“You can stay if you make dinner for everyone,” her husband smirked.
“That neighbours complaining about the noise again,” grumbled Victor, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. “Says the music was blaring till half eleven last night.”
“Wasnt it?” asked Helen, not looking up from her magazine. “Your mates were belting out songs till the bitter end.”
“So what? It was Saturday. Ive got every right to relax in my own flat.”
Helen said nothing. Arguing with her husband after last nights booze-up was pointless. His head was probably pounding, and his mood was unbearable at the best of times.
“By the way, the lads are coming round again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “Were watching the match.”
“How many?” Helen sighed.
“Five or six. Didnt count exactly.”
Helen closed her magazine and checked the clock. Half two. That meant the chaos would start in a couple of hoursshouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morning, piles of dirty dishes and ashtrays overflowing with stubs.
“Vic, maybe just keep it simple tonight?” she tried. “Just tea and biscuits?”
He emerged from the bathroom, towelling his face.
“Are you having a laugh? What kind of match night doesnt have snacks? The lads will be starving after work.”
“And whos doing the cooking?”
Victor gave her a look like shed asked something ridiculous.
“Who usually cooks? Youre the wife, arent you?”
“I was at the doctors all morning, then running errands, then cleaning,” Helen felt anger bubbling up inside. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Have a kip for an hour, then crack on. Its not rocket science. Just slice some ham, cheese, fry up some potatoes.”
Helen got up from the sofa and trudged to the kitchen. Lunch dishes were still on the table, the sink piled high with pans. And now she had to clear it all and lay out a spread for his mates.
“Maybe we could order something?” she called from the kitchen. “A takeaway or kebabs?”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “Does it grow on trees? Homemades cheaper and tastes better anyway.”
Helen started washing up, scrubbing each plate with unnecessary force. Twenty-three years of marriage, and not once had he ever asked if she fancied a night off or time with her own friends.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed like a proper blokehardworking, serious, didnt drink much. Most importantly, hed promised to cherish her, never let her down.
The first few years, he had. Victor worked on construction sites, came home tired but content. Helen worked at the library, cooked, cleaned, did the laundry. They lived modestly but happily.
Everything changed when he got promoted to foreman. More money, new mates, new habits. First, he stayed out after work, then started bringing colleagues home. At first occasionally, then more and more often.
“Hel, wheres the vodka?” Victor shouted from the living room.
“Top shelf in the cabinet.”
“Theres only one bottle. Thats not enough.”
“Then go buy more.”
“Dont have time. You pop out, since youre doing the cooking anyway.”
Helen set a plate in the drying rack and took a deep breath. Again, shed have to dash to the shop, spending their money on booze for his mates.
“Maybe skip the alcohol?” she tried again. “Just a few beers?”
“Dont be daft!” Victor scoffed, appearing in the kitchen. “Beer? Its a proper match, the lads made time for it. I cant serve them beer like some cheap pub.”
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Cheer up, love. Its just one night. You can lie in tomorrow.”
“Every weekend its just one night,” Helen muttered. “A match, a birthday, or just because.”
“Blokes work hard, they need to unwind. You get that, dont you?”
“And I dont work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Come off it, the librarys not exactly backbreaking, is it? Shelving books, chatting with pensioners. Its more like a hobby.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always dismissed her job like thatlike it was nothing.
“So my jobs a hobby?”
“Pretty much. Quiet, civilised. Meanwhile, Im out there grafting with rough blokes all day.”
Helen stayed silent. No point arguing. Victor never understood that dealing with people was exhaustingsolving problems, helping readers, running kids clubs.
“Fine,” she said finally. “How many, exactly?”
“Told youfive or six. Not sure whos turning up.”
“What time?”
“Kick-offs at six. So theyll roll in by half five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three in the afternoon. Barely enough time to sort a proper spread.
“Give me the money for groceries, then. And a list of what to get.”
Victor dug into his jeans and pulled out a crumpled twenty.
“Enough?”
“For six blokes? Hardly.”
“Then use whats in the freezer. Its packed.”
Helen took the money and went to get dressed. There was meat in the freezer, but it was meant for the week. Tomorrow, shed have to cook dinner all over again.
The shop was ten minutes away. Helen walked slowly, thinking. When had she become a servant in her own home? When had she stopped being a wife and turned into just the cook and cleaner?
At the shop, she filled a trolleyham, cheese, salad bits, crisps, nuts. At the till, the total was over twenty.
“Put the crisps back,” she told the cashier.
The nuts went too. Twenty quid barely covered the basics.
Back home, Victor was sprawled on the sofa, telly on.
“Quick trip,” he noted approvingly. “Whatd you get?”
Helen wordlessly unpacked the bags. Time was short, and there was loads to do.
First, she peeled potatoes and got them frying. Then sliced the ham and cheese, arranged them on a platter. Next, the saladchopped veg, drowned in mayo.
“Any hot food?” Victor asked, poking his head in.
“What did you fancy?”
“Dunno. Sausages? Burgers? The ladsll be hungry.”
Helen checked the clock. Half four. If she started now, she might just manage.
“Fine. But help me set the table.”
“Cant,” Victor waved her off. “Need a shower, smarten up. Cant greet the lads looking a mess.”
Helen pulled meat from the freezer and started mincing. Her hands ached, but she hurried. Guests at half five, and all she had was cold cuts.
Victor did take his shower. She heard him humming, splashing about. Lucky himsoon his mates would arrive, laughing, drinking, watching football. Shed be darting between kitchen and living room, serving food, clearing plates.
When he emerged, the first batch of burgers was sizzling.
“Nearly done?” he asked, pulling on a fresh T-shirt.
“Getting there. Help with the table.”
“Just need a shave, then Ill help.”
But after shaving, Victor flopped into his armchair and turned up the telly.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called from the kitchen.
“Two secs, just finishing the news.”
And at six tomorrow, shed be up for workcomputer classes for pensioners at the library. Setting up, troubleshooting, explaining basics.
Helen flipped the burgers and wondered how many more years this would go on. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everything, never complaining, never asking for help.
“Hel, wherere the glasses?” Victor shouted.
“Bottom shelf in the cabinet!”
“Cant see em!”
Helen dried her hands and went to look. They were right where shed saidhe just couldnt be bothered to check properly.
“Here,” she pointed.
“Oh, right. Missed em.”
Back in the kitchen, the burgers were done. Just the table left. She fetched the good tableclothsaved for special occasions. Though what was special about this? Just another lads night.
At half five, the buzzer rang.
“First arrivals!” Victor cheered. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the intercom and quickly changed into something decent. Wanted to look presentable, after all.
On the doorstep were Steve and Mikeregulars for match nights. Behind them, three blokes shed never seen before.
“Come in, lads!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men shuffled in, hung up coats, crowded around the table. Helen brought out burgers, salad, cold cuts. Victor fetched lager and the vodka.
“Right then, l
