“You can stay if you cook for everyone,” her 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 was it?” asked Helen, not looking up from her magazine. “Your mates were belting out songs till the end.”
“So what? It was Saturday. Ive got a right to relax in my own flat.”
Helen stayed quiet. Arguing with him after last nights booze-up was pointless. His head was probably pounding, and his mood was unbearable.
“By the way, the lads are coming round again tonight,” Victor added, heading to the bathroom. “To watch the match.”
“How many?” Helen sighed.
“Five or six. Didnt count properly.”
Helen shut her magazine and checked the clock. Half two. That meant in a couple of hours, the flat would be chaos againshouting, drunken chatter, cigarette smoke. And tomorrow morning, mountains of dishes and ashtrays full of stubs.
“Vic, can we skip the booze tonight?” she tried. “Just have a cuppa?”
He came out of the bathroom, drying his face with a towel.
“What, seriously? 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 something obvious.
“Who usually cooks? Youre the missus.”
“Ive been at the clinic since morning, then running errands, cleaning the flat,” Helen felt anger bubbling up. “Im knackered, Vic.”
“Take an hours rest, then crack on. Im not asking for anything fancy. Just slice up some ham, cheese, fry up some potatoes.”
Helen got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. The lunch dishes were still on the table, a pile of unwashed pans in the sink. And now she had to sort all that out *and* lay the table for his mates.
“Maybe we could order something?” she called from the kitchen. “Pizza or kebabs.”
“With what money?” Victor shot back. “You think it grows on trees? You cookits cheaper and tastier.”
Helen started washing up, scrubbing each plate hard. Twenty-three years of marriage, and not once had he asked if *she* wanted a night off or to see friends.
When shed married Vic, hed seemed like a proper blokehardworking, didnt drink much. Most of all, hed promised to cherish her.
The first few years, he had. He worked on construction sites, 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. First occasionally, then more and more.
“Lena, wheres the vodka?” Victor shouted from the living room.
“Sideboard, top shelf.”
“Theres only one bottle. Not enough.”
“Then go buy more.”
“No time. You go, since youre doing the cooking.”
Helen put a plate in the drying rack and sighed. Again, she was expected to dash to the shop, spend housekeeping money on booze for his mates.
“What if we skip the alcohol?” she tried again. “Just get a few beers?”
“Are you joking?” Victor marched into the kitchen. “Beer? Its the decider, the lads made time specially. I cant serve them *pi*s!”
He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Dont look so miserable. Its just one night. Youll catch up on sleep tomorrow.”
“Every weekend its just one night,” Helen said quietly. “A match, a birthday, or just because.”
“Lads work hard, they need to unwind. You get that.”
“And I dont work?”
Victor dropped his hands and stepped back.
“Come on, calling the library work? Moving books around. Thats not work, its a hobby.”
A chill ran down Helens spine. He always talked about her job like thatdismissive, like it was nothing.
“So my jobs just a hobby to you?”
“Yeah. Sat in silence, chatting with posh folk. Meanwhile, Im on site all day with rough blokes.”
Helen stayed quiet. No point arguing. Hed never understand that dealing with people was exhaustingsolving problems, helping readers, running kids clubs.
“Fine,” she said finally. “How many exactly?”
“Like I saidfive or six. Dunno whos coming.”
“What time?”
“Kick-offs at six, so theyll be here by half-five.”
Helen checked the clock. Three. Barely enough time to lay the table properly.
“Give me money for shopping, then. And a list of what to buy.”
Victor dug into his jeans and pulled out a crumpled twenty.
“Enough?”
“For six blokes? Hardly.”
“Then throw in something from the freezer. Its packed.”
Helen took the money and got dressed. There was meat in the freezer, but it was meant for the week. Now tomorrows dinner was gone too.
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 bill was over twenty.
“Take off the crisps,” she told the cashier.
Then the nuts. Barely covered the basics.
At home, Victor was sprawled on the sofa watching telly.
“Quick trip,” he said approvingly. “Whatd you get?”
Silently, Helen unpacked the bags. So much to do, so little time.
First, she peeled potatoes and fried them. Then sliced ham and cheese onto a platter. Next, chopped veg for salad, mixed in mayo.
“Anything hot?” Victor poked his head in.
“Whatd you want?”
“Dunno. Burgers or chops. The ladsll be starving.”
Helen checked the clock. Half-four. If she started now, she might just make it.
“Fine. But help me lay the table.”
“Cant,” he waved her off. “Need a shower, smarten up. Cant greet them looking rough.”
Helen got mince from the freezer, started shaping patties. Her hands ached, but she rushed. Guests at half-five, and all she had was cold cuts.
Victor showered, singing. Nice for himsoon his mates would be here, laughing, drinking, watching footie. Shed be running between kitchen and lounge, serving, clearing plates.
When he came out, the first burgers were frying.
“On track?” he asked, pulling on a fresh T-shirt.
“For now. Help with the table.”
“Just need a shave, then Ill help.”
But after shaving, he turned on the news instead.
“Vic, you promised!” Helen called.
“Later. Just catching the headlines.”
And at six tomorrow, shed be up for worklibrary computer classes for pensioners. Setting up, troubleshooting.
Flipping burgers, Helen realised this could go on for years. Victor wouldnt change. He was used to her doing everything, never complaining.
“Lena, where are the glasses?” he shouted.
“Sideboard, bottom shelf!”
“Cant see em!”
She wiped her hands, found the glasses right where shed said.
“Here.”
“Oh. Missed em.”
Back to the kitchen. Burgers done, just the table left. She got out the good tableclothsaved for special occasions. Though what was special about his mates coming over?
At half-five, the buzzer went.
“First arrivals!” Victor beamed. “Let em in!”
Helen pressed the button, quickly changed into a clean dress. Wanted to look decent for company.
In came Steve and Mikeregulars. Then three others she didnt know.
“Welcome!” Victor boomed. “Make yourselves at home!”
The men settled around the table. Helen brought burgers, salad, cold cuts. Victor got beers and vodka from the fridge.
“Ladsto the game!” he toasted.
Glasses clinked. Helen lingered in the doorway.
“Mrs. H, not joining us?” asked Stevealways the polite one.
“Thanks, but theres more to do,” she said.
“Ah, come on,” Victor waved. “You cooked, youve earned a seat.”
Almost like permission. She was about to sit when a stranger smirked:
“You can stay if you cook for everyone.”
Helen froze. Victor just grabbed his fags and headed to the balcony, like it was nothing.
The guests shifted awkwardly. Steve went red, stared at his plate.
“Vic, mate,” Mike tried.
But Victor was already outside, door shut behind him.
Awkward silence. The men ate
