The clock had run out, he said, pointing at the door.
“That smell again! I told you not to smoke inside!” Emily flung open the living room windows, the curtains billowing like ghosts in her wake. “Good Lord, even the sofa reeks. What will Lydia and her husband think when they come for dinner?”
“And what will they think?” Arthur stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray with deliberate force. “Theyll think a proper man lives here, one who enjoys a smoke now and then. Big deal.”
“Proper men, Arthur Whitmore, smoke on the balcony or outside. Not poison their homes with it. My head aches after your little habit.”
“Here we go,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Twenty-five years with a smoking husband, and suddenly its a problem. Maybe its the menopause, love.”
Emily stiffened, lips pressed tight. Lately, hed been needling her about her age, as if poking at a bruise he knew would ache. And it always did.
“Whats that got to do with anything?” She turned to the window, hiding the sting in her eyes. “Im just asking for basic respect. Is it so hard to step outside?”
“Respect?” He snorted. “And wheres yours for me? I come home from work, want a cuppa and a smoke in peace. Not be sent out like a schoolboy. Its my house, after all!”
“Our house,” she corrected softly.
“Oh, right. Ours.” He relented, though his jaw stayed tight. “Except I pay the rent. And the repairs. And that new coat of yours.”
Emily exhaled. Shed heard this a thousand times. True, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the children, then caring for his mother, then well, shed just grown used to being home. And Arthur had grown used to reminding her.
“I dont want another row,” she said wearily. “Just smoke on the balcony. Lydias asthmaticitll be hard for her to breathe.”
“Fine.” He surprised her by shrugging. “For your precious Lydia, Ill step outside. But just tonight.”
He stood, heading for the bedroom, then tossed over his shoulder:
“By the way, whyd you even invite them? Ive a big meeting tomorrowneed sleep, not to entertain your dull friends.”
“Theyre not just friends,” she said. “Michaels the head librarian. He might help me with work.”
Arthur stopped in the doorway. Turned slowly.
“What work?”
Emily hesitated. Shed meant to tell him later, when things were settled. Now shed have to explain.
“I want a job at the library,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Three days a week, part-time. The children are grown, youre always at the office”
“And wholl manage the house?” he cut in. “The cooking, the cleaning, the laundry?”
“Ill manage. Dont worry.” She attempted a smile. “Its not full-time. And the children hardly visit, so less cooking”
“Less cooking? Your mums round every week expecting shepherds pie and roasts,” he grumbled.
“She helps with the chores,” Emily countered. “And she doesnt come that often.”
“Could be every day, for all I care.” He waved a hand. “But this jobits nonsense, Em. Youre forty-seven. What work? Stay home, do your crosswords, your little hobbies your books.”
“My books?” Something hot flared in her chest. “Arthur, do you even remember I have a degree in literature? That I taught before the children? That I had a first?”
“So you taught. So what?” He dropped back into his armchair. “That was twenty years ago. Times change. Whod hire you with that dusty old degree?”
“The library,” she repeated. “I dont want a fortune, Arthur. I want purpose. People. To feel like Im more than just a hoover and an ironing board.”
“Cheers for that,” he sneered. “So home and familythats beneath you, is it? Not worthy of such a clever woman?”
“You know thats not what I meant.” She was tired of this same old dance. “Lets talk later. Guests are coming.”
She escaped to the kitchen, heart hammering. Every conversation lately turned into a fight. She didnt know when it had startedonly that one day, shed realised they were speaking different languages. He didnt hear her. Didnt want to.
It hadnt always been like this. Theyd met at universityboth studying literature, both in love with words. Arthur wrote poetry then, and shed adored it. Then came marriage, first Sophie, then James. Arthur climbed the ranks at the publishing house. Emily stayed homewith nappies, with groceries, with books that grew rarer as the years passed.
She hadnt noticed him changing. The romantic boy becoming a cynical man who barely asked about her thoughts anymore. By the time she noticed, it was too late. They were strangers under one roof.
Lydia and Michael arrived at seven sharp. Michael, a burly man with a silver beard, launched into politics with Arthur. Lydia, birdlike and bright-eyed at sixty, joined Emily in the kitchen.
“Hows Arthur?” she asked, chopping salad. “Did you talk about the job?”
“No,” Emily sighed. “Hes dead against it.”
“And youre surprised?” Lydia shrugged. “Men hate change. Especially when it might disrupt their comfort.”
“But nothing would change. Id still do everythingjust three afternoons out.”
“To him, thats catastrophe,” Lydia chuckled. “Imaginehe comes home, and youre not there. The horror!”
They laughed, and Emily felt some tension ease. Lydia always steadied her.
Dinner began civilly. Arthur was charming, even joking, asking Michael about new releases. Emily relaxedmaybe todays mood had just been a blip.
