Lizzie, seriously? Rebecca stared at her old cotton dress as if it was some odd antique at a jumble sale. Do you really wear that shabby thing? Even with your husband around?
Lizzie instinctively tugged at her hem. The dress was well-worn, soft after countless washes, and fit her perfectly.
I like it…
Oh, you like it… You like a lot of things, chimed in Claire without looking up from her phone. Sitting at home all day, making soups, knitting tablecloths. Dont you realise youre wasting your youth? You should be living, not just existing.
Rebecca nodded vigorously, making her new earrings thick gold hoops swing invitingly with every movement.
We went to that new restaurant in Mayfair last night, you know, with Tom. It was divine! And I bet you just fried up potatoes again?
Lizzie did fry potatoes. With mushrooms, the way Michael loved them. He returned home shattered from work, ate two helpings, and drifted off against her shoulder while the TV flickered in the background. Lizzie kept that to herself; her friends wouldnt get it anyway.
…Years ago, the trio had married within months of each other. Lizzie remembered that year well: her modest registry office ceremony, Rebeccas grand wedding with live jazz and fireworks, and then Claires celebration, where every guest received a personalised keepsake. Even then, Lizzie noticed the knowing glances exchanged when she mentioned honeymoon plans at Michaels parents cottage in Sussex. Rebecca giggled into her prosecco, and Claire rolled her eyes so dramatically Lizzie couldnt miss it.
After that, their teasing became the constant background noise to every meeting. Lizzie learned to let it wash over her, even though it stung somewhere inside each time.
Rebecca was the sort of woman who lit up every room she entered. Booming laughter, sweeping gestures, and endless tales of who said what to whom. Her flat with Tom was always bustling: friends, colleagues, acquaintances people popped in and out, leaving behind dirty wine glasses and burgundy stains on the pale rug.
Well have at least fifteen round Saturday, Rebecca announced on the phone. Come over! Toms sorting out barbecue.
Lizzie thanked her, but politely declined. Michael wanted peace after his work week, not a kitchen filled with strangers.
Sit in your little burrow, then, snapped Rebecca, her voice tinged with something close to pity.
Tom used to go along with it all initially. He helped set the table, joked with guests, mopped up afterwards. When Lizzie did join those gatherings, she saw his tired eyes, rigid grin, motions not quite his own. He poured wine, chuckled on cue, but his gaze drifted to nowhere in particular.
Why the sour face, Tom? Rebecca squeezed his cheek, right in front of everyone. Smile! Or theyll think Im starving you!
Tom forced a smile. Laughter echoed. Lizzie wondered how long someone could wear a mask before it started to stick. Or before you wanted to rip it off, skin and all.
…Ten years later, the mask shattered. Tom left her for a colleague a quiet woman in accounts, rumoured to bring him homemade pasties for lunch and never raise her voice. Rebecca was the last to know, even though the office had been whispering about it for weeks.
Hes left me, Rebecca sobbed down the phone, a crash and smash in the background. Ungrateful swine! I gave him my best years, and he just walked away!
Lizzie listened in silence. What could she say? That Tom fell asleep every night to the sound of other peoples laughter, woke up to chatter that wasnt his? That a home cant be a permanent party?
After the divorce, Rebecca discovered their flat was still mortgaged, and the pile of loans could have bought a small airplane. Alone, she fought through endless bills, and her lively laugh rang out less and less.
Meanwhile, Claire was building her empire of picture-perfect living. Her social media streams gleamed: dinners out, designer shops, getaways to the coast. Every image, every caption, screamed grateful and blessed. Dennis lingered in the background a blurred figure, bankrolling the glossy front.
Look, Claire shoved her phone in Lizzies face. Kates husband gave her a Cartier necklace. And what about mine? Hell come home with another silly trinket.
Perhaps he enjoys choosing it himself?
Claire gave Lizzie a strange look.
Oh, no. I sent him a shopping list. He can pick from that.
