eleanor floats around like she’s won the lottery! Met her near the shop yesterday, talked nonstop for half an hour about how Tony massages her feet in the evening.”
Claire winced. Anthony Edwards truly was the paragon men. All the neighbourhood women agreed, the whole street knew it. He cleared snow from the pensioners’ paths as readily as from his own. Helped fix fences, lent tools, never raised his voice to his wife.
“What’s that to me?” Claire switched off the hob and turned. “My Richard is a good man.”
Florence snorted. “Good! Had his music blasting last night till eleven, woke my granddaughter. His van blocked the lane completely the day before, barely left room for Mr. Henderson to squeeze through.”
“He was having a bad day,” Claire defended, though she knew the excuse sounded thin. Richard wasn’t perfect. He forgot anniversaries, left dirty plates in the sink for a week, blew half his wages on fishing gear. Yet Claire loved him. Loved his clumsy attempts at breakfast when she was ill. How he snored in his sleep. The habit of trailing socks all over their bedroom.
After Florence left, Claire went to water the cucumbers in the cottage garden. A quiet conversation drifted over the fence from the Edwards’ house.
“Eleanor, let me fetch you a stool? Don’t kneel there, you’ll hurt your back.”
“It’s fine, Tony, I’ll only be a minute checking the strawberries.”
“Right then, I’ll put the kettle on. Lemon in your tea or jam?”
“Jam, darling.”
Claire couldn’t help but contrast this with her own morning exchange with Richard.
“Richard, breakfast!”
“Alright!” came his shout from the bathroom, then: “Is there coffee?”
“Instant in the cupboard. Find it yourself.”
“Where the devil is it…”
Richard left for work having only toast, couldn’t be bothered to look. Claire berated herself all day for not setting a cup out ready.
That evening, tucking in her visiting granddaughter Lily, Claire heard the child sigh.
“What’s wrong, pet?”
“Nanny,” Lily whispered, “why does Grandad Tony from number seven give his wife flowers every day? Grandad Richard never gives you any.”
Claire sat on the bed, smoothing Lily’s duvet.
“Would you like him to give me flowers?”
“I would! You’re lovely – you read me stories and bake biscuits. Why doesn’t he?”
The childish truth felt like a stab. Lost for words, Claire kissed Lily’s forehead, murmuring, “Sleep tight, darling.”
Meeting Eleanor Edwards in the shop next day, Claire studied her. Eleanor did look radiant. Impeccably groomed in a summer frock, hair perfectly styled.
“Claire! How are you?” Eleanor smiled, selecting tomatoes.
“Fine. You?”
“Wonderful! Tony decided to cook stew tonight. Said I needed a rest. Can you believe it?” Eleanor laughed. “Though I’ll hover, he’d mistake salt for sugar.”
“You’re lucky with your husband,” Claire said, a thread of envy in her voice.
“I am,” Eleanor agreed, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “And your Richard? Heard he bought a new rod?”
“He did. Off to the River Severn most weekends.”
Walking home, Claire imagined Richard occasionally offering her tea or tackling dinner. Instead, the familiar scene awaited: Richard slumped before the telly with a lager, work boots discarded on the floor, a frying pan from his scrambled eggs soaking in the sink.
“Claire, what’s for supper?” he asked, eyes glued to the screen.
“I’ll heat yesterday’s stew.”
“Any meat with it?”
“Bangers in the freezer.”
“Well, get them on then – I’m starved.”
While reheating the stew, Claire pictured Mr. Edwards laying the table, asking if his wife was tired. Over dinner, Richard recounted work woes, complained about his boss, planned his fishing trip. Claire half-listened until she snapped.
“Richard, how about we go to the pictures tomorrow? Or just walk into the village?”
He looked up, surprised. “Pictures? Is something good on?”
“Not sure, we can look. We need to *be* together.”
“I’m heading out with Steve tomorrow. He’s got a spot on the Severn where the pike are biting. Later, yeah?”
“Later” never came. Richard always had something more pressing.
One evening, chatting with neighbours by the steps, Florence was gushing about the Edwards family again.
“Did you see? Tony bought Eleanor a top-notch washing machine! Modern thing with a dryer. New double-glazing too – said he wouldn’t have her shivering this winter.”
“Envious,” sighed Tamara Henderson. “My Stephen only makes promises. Roof’s needed fixing six months, drips into a bucket.”
“Remember their silver wedding anniversary last week?” added Gail Bradshaw. “Tony hired the Lamb and Flag! Thirty guests. Eleanor looked a picture, new dress, hair done proper. His speech! Half the room wept.”
Claire stayed quiet, recalling her birthday. Richard gave her a saucepan set: “Practical, you’ll use them.” No romantic meal, no pub. He’d watched the footie with mates while she washed the new pans.
“Listen,” Florence proposed, “Why don’t we set our husbands straight? Take a leaf from Mr. Edwards’ book. Shows it can be done!”
“Remould them at our age?” Tamara scoffed. “Set in their ways like concrete.”
But the seed was planted in Claire’s mind. Could she try? Make Richard see her need for care?
That night, she found courage. “Richard… can we talk?”
“Course,” he paused his mobile game. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s *up*. Just… I wish you were a bit more attentive sometimes.”
“In what way?” Richard frowned.
“Well… flowers now and then. Help about the house. Go out together like a proper married couple.”
“Claire, we’re grand! Why change?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “I don’t drink away the wage, I’m faithful, I bring home my pay packet.”
“It’s not about that. I need to feel cherished. Not like the hired help.”
Richard sighed, put his phone down. “Claire, we’re not teenagers. Flowers and such? We’re grown-ups.”
“The Edwards are grown-ups. Anthony buys Eleanor flowers, helps around the house.”
Richard grimaced. “Oh, *him*. All show, that one. Plays to the gallery.”
“Why play to the gallery? Maybe he loves her?”
“Let’s not gossip about neighbours, Claire. We do things our way.”
The talk went nowhere. Richard resumed his game. Claire did the washing-up, feeling lonelier than ever.
Leaving the house next morning, she bumped into Anthony Edwards at the gate.
“Good morning, Mrs. Miller,” he greeted politely. “Keeping well?”
“Well
“She politely asked after Eleanor before continuing indoors, finding Richard cheerfully burning toast at the cooker while humming an old Beatles song.”