The beach trip is off,” says Leonard, not looking up from his phone. “My mother’s coming.”
I stand in the middle of the bedroom with an open suitcase. In my hands – a swimsuit, new, with the tag still on. The first one in seven years.
“What do you mean, off?” I put the swimsuit down carefully on the bed. “The tickets are bought. Non-refundable. Two thousand eight hundred pounds, Leonard.”
He rubs the bridge of his nose and sinks onto the edge of the sofa. He does this every time a conversation doesn’t go the way he wants.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? She’s already bought her train ticket. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I can’t tell her to turn around.”
Seven years we’ve been married. And in those seven years, I haven’t had a single holiday. Not at the beach, not at a spa, not even a weekend in a nearby town. Nowhere. The first year – a three-day honeymoon in Cornwall, because Margaret called and said her blood pressure was up. We came back. Her blood pressure turned out to be 130 over 80 – normal for her age. I know this for a fact because I’m a pharmacist and I see those numbers on prescriptions every day.
Since then – not one trip. Every time we plan a holiday, Margaret appears. Four times in seven years. Like clockwork.
“Leonard,” I sit down next to him, trying to keep my voice steady. “We saved for this holiday for four months. I picked up extra shifts. Twelve-hour days. You saw how I came home.”
“I see,” he still doesn’t look up from his phone. “But my mother matters more.”
I adjust my glasses. My fingers slip – my hands are dry, cracked from the antiseptic. Eight years in a pharmacy – my skin feels like sandpaper.
“Matters more than what?” I ask.
“More than the beach, Emma,” he finally looks at me. “My mother is alone. She’s seventy-four. Don’t you understand?”
I do understand. I understand that Margaret lives in Birmingham, in her three-bedroom flat, with a neighbour friend who visits her every day. That she goes to the market by herself, carries her own bags, does her own preserving – twenty jars at a time. And that every “visit” of hers starts with the same call to Leonard: “Darling, I miss you, I’ll come for a week.”
The “week” stretches into two. Then three. Once Margaret stayed with us for a month and only left because the neighbour called and said a pipe had burst in her flat.
“I’m not cancelling,” I say. “You go. Meet your mother. I’ll fly.”
Leonard lifts his head. As if I’ve suggested something indecent.
“Fly where? Alone? Without your husband?”
“With Sophie.”
“No,” he stands up. “No, Emma. We’re a family. Either together, or not at all.”
And I give in. Like I did the four times before. I put the swimsuit back in the wardrobe, close the suitcase, and store it on the top shelf.
Two thousand eight hundred pounds go up in smoke. Non-refundable.
Two days later Margaret stands in the hallway with a heavy checked bag and a carrier bag of homegrown cucumbers.
“Well, show me what you’ve got here,” she says, surveying the corridor. “Those wallpaper could do with changing. Leonard, aren’t you and your wife keeping up with the flat?”
—
Margaret stays with us for three weeks.
In the first two days she rearranges everything in the kitchen. Pots go into a different cupboard. Spices go onto a different shelf. Chopping boards go under the sink – “because it’s more hygienic that way.” I work twelve-hour shifts and come home to a flat where I can’t find a thing.
“Margaret,” I say on the third day, opening a cupboard in search of a frying pan. “I’m used to a certain order. It’s easier for me when everything’s in its place.”
She looks at me over her glasses. A heavy look from above – even though I’m half a head taller.
“Emma, you’re used to disorder. That’s not order, it’s chaos. Who puts a frying pan next to the pasta?”
“It works for me,” I say.
“Well, it doesn’t work for me. Or for Leonard. Right, Leonard?”
Leonard sits at the table with his phone, silent. His shoulders are hunched, the way they always are when his mother addresses him.
“Mum,” he says. “Alright then.”
“Alright then” – that’s all I hear. Not “Emma’s right” or “Mum, it’s her kitchen.” Just “Alright then.”
On the fifth day Margaret turns her attention to the curtains. I bought them last year – linen, mustard yellow, and spent two weeks picking them out because they matched the armchair and the cushions. Eighty pounds.
