Stop Always Being the People-Pleaser

Enough of Being Agreeable

Well, thats all settled then, Elaine! chirped Auntie Judith, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. The napkin, still bearing the greasy mark of the cake Elaine Smith had baked specially for her guest, was now a casualty of thick buttercream. So! The fifth of May, its at yours. Ill bring my famous pickled pork piesfamily recipe! And youll sort out a proper hot dinner, wont you, love? It is your birthday, after all! And therell be important guests tooBrians colleagues, serious people. We must put on a good show.

Elaine, sitting opposite with a cold cup of tea in hand, nodded in agreement, all the while thinking about the looming quarterly accounts she had to submit, how there was no butter left in the fridge, and how Dougs back had flared up againmeaning shed have to pick up more pain patches. Anything except what Auntie Judith was actually saying. Judith carried on, rearranging her lilac scarf and gazing vaguely towards the window, looking like she was already mentally organising plates on someone elses dinner table.

Around twenty peopleat least, Judith continued, her voice oozing expectation. Youll pull it off, wont you, Elaine? Youre a marvel in the kitchen. Remember that time you made all those canapés at Olivias wedding? Not a crumb left behind! Thats the standard. Of course, Ill help out. Ill supervise.

Her laugh was short and yappy, not unlike a Yorkshire terrier thats seen a squirrel.

Elaine smiled back because, well, thats what you do. Judith was her son-in-law Brians aunta sort-of family member by marriage. Stirring drama at home was the last thing Elaine wanted, especially when shed perfected the art of smiling and agreeing.

All right, she said. Consider it done.

Judith left, glowing with satisfaction, just before half past eight. Elaine closed the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes shut for a moment. The hallway was heavy with the sweet-and-spicy perfume of her visitorrich and overpowering. The telly murmured away in the lounge; Doug was lost in another fishing show, not having bothered to greet Judith at all.

Gone? his voice called from the sofa, eyes never leaving the telly.

Gone.

Whatd she want?

Elaine headed for the kitchen and started on the washing up. The tap ran almost scalding, and she didnt bother pulling her hands away.

Were having a do, she called over her shoulder. Fifth of May. Here.

A do? What for?

My birthday. And Brians got something on at work, apparently.

A vague grunt drifted through from Doug. Then silence. Then more fishing.

Elaine dried her hands on an old tea towel, long faded round the edges, festooned with cartoon roostersa market buy from fifteen years ago she could never bring herself to throw out. She looked at the towel and thought: Yes, Im exactly like this. Faded, overlooked, hanging around till someone needs to wipe their hands.

She banished the thought and went to scour the fridge for supplies.

Elaine Smith would be turning fifty in ten daysa big number. A milestone. Half a century, of which she, by her own reckoning, remembered maybe thirty-five proper years. Not a single day among them did she recall doing something just for herself. Not for her husband, not for her daughter, not for her late mum, not for Dougs mother two streets over, eternally needy as a toddler. Always for someone else. Never just for herself. Not one day.

Shed worked as an accountant at a construction firm for twenty-two years. Respected by colleagues, valuedif never promotedby management because, well, Elaine just gets things done, doesnt she? Elaine never made a fuss. Elaine would sort it.

The same story at home. Doug, now fifty-four, slogged away as an engineer at a factory he loathed, gritting his teeth to keep going until retirement. At home, he relaxedwhich meant telly, phone, sofa, often the shed. Elaine cooked, cleaned, paid the bills (she was better at it), did the shopping, welcomed guests. Doug, on principle, did not participate. This rhythm was the background noise of her life now, like the faint hiss you stop noticing after a while.

Her daughter Olivia married four years ago to Briandecent chap, bit of a challenging family. His mum passed years ago, his dad up north somewherebut Auntie Judith, his dads sister, made up for all other relatives, bossing everyone and never shy with her opinions. She took an instant dislike to Elaine. Not for any crime in particular, just because Elaine was moderate, accommodating, and people like Judith took that as a cue to commandeer the ship.

Olivia, bless her, loved her mum, but always put Brian firsta natural thing, really. But when it came to a choice between mums comfort and Brians peace, wellquietly, without drama, Olivia always sided with her husband.

So Elaine carried on, living in a three-bed on the ninth floor of an estate block in Reading. All the houses identical, all the gardens mere variations of the same patch of grassonly the trees had any individuality because, mercifully, no one tried pruning them into submission. Elaine didnt complain. Whod listen? Why bother?