“Speaking of books,” Lydia turned to her. “Have you told Arthur about the reading group?”
“What group?” Arthur looked up from his plate.
“Well” Emily hesitated. “We discussed me leading a childrens book club. At the library.”
“And when was this meant to start?” Arthurs voice had gone dangerous.
“Next month,” Lydia answered brightly, missing the edge. “Twice a week, two hours. Barely anything.”
“Fascinating.” Arthur set down his fork. “And were you planning to discuss this with me?”
“I tried today,” Emily said quietly.
“Funny, I dont recall a discussion.” Arthur turned to their guests. “You see, Emilys taken a sudden interest in work. I think at her age, starting a career is unwise.”
“Why?” Michael looked genuinely puzzled. “Emilys highly educated. We need people like her.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur nodded. “But she has obligations. To her family. To her husband.”
“Arthur,” Emily flushed with shame. “Not in front of”
“Whats the issue?” Arthur spread his hands. “Were all adults. Im simply clarifying: I dont want my wife working. Full stop.”
Silence fell. Lydia glanced at Michael, who coughed and said,
“Lovely roast, Emily. Lydia must get your recipe.”
“Of course,” Emily forced out, humiliation coiling inside her.
The rest of the evening passed in stiff chatter about weather, newsanything but work. When the guests left, Emily began clearing the table in silence.
“How long were you planning to hide this?” Arthur leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
“I wasnt hiding. I was waiting for the right time.”
“And when would that have been? After youd started?”
“Arthur, I dont understand why youre so angry. Its just a job. Not an affair, not a crime.”
“To me, its betrayal,” he said coldly. “We agreedyoud tend the home, Id provide. That was the deal.”
“That was twenty years ago! The children are grown. I have time. I want to feel useful again!”
“So home isnt useful?” He stepped closer. “Say it plainly: youre bored being my wife?”
“What? This isnt about”
“I know all about self-fulfilment,” he cut in. “Seen it at the office. First comes the job, then the office flirtations, then divorce.”
“Good Lord, Arthur,” Emily stared. “You think Id take a lover in a library? Between dusty books and elderly ladies?”
“Im saying I forbid it. End of.”
Something inside her snapped. This was it. The end of the conversation, the end of hopemaybe the end of them.
“Then listen,” she said quietly. “Im taking the job. Tomorrow Ill call Michael and accept.”
Arthur gaped.
“What did you say?”
“I said Im working.” The words felt light, almost freeing. “Not for money or friends. Because I want to feel like a person again. Not just a fixture in this house.”
“I see.” He nodded slowly. “So youve decided. Without me.”
“I tried deciding with you. You wouldnt listen.”
“Brilliant.” Arthur turned on his heel.
She heard him pacing, muttering. Then he returned, holding her handbag and coat.
“Your times up,” he said, pointing at the door. “If you make decisions alone, you can live alone. Get out.”
“What? Youre throwing me out over a library job?”
“Im throwing you out for betrayal. For breaking our agreement. For putting yourself before family.”
“Arthur, this isnt ambitionits survival!” Tears pricked her eyes. “Youre at work all day, the children are gonewhat am I to do? Bake cakes for an empty flat?”
“Take up knitting!” he barked. “A deals a deal. I work, you keep home. Simple.”
He thrust the coat at her.
“If Im such dull company, go. Maybe darling Lydia will take you in.”
Mechanically, she put on the coat, took the bag. It felt like a bad dream. Theyd rowed before, but hed never kicked her out. Never been this cruel.
“Youre serious?” She searched his face. “Over a part-time job?”
“Im serious about respect,” he said. “And yes. Go.”
She inhaled, stepped toward the door. Then turned.
“You know whats saddest, Arthur? You never asked why I want this. Why now. You just forbade it, like Im property, not your wife.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
“Because Im afraid,” she said softly. “Afraid one day you wont come home. That youll leave me for that young editor you stay late withwhats her name? Olivia? The one who calls every night. You take it on the balcony so I wont hear. But walls are thin, Arthur. And Im not deaf.”
He recoiled.
“What nonsense is this?”
She opened the door.
“Ill be at Lydias.”
The stairwell was quiet, save for jazz drifting from upstairs. Outside, the night air was cool, clean. She breathed deepand felt an odd relief, as if shrugging off a weight shed carried for years.
She dialled Lydias number.
“Lyd? Its Emily. Sorry its late Yes, we talked. Can I come over? Now?”
Walking to the bus stop, she marvelled at lifes twists. That morning, shed been certain shed die in that flat, with that man, in that same tired loop. Now she was stepping into the night, toward the unknownand felt lighter than she had in years.
Her phone buzzed. Arthurs name flashed. She hesitated, then declined the call and switched it off.
Her time was up. The time of fear, of doubt, of quiet endurance. Now began something newunfamiliar, frightening, but hers. And she was ready.
