You dont need much, do you?
How convenient! I pinch every penny, wander like a ghost, and youre planning a restaurant feast for your birthday? Isnt that a bit lavish?
Emma, its a milestone. He should be remembered. You dont turn thirty every day, James retorted.
And a month ago I threw a pretend party, didnt I? I celebrated at home, just fine, and you wont break a sweat.
Emma stared at James with a storm in her eyes, hands clenched at her sides. Rage boiled beneath the surface. It wasnt only that his wish would cost them a hundred pounds. In the same breath she felt like a nameless servant or a penniless relative.
James only confirmed her suspicion.
You yourself said you didnt need much!
She froze, eyebrows arching. Yes, she had said it, but not from a place of comfort.
Right, Emma said slowly. I told you I could do without a new dress, could bake the cake myself, could do my nails without a salon. Because I want to move into my own flat, James! Not because I fancy living in poverty.
James pressed his lips together, displeasure flickering across his face. He seemed uninterested in the heart of the matter, behaving like a petulant teenager: I want it, end of story, and everything else dismissed.
Youre only twentyeight. Your future is wide open. Im at a round number. I want this to be a proper celebration, not just a sitdown.
Emma lowered her gaze. Sitdown Yes, thats exactly what it felt like.
She remembered a whole week spent drafting a menu for her birthday, ticking off ingredients.
She bought vegetables on discount: a little wilted, but still fit for a salad. She chased clearance signs, promo codes, compared prices in every corner shop. She baked a cake from an online recipe, using sour cream and condensed milknot because homecooked was superior, not because she loved baking, but because it was cheaper.
Even with the scrimping, the birthday succeeded. Guests smiled, praised the salads, devoured the homemade pizza with gusto. She smiled too, in an old dress, nails coated with cheap clear polish.
The cash gifts covered almost all the outlay. Emma pretended satisfaction, but later, alone in the bathroom, tears fellpity for herself, fatigue, the endless need to twist things around: the dress, the hair, the family celebrations.
In the three years shed lived with James, thrift had become her second name. She knew how to squeeze extra cashback on a loaf, bought cheap processed cheese instead of proper cheddar, and could spot a genuine bargain from a sham.
Clothes? As long as they were clean and holefree, the label didnt matter. All those looks, images, and brands were luxuries for those who hunt for the cheapest toothpaste, not for those dreaming of a place of their own.
Yes, having my own flat is vital, James supported her. Then you wont be tossed aside on a whim. And you wont have to fork over half your wages on rent.
But Jamess contribution to the household budget stopped at handing over his paycheck. That was, admittedly, a decent sum. Emma feared couples with separate accounts, and even more, women who had to scrape together money for maternity leave. Yet James treated finances like a teenager ready to blow everything on chips and soda.
It was no surpriseEmma calculated every pound for utilities, travel, food. She trimmed expenses to stash a planned amount. She booked haircuts with apprentices to stay within the limit. Sometimes it went badly, but it was always cheap.
They moved toward their goal, though it felt as if they walked side by side on different paths. Emma never told James the price of her effort, never complained, never nagged. She stayed silent when he ordered pizza for lunch, simply because it was easier than the canteen and he wanted a treat.
You know, James I really dont need much, Emma turned her head away. Just a bit of genuine respect. I dont enjoy scrimping, but I do it because I think of our shared future. Yet sometimes I wonder if we have any future at all.
I work, James snapped, nostrils flaring. I bring money home. What else do you want? Do I not deserve a celebration?
Realising she wasnt in a mood for compromise, he retreated toward the bedroom. Emma remained, wrapped in a cheap dressing gown, a single flickering bulb in the chandelier above her, thoughts of a mortgage that seemed forever out of reach at this pace.
Her heart throbbed with hurt and doubt. Was she really overexerting herself? Could James be right?
The next day she met her friend Claire. Emma needed someone to lean on.
Listen, I can see you didnt come over just to admire the linoleum pattern, Claire observed, noting Emmas gloom. Whats happened?
Emma sighed, placed her hands on the table, and recounted the previous night. She explained how it pained her that a dream meant for two was being funded by one, how James placed his own anniversary above her birthday.
Well, youre a clever one, Claire smiled after Emma finished. So youre saving on yourself and expect him to carry you on his shoulders?
Were saving Emma began.
Yes, yes, Claire interrupted. Youre saving, and hes spending. Does he ever deny himself anything? Does he ever thank you for your sacrifices?
Emma shrugged. Her husband wasnt ungrateful; he simply believed thats how things ought to be, that domestic magic runs itself.
Does he know how expensive being a woman is? Claire pressed on. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, cosmetics, decent underwearnot grannys bloomers. Thats just the baseline. Are you his partner or just a convenient mum in a faded dressing gown who does the maths, the organising, the doing?
Stop Emma tried to protest, her voice wavering.
I wont stop. Let me tell you why he boasts about the restaurant. Because he knows youll bend anyway. Youll stitch your own socks to holes, stop dyeing your hair with cheap colour, but youll still bend. And hell feel like a king. After all, its his anniversary in a restaurant.
So what do I do? Emma asked, lost.
Stop being such a softy. Find a lover with a flat. That would solve everything.
Claire!
Fine, fine. A backup plan. Stop skimping on yourself. He wants a restaurant? Good. Let him have it. But you need a dress, shoes, a proper bag, styling, and gold earrings to match. If youre going out, dont show up in tracksuit with stretchedout knees.
The dress is easy. I just need my graduation gown
Emma, are you even listening? Enough with the selfdenial!
Emma exhaled. Switching gears was hard, but she sensed a grain of truth in her friends words.
Alright. Ill try
That morning Emma told James she needed to book a salon appointmentmanicure, haircut, styling. He looked surprised, then shrugged.
Later she called him over and displayed a pair of shoes she liked.
Look at these. Black, versatile. Theyll go with almost any dress, and you can wear them again later.
Eight hundred pounds?! Emma, I could upgrade the whole computer for that!
What can I do? Its my birthday; I have to look nice. The restaurant is the venue. Youll miss out on a gift, but your anniversary will be unforgettable. By the way, Ive already spotted a boutique; take me there, well pick a dress together.
James grunted but didnt argue, perhaps hoping shed change her mind. She didnt. By evening she was already weighing earrings in his presence.
How about these? Theyre lovely and cheaponly twenty pounds. Others of the same weight cost thirty. A matching clutch would finish the look after the dress.
James, eyes widening, seemed to run simple calculations. He swallowed, went pale, and muttered:
Maybe maybe we skip the restaurant Homes fine too.
Emma only gave him a sly smile. They settled on a quiet family celebration. Did they truly make up? Not entirely. Did he grasp anything? Perhaps. What Emma realized, crystal clear, was that until she respected herself, no one else could.
