«Your time’s up,» said the man, pointing to the door.
«That smell again! I asked you not to smoke in the house!» Emily threw open the living room windows, yanking the curtains aside. «Good Lord, even the sofa reeks. What will Lydia and her husband think when they come for dinner?»
«And what *will* they think?» Mark stubbed out his cigarette deliberately in the ashtray. «They’ll think a normal bloke lives here, one who occasionally smokes. Big deal.»
«Normal blokes, *Mark*, smoke outside or on the balcony. Not poison their families with second-hand smoke. My head aches after youve been smoking in here.»
«Here we go,» Mark rolled his eyes. «Twenty-five years living with a smoker, and suddenly now its a problem. Maybe its menopause, love?»
Emily froze, lips pressed tight. Lately, hed been needling her about her age more oftenalways finding the sorest spot.
«Whats that got to do with anything?» She turned to the window to hide the tears forming. «Im just asking for basic respect. Is it so hard to step outside?»
«Respect?» He snorted. «Wheres *your* respect for *me*? After work, I want to sit in my chair, have my tea, and smoke. Not run in and out like a schoolboy. This is *my* house!»
«*Our* house,» she corrected quietly.
«Right, *ours*,» he grumbled. «Except *I* pay the mortgage. *I* paid for the renovation. *I* bought that new coat of yours.»
Emily exhaled slowly. Shed heard this a thousand times. Yes, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the kids, then caring for his mother, then settling into the rhythm of housework. And Mark never let her forget it.
«I dont want to argue,» she said tiredly. «Just please smoke on the balcony. Lydia has asthmashell struggle to breathe.»
«Fine,» Mark conceded, surprisingly easy. «For your precious Lydia, Ill step outside. But just for tonight.»
He pushed himself up and headed to the bedroom, tossing over his shoulder:
«Speaking of, whyd you invite them? Ive got an important meeting tomorrowI need sleep, not entertaining your dull friends.»
«Theyre not just friends,» Emily countered. «Michaels head librarian. He might help me find work.»
Mark stopped dead. Turned slowly.
«*What* work?»
Emily hesitated. Shed meant to tell him later, once things were settled. Now she had no choice.
«I want a job at the library,» she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. «Three days a week, part-time. The kids are grown, youre always at the office I need something to do.»
«And wholl run the house?» he cut in. «Wholl cook, clean, do the laundry?»
«Ill manageits only a few hours. The kids hardly visit now, and»
«Your mums here every weekend,» Mark muttered. «Expecting roast dinners and puddings.»
«Mum *helps*. And she doesnt come *that* often.»
«Doesnt matter to me if she does,» he waved a hand. «But this job ideaits nonsense, Emily. Youre forty-seven. What employer wants that? Stay home, do your crosswords, read your books.»
«*My* books?» Her voice sharpened. «Mark, do you even remember I have a *degree* in English lit? That I *taught* before the kids? That I had *first-class honours*?»
«So what? That was twenty years ago. Times change. Whod hire you with that outdated CV?»
«The *library* would,» she said firmly. «I dont need a fortune, Mark. I need purpose. Conversation. To feel like Im more than just your housekeeper.»
«Charming,» he sneered. «So home and family arent *worthy* for a clever woman like you?»
«You know thats not what I meant,» she sighed. «Lets talk later. Weve guests coming.»
She fled to the kitchen, heart pounding. Every conversation lately became a fight. When had it started? Somewhere along the way, theyd stopped speaking the same language.
Theyd met at uniboth bookish, both dreaming. He wrote poetry; she adored it. Then came marriage, Sophie, then James. Mark climbed the ranks at the publishing house. She stayed homewith nappies, with hoovering, with novels she scarcely had time to open.
She hadnt noticed him changingthe romantic student hardening into a cynical man who came home late, who stopped asking her thoughts. By the time she noticed, it was too late. They were strangers under one roof.
Lydia and Michael arrived at seven sharp. Michaela burly man with a salt-and-pepper beardlaunched into politics with Mark. Lydia, birdlike and bright-eyed at sixty, followed Emily to the kitchen.
«Howd the talk go?» Lydia asked, slicing tomatoes.
«He refused,» Emily sighed.
«Men hate change,» Lydia shrugged. «Especially if it inconveniences them.»
«Nothingll change! Ill still do everythingjust three afternoons out.»
«To him, thats catastrophe,» Lydia grinned. «Imaginehe comes home, and youre *not there*. The horror!»
They laughed, and Emily felt lighter.
Dinner began civilly. Mark was all charm, joking, asking Michael about new releases. Emily relaxedmaybe hed softened.