Lizzie stayed quiet. Yesterday, Michael found a novel shed wanted, hunted it down at the local bookshop, wrapped it himself in brown paper. She didnt mention it to Claire; shed just laugh at such poverty.
For five years Dennis kept pace with expectations. Working late, picking up extra shifts, chasing a bar that Claire raised higher and higher. Then he met the clerk at the bookshop divorced, a child, no fancy nails or designer bags. She smiled at him as if he was already enough. No catch, no strings.
The divorce was swift and messy. Claire demanded everything, but got exactly half just as the law dictated. Their savings were drained: spa memberships, endless shop crawls, beauty treatments. Nothing left in the pot.
How am I supposed to live? Claire swirled her tears into her cappuccino at the café. What now?
Lizzie sipped her tea, reflecting that Claire had never once asked how she was all these years. Never asked after Michael, their health, anything outside Claire herself.
Both friends now found themselves in similar straits: no husbands, no money, no glamorous lifestyle. Rebecca took a second job just to keep afloat. Claire moved to a smaller flat and stopped updating her Instagram.
Lizzie simply carried on, as always. She cooked Michaels dinners, asked about his day, listened to difficult meetings and supply chain horrors. She didnt demand gifts, stir up drama, compare him to other husbands. She was just there. Reliable like the walls of their home. Warm like the light in the kitchen window.
Michael cherished that. One evening, he came home with a folder of papers and put them in front of Lizzie.
Whats all this?
Half my business. Its yours now.
Lizzie stared at the documents for ages before daring to touch them.
Why?
Because youve earned it. Because I want you to be secure. Because none of it would exist without you.
A year later, he bought a bright, airy flat with big windows and put it in her name. Lizzie wept on his shoulder, and Michael stroked her hair, telling her she was his treasure. His safe harbour.
The old friends began to visit for tea. Hesitant at first, then more often. They perched on the new sofa, ran fingers over silk cushions, admired the paintings on the walls. Lizzie saw the bewilderment on their faces, the confusion, the poorly hidden envy.
Wheres all this from? Rebecca eyed the lounge.
Michael gave it to me.
Just like that?
Just like that.
They glanced at each other. Lizzie quietly poured coffee and kept her own counsel.
One day, Rebecca couldnt contain herself. She slapped her cup down so hard coffee splashed onto the saucer, and burst out:
Tell me, why? Why did we lose everything, and you, little grey mouse, get to be happy?
Silence settled over the table. Claire gazed out the window, pretending to be disinterested, but her fingers nervously twisted a cheap ring instead of the diamond she used to wear.
Lizzie could have answered. She could have spoken of patience, of noticing the small things, of how happy marriage isnt about grand gestures but steady, daily effort. Of how love is listening, noticing, caring; not demanding, but giving.
But why bother? For twenty years, these women had looked through her, like she was just part of the furniture. Their advice always came down to live it up and dont be so dull. Twenty years, never hearing anyone but themselves.
Must be luck, Lizzie replied, smiling.
After that, their visits dwindled. Then they stopped altogether. Jealousy proved far stronger than friendship, stronger than shared memories, stronger than simple sense. It was easier to walk away than admit theyd been wrong all along.
Lizzie didnt grieve. Strangely, the empty space those friendships left was quickly filled with calm clarity. Like slipping off a tight pair of shoes, able to breathe freely at last.
…Another ten years have passed. Lizzie is fifty-four now, and life is good. Grown children, a grandson, Michael still bringing books in brown paper when he finds something shell love. By chance, an old neighbour told her Rebecca never remarried, works two jobs, and constantly complains about her health. Claire had cycled through three partners, each relationship collapsing in the familiar storm endless grievances, reproach, demands.
Lizzie listened to these updates without spite. She simply listened and reflected how, sometimes, its the quiet grey mice who find true happiness. The sort you dont see from outside, priceless within.
She switched off her phone and began making supper. Michael promised to be home early and had asked for fried potatoes with mushrooms.
