“You can stay if you cook for everyone,” the husband smirked.
“That bloody neighbours complaining about the noise again,” Victor grumbled, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. “Says the music was on till half eleven last night.”
“And wasnt it?” Helen asked without 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 stayed silent. Arguing with him after last nights bender was pointless. His head was probably pounding, and his temper was foul as ever.
“By the way, the lads are coming round again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “Watching the match.”
“How many of them?” Helen sighed.
“Five or six. Didnt count exactly.”
Helen closed the magazine and checked the clock. Half two. That meant chaos would erupt in a couple of hoursshouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morning, piles of dirty dishes and ashtrays full of fag ends.
“Vic, could we skip the feast tonight?” she tried. “Just have tea?”
He stepped out of the bathroom, towel in hand.
“Are you having a laugh? What kind of match night is it without snacks? The ladsll be starving after work.”
“And whos doing the cooking?”
Victor looked at her as if shed asked the stupidest question.
“Who always cooks? Youre the missus.”
“I was at the clinic all morning, then running errands, cleaning the flat,” Helen felt anger bubbling in her chest. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Have a kip for an hour, then crack on. Its not rocket science. Slice some ham, cheese, fry up some spuds.”
Helen got up and trudged to the kitchen. The lunch plates were still on the table, the sink piled high with pans. And now she had to sort it all out before setting the table for his mates.
“What if we order something?” she called from the kitchen. “Pizza or kebabs?”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “Think it grows on trees? You cookcheaper and tastier.”
Helen scrubbed the plates harder than necessary. Twenty-three years married, and not once had he asked if she wanted a night off, or to see her own friends.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed solidhardworking, barely touched a drink. Most of all, hed promised to cherish her.
The first years were like that. Victor came home from the building site tired but cheerful. Helen worked at the library, cooked, cleaned, washed. They scraped by, but they were happy.
Everything changed when he got promoted to foreman. More money, new mates, new habits. First, late nights at the pub. Then bringing the lads home. At first, just now and then. Then every weekend.
“Hel, wheres the vodka?” Victor shouted from the living room.
“Top shelf in the cabinet.”
“Only one bottle left. Wont be enough.”
“Go buy more, then.”
“Cant be arsed. You goyoure sorting the food anyway.”
Helen placed a plate in the rack and took a deep breath. Again, shed have to run to the shop, spend their money on booze for his mates.
“Could we skip the alcohol?” she tried again. “Just get a few cans of lager?”
“Dont be daft!” Victor stormed into the kitchen. “Lager? Its the bloody cup final! The lads made time specially. Cant serve them piss-water.”
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Cheer up, love. Just one night. You can lie in tomorrow.”
“Every weekend its just one night,” Helen said quietly. “A match, a birthday, or just because.”
“Blokes work hard. Need to let off steam. You get that, dont you?”
“And I dont work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Calling the library work? Shuffling books about? Thats not workthats a hobby.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always said it like thatlike her job was nothing.
“So my jobs a hobby?”
“Course. Sat in peace, chatting with posh folk. Me? Im on-site all day with rough lads.”
Helen said nothing. No point arguing. Victor never understood that dealing with people drained her, that she solved a hundred little problems daily, ran kids reading clubs.
“Fine,” she said finally. “How many exactly?”
“Told youfive or six. Dunno whos coming.”
“What time?”
“Kick-offs six. So theyll drift in by half five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three PM. Barely enough time to sort a decent spread.
“Give me the money for shopping. And a list.”
Victor fished a crumpled twenty from his jeans.
“Enough?”
“For six? Hardly.”
“Use whats in the freezer, then. Loads in there.”
Helen took the money and got dressed. There was meat in the freezerbut it was meant for the week. Tomorrow, shed have to cook 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 his wife and just become the cook and cleaner?
At the till, the total was over twenty.
“Put the crisps back,” she told the cashier.
The nuts had to go too. The twenty barely covered basics.
Back home, Victor sprawled on the sofa watching telly.
“Quick trip,” he remarked. “Whatd you get?”
Helen wordlessly unloaded the bags. Time was short, work endless.
Potatoes firstpeeled, frying. Then ham and cheese sliced, arranged. Next, saladchopped, dressed.
“Any hot food?” Victor peered in.
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Burgers? Steaks? Ladsll be starving.”
Helen checked the clock. Half four. If she started now, she might just manage.
“Fine. But help set the table.”
“Busy,” Victor waved her off. “Need a shower, sort myself out. Cant greet them looking a state.”
Helen pulled mince from the freezer. Her arms ached, but she hurried. Guests at half five, and only cold cuts laid out.
Victor sang in the shower, splashing about. Easy for himmates coming, laughter, drinks, football. Shed be darting between kitchen and lounge, serving, clearing.
When he emerged, the first burgers were frying.
“On track?” he asked, pulling on a fresh shirt.
“Barely. Help with the table.”
“Just a shave first.”
But after shaving, Victor flopped into his chair and turned up the telly.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called.
“Later. Just wanna catch the news.”
And at six AM, shed be up for workstarting a new library project, computer classes for pensioners. Setting up, troubleshooting.
Flipping burgers, Helen wondered how many more years this would last. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everything, never complaining.
“Hel, wherere the glasses?” he shouted.
“Bottom shelf in the cabinet!”
“Cant see em!”
Helen dried her hands and went to look. They were exactly where shed saidhe just hadnt bothered to look properly.
“Here,” she pointed.
“Oh. Cheers.”
Back to the kitchen. Burgers done, just the table left. She laid out the good linenreserved for special occasions. Though what was special? Just his mates again.
At half five, the buzzer rang.
“First arrivals!” Victor cheered. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the button, then quickly changed into a clean dress. Wanted to look decent for guests.
Steve and Mikeregularsappeared first, followed by three strangers.
“Welcome!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men shed coats, crowded round the table. Helen brought burgers, salad, cold cuts. Victor fetched lager and vodka.
“Right, ladsto the match!” Victor toasted.
Glasses clinked, the men drank, dug in. Helen lingered in the doorway.
“Mrs. H, not joining us?” Stevealways the polite oneasked.
“Ta, but theres still things to do,” she said.
“Ah, come on,” Victor waved. “Sit down, you cooked.”
Almost permission. Helen moved to joinbut then a stranger muttered:
“You can stay if you cook for everyone.” Victor smirked and went for a smoke.
Helen froze. Victor had just said that. Like it was nothing.
The guests shifted awkwardly. Steve reddened, stared at his plate.
“Vic, mate” Mike tried.
But Victor was already on the balcony, door shut.
Silence. The men chewed, eyes
