“You can stay if you cook 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 without looking up from her magazine. “Your mates were belting out songs till they dropped.”
“So what? It was Saturday. Ive got a right to relax in my own flat.”
Helen stayed silent. Arguing with her husband after last nights pub crawl was pointless. His head was probably pounding, and his mood was unbearable.
“By the way, the lads are coming over again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “To watch the match.”
“How many?” Helen sighed.
“Five or six. Didnt count exactly.”
Helen shut her magazine and checked the clock. Half past two. That meant the usual chaos would start in a few hoursshouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morninga mountain of dirty dishes and ashtrays overflowing with stubs.
“Vic, maybe skip the feast tonight?” she tried. “Just have a cuppa?”
He came out of the bathroom, drying his face with a towel.
“Are you joking? Whats a match without snacks? The lads will be starving after work.”
“And whos cooking?”
Victor stared at her like shed asked something ridiculous.
“Who always cooks? Youre the missus.”
“I was at the doctors all morning, then running errands, cleaning the flat,” Helen felt anger bubbling up. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Have a kip for an hour, then crack on. Its not rocket science. Just slice up some ham, cheese, fry up a bit of potato.”
Helen got up and trudged to the kitchen. Lunch dishes were still on the table, the sink stacked with unwashed pans. And now she had to clear it all and lay out a spread for his mates.
“Maybe order something?” she called from the kitchen. “Pizza or kebabs?”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “Does it grow on trees? Home-cookeds cheaper and better.”
Helen started scrubbing plates with unnecessary force. Twenty-three years of marriage, and not once had he asked if she wanted to relax or have friends over too.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed the perfect blokehardworking, steady, barely touched a drop. Most importantly, hed promised to cherish her and never let her down.
The 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. The pay rose, new mates appeared, and so did new habits. First, he stayed out after work, then started bringing colleagues home. At first occasionally, then more and more.
“Len, wheres the vodka?” Victor shouted from the living room.
“Sideboard, top shelf.”
“Only one bottle left. Thats not enough.”
“Then go buy more.”
“Busy now. You pop out, since youre cooking anyway.”
Helen set a plate in the drying rack and took a deep breath. Again, shed have to dash to the shop, spending housekeeping money on booze for his mates.
“Maybe skip the spirits?” she tried again. “Just grab a few beers.”
“Dont be daft!” Victor stormed into the kitchen. “Beer? Its the decider! The lads made time specially. I cant serve them beer.”
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Cheer up, love. Just one evening. Youll catch up on sleep tomorrow.”
“Every weekend its just one evening,” Helen murmured. “A match, someones birthday, or just because.”
“Blokes work hardneed to unwind sometimes. You get that.”
“And I dont work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Calling the library work? Shuffling books about, chatting with polite folk. Thats a doddle, not a job.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always dismissed her job like thisas if it were trivial.
“So my jobs a holiday, is it?”
“Basically. Sat in peace, dealing with civilised people. Meanwhile, Im stuck on site all day with rough lads.”
Helen said nothing. Arguing was futile. Victor never grasped that dealing with people was exhaustingsolving minor crises, helping readers, running kids clubs.
“Fine,” she finally said. “How many exactly?”
“Told youfive or six. Not sure whos coming.”
“What time?”
“Kick-offs at six, so theyll roll in by half-five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three now. Hardly any time to prep properly.
“Then give me money for groceries. And a list.”
Victor fished a crumpled twenty-pound note from his jeans.
“Enough?”
“For six? Doubt it.”
“Then dig something out of the freezer. Its packed in there.”
Helen took the money and went to get dressed. The freezer did have meatmeal prepped for the week. Tomorrow, shed have to cook dinner from scratch again.
The shop was ten minutes away. Helen walked slowly, reflecting. When had she become the help in her own home? When had she stopped being his wife and just become the cook and cleaner?
At the till, the total exceeded the twenty.
“Take off the crisps,” she told the cashier.
Then the nuts. The twenty barely covered basics.
Back home, Victor sprawled on the sofa watching telly.
“Quick trip,” he approved. “Whatd you get?”
Silently, Helen unpacked the bags. Time was tight, work piled high.
First, she peeled potatoes for frying. Then sliced ham and cheese onto a platter. Next, chopped veggies for salad, drowning it in mayo.
“Any hot food?” Victor peered in.
“Like what?”
“Dunno. Burgers or chops. The ladsll be starving.”
Helen checked the clock. Half four. If she started now, she might just manage.
“Fine. But help set the table.”
“Cant,” he waved her off. “Need a shower, smarten up. Cant greet the lads looking scruffy.”
Helen pulled meat from the freezer, minced it frantically. Her arms ached, but she hurried. Guests at half-five, and only cold cuts on the table.
Victor did shower. She heard him humming, splashing about. Nice for himsoon his mates would arrive, laughing, drinking, watching football. Shed be darting between kitchen and lounge, serving food, clearing plates.
When he emerged, the first batch of burgers sizzled.
“On track?” he asked, pulling on a fresh T-shirt.
“Barely. Help set up.”
“Just need a shave, then Ill pitch in.”
Post-shave, Victor flopped in front of the telly instead.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called.
“Later. Just catching the news.”
And at six a.m., shed be up for workstarting a new library project: computer classes for pensioners. Prep work, tech setup.
Flipping burgers, Helen realised this could go on for years. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everything, never complaining, never asking for help.
“Len, where are the glasses?” he yelled.
“Sideboard, bottom shelf!”
“Cant see em!”
Helen dried her hands and went to look. They were exactly where shed saidhe just hadnt bothered searching properly.
“Here,” she pointed.
“Oh, right. Missed em.”
Back in the kitchen, burgers done, just the table left. She laid out the good linen tableclothreserved for special occasions. Though what was special? His mates regular gatherings.
At half-five, the buzzer rang.
“First arrivals!” Victor cheered. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the button, then quickly changed into a decent dress. Wanted to look presentable for guests.
Steve and Mike appearedregulars for football nightsfollowed by three unfamiliar blokes.
“Welcome!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men shed coats, settled around the table. Helen brought burgers, salad, cold cuts. Victor fetched lager and vodka from the fridge.
“Right, ladsto the match!” he toasted.
Glasses clinked, men drank, dug into the food. Helen lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching.
“Mrs. H, joining us?” asked Steve, always the politest.
“Thanks, but more to do in here,” she said.
“Oh, come on,” Victor waved. “You cookedsit down.”
It sounded like permission. Helen almost joined themuntil one stranger muttered:
“You can stay if you cook for everyone,” and Victor chuckled, stepping out for a smoke.
Helen froze. Victor really just left for the