«Actually,» Lydia turned to her, «have you told Mark about the reading group?»
«What group?» Marks fork paused.
«We thought Emily could run a childrens book club,» Lydia chirped. «Twice weekly. Just two hours»
«And when,» Marks voice turned icy, «were you planning to discuss this?»
«I tried today,» Emily said quietly.
«I recall no *discussion*,» Mark addressed the guests. «Emilys newly obsessed with careers. Frankly, at her age, its unwise.»
«Why?» Michael frowned. «Emilys brilliantwed be lucky to have her.»
«Perhaps,» Mark smiled thinly. «But she has obligations. To her home. To her *husband*.»
«Mark,» Emilys cheeks burned. «Not now.»
«Why not?» He spread his hands. «Were all adults. Ill be clear: I wont have my wife working. Full stop.»
Silence. Lydia shot Michael a helpless look. He coughed.
«Lovely roast, Emily. Lydia must get the recipe.»
«Of course,» Emily said weakly.
The rest of the evening passed in stiff small talk. When the guests left, Emily cleared the table in silence.
«How long were you hiding this?» Mark leaned in the doorway.
«I wasnt. I just wanted the right time.»
«And when *was* that? After youd signed the contract?»
«I dont understand this anger,» she faced him. «Its a *job*, Mark. Not an affair. Not a crime.»
«To me, its betrayal,» he said coldly. «We agreedyoud keep the home, Id provide. That was the deal.»
«Twenty *years* ago! The kids are goneIve time now. I need to feel *useful*!»
«So home isnt *useful*?» He stepped closer. «Admit ityoure bored of me. Want freedom? New *friends*?»
«What friends? This is about»
«Ive seen self-fulfilment,» he cut in. «Women at my officejobs, then affairs, then divorces.»
«Christ, Mark,» she stared. «You think Id take a *lover* at a *library*? Surrounded by dusty books and elderly ladies?»
«Im just saying no. End of.»
Something in her snapped.
«Then Ill say *yes*,» she said softly. «Ill ring Michael tomorrow.»
Mark gaped.
«Youll *what*?»
«Im taking the job. Not for money. Not for friends. To feel like a person againnot just your housekeeper.»
«I see,» he nodded slowly. «Youve decided. Without me.»
«You wouldnt *listen*.»
«Brilliant.» He stormed off.
She heard him pacing, muttering. Then he returned, holding her handbag and coat.
«Your times up,» he said, pointing to the door. «You want decisions without me? Live without me. *Leave*.»
«Youre *kicking me out*? Over a *library job*?»
«Im ending *betrayal*,» he spat. «You broke our vows. Put *yourself* first.»
«*What* vows? To be your *maid* forever?» Tears spilled. «Youre at work all day, the kids are goneshould I just bake cakes in an empty house?»
«Take up knitting!» he shouted. «The deal stands: I work, you keep home.»
He shoved the coat at her.
«If Im so *boring*, go. Maybe *Lydia* will take you in.»
Mechanically, she put on the coat. This couldnt be real. Theyd fought beforebut hed never thrown her out. Never been *cruel*.
«Youre serious?» She searched his face. «Over a *part-time job*?»
«Its about *respect*,» he said. «And yes. Go.»
She took a breath and stepped to the door. Then turned.
«You know whats saddest? You never asked *why* I want this. Just *forbade* itlike Im property, not your *wife*.»
«Enlighten me,» he sneered.
«Because Im terrified,» she whispered. «That one day you wont come home. That youll leave me for that *assistant*the one you stay late with every Thursday. And Ill be aloneno job, no savings, no *life* outside you.»
Mark recoiled.
«What *rubbish*? What assistant?»
«*Olivia*,» Emily said calmly. «She calls every night. Sometimes you take it on the balconybut walls are thin, Mark. And I *hear*.»
She opened the door. Closed it quietly behind her.
The stairwell was silent, save for faint jazz from upstairs.
Outside, the night air was cool. She inhaled deeplyand felt, inexplicably, *free*.
She dialled Lydia.
«Its Emily. Sorry its late Yes, we talked. Can I come over? Now?»
Walking to the bus stop, she marvelled at lifes strangeness. That morning, shed thought shed die in that house, with that man, in that endless cycle of resentment. Now she was stepping into the unknownand it felt, for the first time in years, like *her* choice.
Her phone rang. *Mark*.
She hesitated. Then declined the calland switched it off.
Her time *was* up. The time of fear, of silence.
Whatever came next was hers alone. And she was ready.