After Judith left, Elaine sat at the kitchen table for another hour, totting up what shed need to buy and cook for twenty. The list was daunting. The cost downright frightening, scrawled on the back of an old supermarket receipt. She stared until her chest felt squeezed, as though someone had quietly left a brick on her ribcage.

With a sigh, she switched off the kitchen light and called it a night.

The next nine days were what Elaine privately labelled the pre-party treadmill. At first, she told herself it was fineshe was just helping her family, the party would be lovely, keep your chin up. By day three, that pep talk had faded like her tea towel.

Up at six, she squeezed in food prep before work, jotted shopping lists, phoned the supermarket about deliveries. She worked till sixinvariably later, as the quarterly report hadnt evaporated out of sympathy. Then she schlepped to the shops for bags full of tins, bottles, flour, meatdragged them up nine floors (the lift worked when it fancied a challenge). Home. Cooked, tidied, collapsed into bed at one or two in the morning. Then did it all again.

Doug saw all this, in the technical sensehe lived there too. He once asked if she needed help. She said Its fine. He nodded, relieved, and retreated to his phone.

Olivia called on Wednesday. Asked if everything was on track, relayed Judiths queries about the main course and the canapés. Elaine ventured, Ollie, could you maybe handle the salads? Its a lot for me. Olivia paused, then, Mum, you know works mad, and Brians busy tooof course well come early to help set up. Set up meaning shifting food from pans to plates. Elaine swallowed her protest.

Two days before, Elaine washed the windows because Judith had implied last time that the sills were dusty. Teetering on a chair, damp cloth in hand, she realised the last time shed done this was eight years ago for her mums visit. Never for herself. Always for someone.

Her foot slipped. She nearly toppled, catching herself just in time. Heart pounding. She sank down onto the carpet beneath the window, back to the wall. Her spine ached, her legs protested, her head buzzed.

If I broke something now, she thought, their first worry would be, What about the party?

That was so funny, so wretchedly absurd, she let out a laugh that turned into a coughing fit.

She got up, finished the window, and pressed on.

On the night of the fourth of May, she slept for three hours. The rest of the time, she boiled, roasted, chopped, plated: Beef with a mustard crust, two different salads, poached fish (she disliked it, but Judith had insisted), cabbage pasties (Cousin Pete wouldnt come if there werent pasties), and a cakecherry sponge, her absolute favourite. The one thing she made for herself.

By seven, shed showered and slipped into a cobalt-blue dress bought two years ago but never worn, saved for best. She checked her reflectiondark circles under her eyes, lips chapped, hands raw from housework. But the dress was lovely. She knew that much.

Oh, dressed up, nice one, Doug remarked in passing. That was it. No You look beautiful, no Happy birthday, not even How are you? Just nice one and gone.

The guests began arriving at noon. Judith was first, half eleven, with a massive bag: promised pork pies, a kilo of pickled onions, and a box of chocolates plonked on the table as if that paid rent. She eyed the flat, nodded at the kitchen. Well done, Elaine, she echoed Doug. All looks smashing.

She immediately got on her phone.

By one, the flat overflowed. Twenty-three people, by Elaines countmost of whom she barely knew. Brians colleagues, Judiths vague friendsstrangers eating her food, perched on chairs shed borrowed from Mrs Harris downstairs.

The toasts began with Cousin Pete, who rambled, got tangled in anecdotes about the 90s, and was universally appreciated. Brian offered, Congratulations to Elaine, a real champion. A few more raised glasses and moved straight on to praising his own friend Tonys career exploits (with financial figures incomprehensible to Elaine).

Then Judith, positively buzzing, delivered a speech mainly about Tonys determination, with a token mention: And of course, our marvellous hostesscouldnt do without her! More laughter. Another round of drinks.

Elaine smiled and did the required thank yous, held up her glass, never once getting the chance to make her own toast. Every time she stood, someone talked over her, usually Judith. She would sit down again, invisible.

Requests kept coming: Elaine, bit more salt? Weve run out of bread, lovebe a star and fetch some. Could do with a few more forks over here. Trips to the kitchen, extra plates, more cold drinks. She barely sat for two minutes at a time; her own plate untouched.

Once, she attempted a toast. Olivia noticed and raised her glass in solidarity, only for Judith to drown them out with yet more Tony lore. Olivia set down her glass, and so did Elaine.