I come home from work – the curtains lie on the armchair, folded. At the windows hang white net curtains that Margaret brought with her.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“These are proper curtains,” she says, tapping her finger on the table. “Not those rags. Mustard is a colour for a hospital, not a home.”
I stay silent for three seconds. Then I take down her net curtains, fold them, and put them on a stool. I get my own curtains and start hanging them.
My hands don’t shake. This time – no.
“What are you doing?” Margaret’s voice drops.
“Hanging my curtains,” I say without turning around. “I like my curtains. This is my home. And I’m the one who chooses the colour.”
Silence stretches for about five seconds. Then Margaret gets up from the table and leaves the room. I hear her dialling a number in the hallway. Her voice is muffled, but I can make out the words: “Leonard, your wife is being rude to me. I’m not used to that kind of treatment.”
Leonard comes home from work earlier than usual. The door slams so hard that Sophie jumps in her room.
“What have you done?” he asks from the doorway.
“I hung my curtains.”
“Mum is upset! She brought them for us, made an effort, and you didn’t even say thank you!”
I look at him. At his broad shoulders, which are now squared because his mother isn’t in the room – she’s behind the wall. When she’s here, he hunches. When it’s just me, he straightens his back.
“Leonard,” I say. “I said thank you for the cucumbers. For the jam. For the pasties. But I’ll be the one to choose the curtains in my home.”
“It’s OUR home!”
“Then why does your mother make all the decisions?”
He doesn’t answer. He rubs the bridge of his nose, turns, and goes to his mother.
That evening Sophie comes to me in the kitchen. Quiet, holding a textbook as if she came in for water.
“Mum,” she says. “He calls her every time. Before every holiday. I’ve heard him.”
“What have you heard?”
“He says, ‘Mum, we’re planning to go on such-and-such a date.’ And she comes. Every single time.”
I put the kettle on the stove and stand there, listening to the water boil. So it’s not a coincidence. Not an accident. Four times in a row – that’s a system.
Sophie stands nearby, shifting from foot to foot.
“Mum, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “Go do your homework.”
But I’m not okay. I take out my phone, open my notes, and calculate. First time – the honeymoon, a trip for three, one thousand two hundred pounds. Second – Turkey, two years ago, one thousand nine hundred pounds. Third – a city break in Paris, last spring, tickets and hotel for five hundred pounds. Fourth – this two thousand eight hundred.
Six thousand four hundred pounds. Over seven years. All gone up in smoke.
And in that time Leonard has taken his mother to Bath twice. For spa breaks. Both times using our joint account.
I close my notes, put my phone away, and pour myself some tea. My hands are steady. The decision hasn’t formed yet, but something inside me has already shifted.
A month after Margaret leaves, I invite a friend over for dinner. Valerie works with me at the pharmacy – we’ve known each other nine years.
Leonard has gone to a mate’s to watch football. Sophie is in her room. Valerie and I open a bottle of wine, cut some cheese, and settle in the kitchen. The first proper evening in a long time.
“So how are you?” Valerie asks. “Any plans for this summer?”
“None,” I say and smile. I’m used to this question by now.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Valerie shakes her head. She knows. Everyone knows.
Then the doorbell rings. I open the door – Margaret stands on the doorstep with her bag and a carrier bag.
“Leonard said to drop by when you’re home alone,” she says. “Thought I’d come see you. It’s been a while since we last met.”
A month. A month has passed. And that’s “a while.”
She comes in, sees Valerie, sits down at the table. I pour her tea, because Margaret doesn’t drink wine and doesn’t approve of it.
For about ten minutes the conversation is normal. Then Valerie asks:
“Margaret, do you travel?”
And off she goes.
“Do I ever!” Margaret straightens up in her chair. “Leonard took me to Bath. Twice. Mineral baths, massages, hills. Beautiful!”
She turns to me.
“And you, Emma, where have you been lately? I don’t think I’ve seen a single photo from you. Anywhere at all?”
I adjust my glasses.
“Nowhere,” I say. “Not anywhere.”
“See,” Margaret addresses Valerie, as if explaining something obvious. “Young, healthy, and she never goes anywhere. Leonard offers – she refuses. Her own fault. At her age I’d already travelled all over the south coast.”
