Enough for you, isnt it?
How convenient you make it seem! I scrape every penny for myself, I wander about like a ghost, and you want to go out to a restaurant for your birthday? Isnt that a bit extravagant?
Helen, its a milestone. It should be a proper celebration. You dont turn thirty every day, her husband Thomas retorted.
And what about what I did a month ago? A makeshift party? I managed a decent home celebration and you didnt flinch.
Helen stared at Thomas with a hard, angry gaze, her hands pressed against her hips. She was livid, not merely because the night out would cost them about a hundred thousand rubles roughly £1,200 but because she felt, in stark contrast, either a powerless servant or a penniless relative.
Thomas only confirmed her suspicion.
You yourself said you didnt need much!
Helen froze, eyebrows arching. Yes, she had said it, but not from a place of comfort.
Right, she replied slowly. I said I could do without a new dress, I could bake the cake myself, I could manage my nails and pedicure without a salon. Because I want, at last, to move into my own flat, Thomas, not because I enjoy being poor.
Thomas pursed his lips, clearly uninterested in probing deeper. He behaved like a petulant teenager: I want this, end of story, and shrugged off everything else.
Youre only twentyeight. Youve got your whole life ahead. Im hitting a milestone. I want it to feel like a real celebration, not just a quiet sitdown.
Helen lowered her eyes. Sitdown thats exactly how it was.
She remembered the whole week she had spent planning the menu for her birthday, ticking off ingredients, hunting for bargains. She bought vegetables on sale a little wilted but still fit for a salad scoured flyers, entered discount codes, compared shop prices. The cake was a copycat recipe from the internet, topped with a cheap cream made of sour cream and condensed milk. Not because she loved cooking, but because it saved a few pounds.
Despite the scrimping, the birthday turned out well. Guests smiled, praised the salads, devoured the homemade pizza. She smiled too, in an old dress with nails coated in a cheap clear polish.
The cash gifts covered almost all the costs. Helen pretended she was content, but later, alone in the bathroom, tears fell tears of selfpity, fatigue, of constantly having to stretch a dress, a hairstyle, a family festivity.
In the three years shed lived with Thomas, frugality had become her second name. She knew how to wring extra cashback from a loaf of bread, bought cheap processed cheese instead of a proper block, and could spot a genuine promotion from a sham one.
Clothes? As long as they were clean and unripped, she didnt care about trends or brands. Those looks and images mattered only to those hunting for a bargain on toothpaste, not to someone desperate for a roof of her own.
Having your own flat is important, Thomas agreed. Then you wont be chased away on a whim, and you wont have to spend half your wages on rent.
But Thomass contribution to the household budget was limited to handing over his paycheck. That was, admittedly, a decent sum. Helen heard whispers of couples who kept separate finances and women who had to save for maternity leave, yet Thomas treated money like a teenager who could spend it all on chips and fizzy drinks.
It was no surprise; Helen was the one who calculated how much went to utilities, transport, food. She trimmed expenses to stash a planned amount. She booked haircuts with apprentices to stay within the limit. Sometimes it went wrong, but it stayed cheap.
They inched toward their goal, but it felt as if they moved side by side rather than together. Helen never complained to Thomas about the effort she poured in, never vented, only stayed silent when he ordered pizza for lunch, citing laziness and a desire to treat himself.
Thomas I really dont need much, Helen finally said, averting her gaze. Just a bit of basic human respect. I hate having to scrimp, but I do it for our future. Yet sometimes I feel we have no future at all.
I work, Thomas snapped, his tone sharp. I bring money home. What else do you want? Do I not deserve a celebration?
Seeing she wasnt ready to compromise, he retreated toward the bedroom. Helen remained, wrapped in a cheap bathrobe, a single working bulb flickering above, thoughts of a mortgage looming, a mortgage they might never reach at this pace.
Her heart ached with doubt. Maybe she was being unreasonable. Maybe Thomas was right?
The next day Helen met her friend Ruth for tea. She needed an ear.
I can see you didnt come over just to admire the linoleum pattern, Ruth said, noting Helens gloom. Whats happened?
Helen sighed, put her hands on the table, and recounted the previous nights argument. She explained how painful it was when a shared dream was funded by only one partner, how Thomas placed his own milestone above her birthday.
Youre clever, Helen, Ruth smirked after she finished. So youre saving on yourself, waiting for him to carry you?
Were saving Helen began.
Yes, yes, Ruth cut in. Youre saving and hes spending. Does he ever deny himself anything? Does he ever thank you for all this?
Helen shrugged. Thomas wasnt ungrateful; he just believed this was how things ought to be, that domestic magic would sort itself out.
Does he know what it costs to be a woman? Ruth pressed on. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, decent lingerienot grannys bloomers. Ive only listed the basics. Are you his wife or his convenient mum in a threadbare robe, the one who does all the counting, organising, and doing?
Stop, Helen tried to protest, lacking conviction.
I wont stop. Let me tell you why he insists on the restaurant. Because he knows youll bend, wear out your shoes, stop dyeing your hair with that cheap kit, but youll still give in. And hell feel like a king, after all, its a milestone at a restaurant.
What am I supposed to do? Helen asked, flustered.
Stop being such a pushover. Find a lover with a flat. That would solve everything.
Ruth!
Fine, fine. Backup plan. Stop scrimping on yourself. He wants the restaurant? Let him have it. But you need a dress, shoes, a matching bag, a proper hairdo, and a pair of golden earrings. If youre going out, you wont show up in a tracksuit with stretchedout knees.
A dress is simple enough. I still have to fit into my graduation gown
Helen, are you even listening? Stop cutting yourself short!
Helen exhaled. It was hard to flip a switch so suddenly, but she recognised a kernel of truth in Ruths words.
Alright. Ill try, she said.
That morning she told Thomas she needed to book a salon appointment manicure, haircut, styling. He was surprised but shrugged. Later she showed him a pair of shoes she liked.
Look, these. Black, versatile. Theyll go with almost any dress, and you can wear them again later.
Eight pounds? Helen, I could upgrade the computers memory for that!
What can I do? Its my birthday, I have to look presentable. The restaurant is a must. As for the dress Ive already scoped a boutique. Take me there, well pick one together.
Thomas grunted, didnt argue. Perhaps he expected her to back down. She didnt. By evening she was already eyeing earrings while Thomas watched, his eyes wide with the faintest of calculations.
How about these? Nice, and cheap only twentyfive pounds. Others of the same weight cost thirtyplus. Well need a clutch to match, but thats after the dress.
Thomas, pale and swallowing hard, muttered:
Maybe we should scrap the restaurant a quiet night at home isnt bad either.
Helen only smiled. In the end they agreed on a modest family gathering. Did they make up completely? Not entirely. Did he understand anything? Perhaps a little. What Helen realised, crystal clear, was that until she respected herself, no one else could.
And so, looking back from the present, she sees how the years of pennypinching taught her a hard lesson: selfrespect is the foundation of any future, and a celebrationno matter how modestshould first honour the person who pays for it.
