“In that dress you look like an old mare, upon my word!” the mother-in-law announced loudly, sweeping her gaze over the hushed guests. The daughter-in-law’s reply? Oh, she didn’t like that one bit.

Imogen ran a fingertip across the screen of her smartphone and looked at the balance in the banking app. The number seemed to breathe for a moment, swelling like a small pale lung, then it shrank. She closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten.

“Eddie,” she called to her husband, who was turning about in the hallway mirror.

Edmund was straightening the collar of a new shirt.

“What is it, Imogen?” he asked.

“When we get to the restaurant, are you going to pay for the taxi from your card?”

He stopped tugging at the shirt and gave her a guilty look. “Imogen, don’t start. There’s only loose change left on my card. I still have to pay for the parking this week. Can’t you order it?”

Imogen locked the screen.

Today Edmund was forty. Forty was a solid, respectable age. Six months before, they had agreed to mark it quietly at home, just the three of them—them and their son.

The mortgage on their two-bedroom flat, taken out two years earlier, devoured almost all of Edmund’s salary. Imogen carried the utilities, the groceries, the boy’s after-school activities, the clothes. Her income as a lead account manager made it possible, but barely any free money remained.

Then, a month ago, Prudence Whitmore had interfered with their plans.

Edmund’s mother announced that the fortieth birthday of her only son was an event of world significance. It was not right to sit in the kitchen like paupers. Relatives had to be invited, a private dining room had to be hired, everybody had to see that Edmund had made something of his life.

When Edmund timidly argued that there was no money for such a restaurant, Prudence simply said, “Imogen earns well. You won’t be ruined over one occasion.”

And Imogen gave in. She found a cosy little restaurant with a good kitchen. She planned the menu herself. She paid the deposit.

“We’re getting a taxi,” she agreed, throwing on her raincoat.

At the restaurant, waiters moved beneath a slow, heavy light. A table for fifteen groaned under dishes of starters. Imogen had deliberately chosen a loose, sand-coloured dress so that, after a whole day of running about at work and arranging this feast, she might feel comfortable.

The guests began arriving towards six. Prudence came last, with Edmund’s sister, Poppy. The older woman walked towards the table as though being presented at Buckingham Palace.

“Happy birthday!” Prudence boomed, and gave her son a paper bag.

Edmund looked inside and beamed. “Oh, Mum, thank you! The same cologne!”

Imogen glanced at the label. The price of that bottle was a third of their monthly mortgage payment.

“For my beloved son, nothing is too much,” Prudence declared, handing her new fur-collared coat to the waiter who had materialised at her elbow.

Then she turned to her daughter-in-law. The smile on Prudence’s face went out like a doused lamp.

“Imogen,” she said dryly, “congratulations.”

“Good evening, Prudence,” Imogen replied evenly.

Prudence surveyed the room. “Well, what can I say…” she murmured, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “Very dark in here. And those tablecloths are plain as dishrags. Edmund, I told you about The Manor House in the centre of Cheltenham. The chandeliers in that place!”

“Mum, The Manor House is out of our reach,” Edmund said quietly, sitting down beside her.

“Oh, stop pretending to be poor!” Poppy cut in, patting her hair. “Your Imogen earns like a factory boss. You could have given your own brother one proper celebration in his life.”

Imogen felt irritation climb into her throat, but she swallowed it. This was not the time for a scene in front of the guests.

“Do help yourself, Prudence,” Imogen said, nudging a platter of fish towards her mother-in-law. “The kitchen here is excellent.”

Prudence picked at a piece with an expression of disgust. “This salmon is rather pale. They must have bought the cheap stuff at the market.”

“It’s the chef’s lightly cured trout,” Imogen said patiently.

The banquet gathered speed. The guests ate, drank, raised toasts, praised Edmund, said what a marvellous professional he was, what a devoted family man, what a lucky life he had fallen into.

Prudence’s mouth did not close all evening. She told stories from Edmund’s childhood, boasted about his imaginary successes at work, and never once mentioned Imogen. To Prudence, her daughter-in-law was part of the serving staff: her task was to top up the orange juice in good time and not to shine.

By the time the hot course arrived, the air around the table had thickened.

Imogen was tired. She rose to ask the waiters to bring tea, and as she came back she heard Prudence’s loud voice:

“And that dress, Imogen.”

The forks stopped clinking. All at once the guests looked down at their plates and made a great show of studying the salads.

Imogen stopped halfway to her chair.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“In that dress you look like an old mare, I swear!” Prudence announced, with a sweeping glance at the silenced table.

Edmund went blotchy red. “Mum, that’s enough. It’s a perfectly normal dress.”

“Eddie, your eyes have got too used to her,” his mother said, adjusting the collar of her new silk blouse. “I mean it affectionately. Love, you’re thirty-eight years old. You’ve dressed yourself like an old woman going out to weed her allotment. No waist, no cut, no style. Nothing but bad taste.”

Poppy smirked behind her napkin.

Imogen walked slowly back to the table. All evening her mother-in-law had been pulling faces at everything: the starters were too simple, the restaurant was too cheap, and her son’s wife simply was not pretty enough.