Valerie looks at me. I notice her press her lips together.
“Margaret,” Valerie says. “Emma doesn’t travel because she doesn’t want to.”
“Then why?”
Valerie falls silent. She looks at me – asking permission with her eyes.
And I answer myself.
“Because every time we buy tickets, you arrive,” I say. My voice is level. I’m not shouting. Just listing facts. “Four times in seven years. The honeymoon – you called, and we came back. Turkey – you arrived the day before our flight. Paris – same thing. This year – the beach. Two thousand eight hundred pounds non-refundable. Total – six thousand four hundred pounds. I’ve counted.”
Margaret stops tapping her finger on the table. Her hand freezes halfway to her cup.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m giving you numbers,” I reply. “Not accusations. Numbers. I can give you the dates if you want.”
Silence.
Valerie stands up and says she has to go. I see her to the door. When I come back to the kitchen, Margaret is already dialling Leonard.
Twenty minutes later he bursts into the flat.
“Why did you humiliate my mother in front of a stranger?” He stands in the hallway, still wearing his shoes.
“I didn’t humiliate her. I gave her the figures.”
“What figures? What are you on about?”
“The six thousand four hundred pounds we’ve lost on cancelled trips. Over all the years of our marriage.”
Leonard looks at his mother. Margaret stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“Darling,” she says. “Either her or me.”
“Mum,” Leonard rubs the bridge of his nose.
“She needs to apologise,” Margaret cuts in.
Leonard turns to me.
“Emma. Apologise to my mother.”
I take off my glasses, wipe them on the hem of my jumper. Without them everything blurs a little – Leonard, his mother, the hallway with their shoes.
“No,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Then I’m going to my mother’s,” he says. “Until you come to your senses.”
“Alright,” I reply.
He expects a different answer. I can see it in the way his jaw twitches. But I stay silent, and so does he. Then he grabs his jacket and leaves. Margaret follows him. She leaves the bag of cucumbers in the hallway.
I sit down on a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs ache from the shift. Twelve hours behind the counter, and then this. But inside me it’s clear – the way the sky clears after a storm.
He comes back three days later. No apology. No conversation. He just walks in, hangs up his jacket, and sits down to dinner. Margaret has gone back to Birmingham.
But a week later Leonard starts speaking to me in short sentences. “Is dinner ready?” “Where’s my shirt?” “Pick up Sophie.” And I realise he’s punishing me with silence. Because I didn’t apologise.
Another week later I start putting money aside. Into a separate account. One he doesn’t know about.
The year goes by quickly. Sophie turns sixteen, and I apply for her passport myself. Leonard signs the consent form without even asking why. He doesn’t care, as long as his mother doesn’t call.
In May I buy tickets. Two – me and Sophie. Antalya, a three-star hotel, nine nights. I pay from my account – the one Leonard doesn’t know about. I’ve saved four hundred and seventy pounds from each month’s pay. Over the year it adds up to enough.
I buy refundable tickets. I’ve learned from experience this time.
And I tell Leonard:
“Let’s all go together. In June. I’ve found a good deal.”
He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. Then he nods.
“Alright. Let’s give it a try.”
I wait two weeks. I pack the suitcases. I buy Sophie new sandals and a sun hat. For myself – sun cream, which costs twenty per cent less in my pharmacy because of the staff discount.
Four days before the flight, Leonard comes home later than usual. He sits down at the table, puts his phone face-down. I know that gesture. Phone face-down means he’s called his mother. Or she’s called him.
“Emma,” he starts.
And I feel my fingers clench. Nails dig into my palms. Not from anger – from anticipation. Because I already know what he’s going to say. I know it four days in advance.
“My mother’s coming. I need to meet her.”
“When?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“The day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow. Two days before the flight.
“Leonard,” I say. “Did you call her?”
“What?”
“Did you call her and tell her we were flying?”
He looks away. Rubs the bridge of his nose. And I understand – yes. He called. Just like the four times before. He told her the date, told her the route, and Margaret immediately bought a train ticket. Like clockwork.
“She misses me,” Leonard says. “She’s seventy-five this year.”
“Seventy-four,” I correct him. “She’ll be seventy-five in November.”
