“You can stay if you cook for everyone,” the husband smirked.
“That bloody neighbours complaining about noise again,” grumbled Victor, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. “Says the music was on till half eleven last night.”
“And 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 a right to relax in my own flat.”
Helen said nothing. Arguing with him after last nights drinking session was pointless. His head must have been pounding, and his temper was unbearable.
“Speaking of which, lads are coming round again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “Gonna watch the match.”
“How many?” Helen asked wearily.
“Five or six. Didnt count, really.”
Helen shut her magazine and checked the clock. Half two. That meant in a couple of hours, the flat would be chaos again. Shouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morningpiles of dirty dishes and ashtrays full of fag ends.
“Vic, maybe skip the drinks tonight?” she tried. “Just have some tea, yeah?”
He came out of the bathroom, drying his face with a towel.
“Are you having a laugh? What kind of match night is it without snacks? The ladsll be starving after work.”
“And whos cooking?”
Victor looked at her like shed asked the most obvious thing.
“Who usually cooks? Youre the missus.”
“I was at the GPs all morning, then running errands, cleaning the flat,” Helen felt anger bubbling in her chest. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Well, have a kip for an hour, then get on with it. Not asking for anything complicated. Just slice some ham, cheese, fry up some potatoes.”
Helen got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. The lunch dishes were still on the table, unwashed pans stacked in the sink. And now she had to clear it all and lay out a spread for his mates.
“Maybe we could order in?” she called from the kitchen. “Pizza or kebabs.”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “Think cash grows on trees? You cookings cheaper and better.”
Helen started scrubbing plates hard, frustration tightening her grip. Twenty-three years of marriage, and never once had he asked if she fancied a night off or time with her own friends.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed solidhardworking, steady, didnt drink much. Most of all, hed promised to cherish her, never let her down.
First few years, he had. Victor worked construction, 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 pay, new mates, new habits. First, he stayed late after work, then started bringing colleagues home. Rarely at first, then more and more.
“Hel, wheres the vodka?” Victor shouted from the living room.
“Sideboard, top shelf.”
“Only one bottle there. Wont be enough.”
“Then go buy more.”
“Cant be bothered. You goyoure cooking anyway.”
Helen set a plate in the drying rack and sighed deeply. Again, shed have to dash to the shop, spend housekeeping money on booze for his mates.
“Maybe skip the alcohol?” she tried again. “Just get a few tins of beer.”
“Dont be daft!” Victor stormed into the kitchen. “Beer? Its the bloody cup final! Lads took the night off special. Cant serve em beer like some cheap do.”
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Cheer up, love. Just one night, eh? You can lie in tomorrow.”
“Every weekend its just one night,” Helen said quietly. “A match, a birthday, or just because.”
“Blokes work hardneed to unwind. You get that.”
“And I dont work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Calling the library work? Shuffling books about all day? Thats not workthats a hobby.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always dismissed her job like thatlike it was nothing.
“So my jobs just a break, is it?”
“Pretty much. Sat in peace, chatting with polite folk. Meanwhile, Im grafting all day on site with rough blokes.”
Helen stayed silent. No point arguing. Victor never understood that dealing with people was exhaustingsolving problems, helping readers, running kids reading groups.
“Fine,” she said finally. “How many exactly?”
“Like I saidfive or six. Dunno whos turning up.”
“What time?”
“Kick-offs six. So theyll roll in by half-five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three now. Barely enough time to sort a proper spread.
“Then give me money for shopping. And make a list.”
Victor fished a crumpled twenty-pound note from his jeans.
“Enough?”
“For six blokes? Hardly.”
“Then use something from the freezer. Its packed in there.”
Helen took the money and went to get dressed. The freezer did have meatbut it was meant for the week. Tomorrow, shed have to cook dinner from scratch again.
The shop was ten minutes away. Helen walked slowly, stewing. When had she become a servant in her own home? When had she stopped being his wife and just become the cook and cleaner?
At the till, the total was over twenty quid.
“Put the crisps back,” she told the cashier.
Then the nuts too. The twenty barely covered basics.
Back home, Victor was sprawled on the sofa watching telly.
“Quick trip,” he noted approvingly. “Whatd you get?”
Helen wordlessly unpacked the bags. Little time left, so much to do.
First, she peeled potatoes and set them frying. Then sliced ham and cheese, arranged them on a platter. Next, the saladchopped veg, dollop of mayo.
“Any hot food?” Victor peered into the kitchen.
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Burgers? Steak? Ladsll want proper grub.”
Helen checked the clock. Half four. If she started now, she might just manage.
“Fine. But help set the table.”
“Cant. Need a shower, smarten up. Cant greet the lads looking scruffy.”
Helen pulled mince from the freezer, started shaping patties. Her hands ached, but she hurried. Guests at half-five, and only cold cuts on the table so far.
Victor did shower. She heard him humming, splashing about. Easy for himmates coming over, laughing, drinking, watching footie. Meanwhile, shed be darting between kitchen and lounge, serving food, clearing plates.
When he emerged, the first batch of burgers sizzled in the pan.
“On track?” he asked, pulling on a fresh shirt.
“For now. Help set up.”
“Just need a shave, then Ill help.”
But after shaving, Victor flopped into his armchair and turned on the telly.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called from the kitchen.
“Gimme a sec. Just catching the news.”
And at six tomorrow, shed be up for work. The librarys new computer course for pensioners startedmaterials to prep, tech to set up.
Flipping burgers, Helen wondered how many more years this could last. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everythingnever complaining, never asking for help.
“Hel, wherere the glasses?” he shouted.
“Sideboard, bottom shelf!”
“Cant see em!”
Helen dried her hands and went to look. They were exactly where shed saidVictor just couldnt be bothered to search properly.
“Right there,” she pointed.
“Oh. Cheers.”
Back in the kitchen, the burgers were done. Just the table left. She took out the good linen tableclothsaved for special occasions. Though what was special here? Just his mates drinking again.
At half-five, the buzzer rang.
“First arrivals!” Victor cheered. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the button, then quickly changed into a clean blouse. Wanted to look decent for guests.
Steve and Mikeregulars for match nightsappeared first. Three others followed, strangers to Helen.
“Come in, lads!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men piled into the lounge, circling the table. Helen brought out burgers, salad, cold cuts. Victor fetched lager and vodka from the fridge.
“Right thento the match!” he toasted.
Glasses clinked; the men drank and dug in. Helen lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching.
“Mrs. Carter, not joining us?” Steve askedalways the polite one.
“Thanks, but theres more to do in here,” she