“I like it,” Imogen said flatly, looking straight at Prudence. “It’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable!” Prudence snorted. “A woman should decorate her husband. She should be his calling card.”

She squared her shoulders.

“Look at me. I’m retired, and I still keep my standards. Because you have to respect yourself, Imogen. You should not pull on the first sack you find by a market stall.”

The guests exchanged uneasy glances. Edmund’s uncle stared into his glass of mineral water, counting bubbles.

“Imogen, sit down. Don’t start,” Edmund whispered, tugging at her sleeve.

Of course. Edmund had always preferred to disappear into the wallpaper while the women sorted things out. What he wanted was for Imogen to be silent and endure.

But tonight Imogen was not going to be silent. She was exhausted from carrying the mortgage, paying for her mother-in-law’s fancies, and being publicly humiliated at her own expense.

“Prudence,” Imogen said, placing her hands on the edge of the table, “where did that blouse you’re wearing come from?”

“What does my blouse have to do with anything?” Prudence blinked.

“Everything, as it happens,” Imogen replied. “It’s Italian silk. And those leather shoes you arrived in—I noticed them. And the new coat with the fur collar, hanging in the cloakroom. Lovely things, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Prudence said warily. “I know how to pick quality.”

“Yes, you do know how to pick,” Imogen said. “And how to pay for them?”

Somebody coughed. Edmund half-rose and tried to interrupt: “Imogen, enough.”

“No, Edmund,” Imogen said, holding up a hand. “Since we’re talking about appearances and self-respect, let’s talk honestly.”

She raised her voice enough for the whole room to hear.

“That Italian blouse, those shoes, and that beautiful coat were bought last month out of the twenty thousand pounds I transferred from my quarterly bonus. Because you told me, and I quote, that you had nothing respectable to wear to the GP’s surgery, and that you were ashamed to face the doctors.”

Prudence’s face lengthened. Her bright lipstick suddenly looked absurd, like paint smeared on a doll.

She swept her eyes around the table, looking for support. The relatives had all become deeply interested in the cooling roast meat.

“I asked my son!” Prudence said defiantly.

“But it wasn’t your son who paid,” Imogen said. “Because Edmund’s salary just covers the mortgage, the petrol, and his business lunches.”

Poppy tried to leap in. “Imogen, why are you always counting other people’s money?”

“I’m counting my own money, Poppy,” Imogen said. “And this banquet you’re sitting at, criticizing the restaurant and my appearance, was paid for to the last pound out of my purse.”

An awkward silence spread over the table, broken only by the clatter of plates from the kitchen.

“And that expensive cologne you gave your son today,” Imogen added, looking straight into Prudence’s eyes, “was bought with the money I gave you last week for your dental treatment.”

Prudence’s cheeks went scarlet. “How dare you…” she stammered.

“So,” Imogen said, drawing herself up to her full height, “I can wear a potato sack if I want to. Because that sack, I bought with my own wages.”

She raised her glass of orange juice.

“And when you can dress yourself on your own pension, we’ll talk about my fashion sense. Enjoy your meal!”

She sat down calmly.

Prudence stood there, gasping for breath. She had expected her son to leap to her defence, to scold his wife for getting above herself. But Edmund sat with his head bent low, faithfully digging a fork into a piece of baked potato.

There was nothing else for it. Prudence crumpled her napkin, threw it onto the table, and rose.

“I will not set foot in your house again!” she declared to no one in particular.

She turned and marched out. Poppy, after one annihilating glare at Imogen, grabbed her handbag and scurried after her mother.

The rest of the evening passed in a bruised quiet. The guests quickly finished the main course, drank their tea, offered strained goodbyes, and vanished.

Imogen and Edmund drove home without speaking.

A week passed. Life settled back into its usual shape. Prudence pointedly did not telephone. Edmund sulked for a few days and tried to accuse his wife of being too sharp, but he could not find a convincing argument.

On Saturday morning, Imogen was making coffee when a message buzzed on her husband’s phone.

Edmund, sitting at the kitchen table, looked at the screen and hesitated.

“Imogen,” he began in a placating voice, “Mum’s written. Her fridge has broken. The repairman says it will be expensive.”

Imogen took a slow sip of hot coffee from her mug.

“What a nuisance,” she said.

“We ought to help. Could you transfer five thousand pounds? I’ll pay you back from my next salary.”

“No, Eddie,” Imogen said. “I won’t.”

“What do you mean? All her food will spoil!”

“I mean exactly that,” Imogen said. “Your mother made it perfectly clear that I’m walking bad taste and that I don’t respect myself. So I have decided to follow her excellent advice.”

She set the mug down and walked to the stove.

“Yesterday I booked a haircut and colouring. And this weekend I’m going to the shopping centre to buy some new dresses. I have to keep my standards up.”

Edmund blinked. “But the fridge…”

“The fridge, my love, is now your concern,” Imogen said, switching off the hob. “Take on some overtime. Ask for an advance. You’re family, her own flesh and blood. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She picked up her mug and went into the living room, leaving Edmund at the kitchen table with his thoughts and Prudence’s broken refrigerator.

She had made her bed, and let her lie in it, and may the devil take the mattress.

And what would you have done in that situation? Leave your thoughts in the comments below, and don’t forget to press like.