He waves his hand.
“What difference does it make? My mother’s alone. We’re all she has. The beach isn’t going anywhere.”
And right then I remember. All seven years. Every “the beach isn’t going anywhere.” Every swimsuit with the tag still on. Every suitcase I took out and put back. Six thousand four hundred pounds. Four cancelled trips. Twelve-hour shifts that cracked the skin on my hands.
“Alright,” I say.
Leonard exhales. Relaxes. He thinks I’ve given in again.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll call Mum back and tell her to bring her own sheets – we don’t have many spare.”
I nod. I leave the kitchen. I go into Sophie’s room.
“Pack,” I say. “We’re flying the day after tomorrow.”
Sophie looks up from her phone.
“Mum, he said—”
“I know what he said. Pack your suitcase. Swimsuit, books, charger. I’ve got your passport.”
Sophie stares at me for three seconds. Then she smiles – for the first time in a month – and reaches for her backpack.
I go back to the kitchen. Leonard sits at the table with his phone, already discussing which sheets Margaret should bring.
“Leonard,” I say. “I’m not cancelling the tickets.”
He looks up.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m flying with Sophie. You’re staying. Go meet your mother.”
The phone goes quiet. Margaret on the other end must be silent too.
“Are you serious?” he asks.
“Seven years, Leonard. Seven years I haven’t had a holiday. Four times we’ve lost money. I work six days a week, twelve-hour shifts, and my hands crack from the antiseptic. I’m forty-eight years old. And I want to see the sea.”
“And my mother? What do I tell her?”
“Tell her that your wife has gone on holiday. For the first time in seven years.”
He stands up. The chair scrapes the floor.
“Emma, if you go – that’s disrespect. To my mother. To me.”
“And four cancelled holidays – is that respect to me?”
He doesn’t answer. He stands there, clutching his phone. From the speaker comes Margaret’s voice: “Leonard! What’s going on? What is she saying?”
I turn and leave the kitchen.
That night I don’t sleep. I sit in Sophie’s room, checking the documents. Two passports – mine and my daughter’s. Hotel booking. Insurance. Transfer. Everything paid for.
In the morning I write a note. Short, on a page from a notebook:
“Leonard, Sophie and I have left. We’ll be back in ten days. Go meet your mother. We need this holiday. Emma.”
I put the note on the kitchen table, next to his mug. I take the two suitcases, wake Sophie, call a taxi.
At the door I look back. The flat is quiet. Leonard is asleep.
“Let’s go,” I say to Sophie.
In the taxi Sophie is quiet for five minutes. Then she asks:
“Mum, is he going to be angry?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And what then?”
I look out the window. The morning city drifts past – grey, familiar. In four hours I’ll see the sea. For the first time in seven years.
“And nothing,” I reply.
At the airport I turn off my phone. I switch it on again on the plane, after we’ve reached cruising altitude. Twelve missed calls from Leonard. Three messages from Margaret: “Emma, what do you think you’re doing?” “Bring the child back!” “I won’t let this go!”
I put the phone in my bag. Sophie sits next to me, reading a book. Outside the window there’s nothing but clouds.
The sea turns out to be warm.
Three weeks pass. Sophie and I come back with tans. In the fridge are jars of pickles – Margaret brought them. On the table is my note, the same one. Leonard hasn’t moved it.
He’s sitting in the living room when we walk in. He looks at us and says nothing. Then he gets up and goes into the bedroom. The door closes behind him.
Since then he’s been sleeping on the sofa in the living room. He talks to me through Sophie: “Tell your mum I’m at work,” “Ask your mum where the receipt is.” Margaret calls every evening. Sophie says she can hear it through the wall: “Darling, she doesn’t respect you. That’s not a wife, that’s a punishment.”
But I sleep soundly. For the first time in seven years. On the bedside table sits a shell that Sophie found on the beach.
My husband says I betrayed the family. My mother-in-law says I abandoned my husband for a holiday resort. And I think that after seven years without a single day off, it’s okay to decide for myself once.
Did I go too far with that note and the escape? Or, after seven years without a holiday, did I have the right to fly without his permission?