Meanwhile, people gushed over the food. The fish is divine, These pastiesgood heavens, how did you make them? It was gratifying and stinging all at oncepraise for the food, not for her. She wasnt the birthday girl here, just the live-in caterer.

Time drifted by, the May sun slanting through the windows while the noise level rose. Judith kept up her cackle; Doug and Pete talked fishing and cars, oblivious.

Elaine carried in the fourth tray of beef, hands shaking with tiredness. Three hours sleep was catching up. She blinked, steadied the dish.

From the next room Judiths voice blared, Elaine! Are you bringing that through? And grab more crème fraîche while youre at it!

No please, no would you mind, just as youd speak to a maid.

Elaine paused. Spoon lifted, she stood motionless, the kitchen silent but for the tick of the clock and the gentle thrum of the street outside. Something inside her simply…clicked. Not a bang, just a click. A switch.

She set the spoon down. Hung up the oven gloves, perfectly straight on their usual hook. Picked up the dish, grabbed the crème fraîche, and walked into the room.

Placed everything on the table.

Straightened her back.

Excuse me, she said, softly but clear. A handful of guests looked up.

Judith, mid-saga with Tony, paused, her face sour at the interruption.

I’d like to say a few words, Elaine announced. Today is my birthday. Im fifty.

A voice from the end chorused, Congratulations! Others raised glasses.

Please, hold on a moment, she said.

The room stilled. Elaines heart ticked along steadily, not racingalmost as if, somewhere, shed made up her mind and her body knew better than she did.

In the last ten days, I have cooked, cleaned, shopped, ironed, and set up this entire party by myself. I didnt sleep. I bought all the food. I even borrowed chairs. All so a room of strangers could eat at my table in my flat, for a celebration that was supposed to be mine. I have not been allowed to make my own toast, been interrupted three times, and lost count of how many times I got up to fetch things for you all. And just now, I was asked to bring more crème fraîche, with all the grace of ordering at a greasy spoon.

Silence. The kind of silence that means people are uncomfortable but not sure what to do.

Elaine, lovewhat’s this? Doug ventured, more confused than cross.

Olivia murmured, Mum?

Judith inhaled sharply, preparing a retort, but one look from Elaine and she thought better of it.

Id like to ask everyone, Elaine went onher voice strangely steadyplease take home whatever you brought and continue the party somewhere else. Theres a perfectly good pub called The Nook around the corner. Ill even pay for the next round. But this party, here, is over.

Three seconds of stunned pause.

Pete muttered something under his breath, a few people fumbled for jackets, Judith stood uprighther face radiating Youll regret thisscooped up her bag and, with a last petty flourish, nabbed her jar of pickled onions. For some absurd reason, that made Elaine almost giggle.

Olivia darted over, whispering, Mum, what are you doing? This is awful. Judith will never

Ollie. Elaines voice was gentle. I love you dearly. Please, just go.

Olivia stared as though at a stranger. Which, perhaps, was fair enough.

Doug trailed out last, pausing at the door. Gone completely barmy, have you?

No, said Elaine. Maybe Ive just come to my senses.

He didnt reply and left.

She locked the door behind them and stood in the hallway, real silence settling at lastthick and almost comforting. Three oclock on the fifth of May. Sparrows chattered outside. Somewhere below a door slammed. But for now, the flat was hers, and that felt like a long exhale after years of holding her breath.

She regarded the table: the half-eaten beef, the salads, bread, glasses everywhere. Her untouched plate. So she took the plateno reheatingfetched herself a slice of cherry cake, made a mug of hot tea, and sat in her kitchen with just herself for company and the cake shed made for herself.

For the first time in who knows how many years.

No tearsnot for lack of expectation (this would be the bit in a movie where the sad music swells and the lead has a good weep), but none came. Instead, a strange calm, something solid, like standing on dry ground at last. For once, she wasnt the afterthought.

She ignored her phone for hours. When she checked, Ollie had messaged three timesMum, please call, Mum, I dont understand what happened, Are you okay? Dougs sole text: Not very nice, that. Nothing at all from Judith, which was odd. Some numbers she didnt recogniseno doubt, party guests fishing for stashed Tupperware. Mrs Harris had written, Elaine, when will you bring back my chairs? She only replied to Mrs Harris: Tomorrow, sorry about the fuss.

She wrote to Ollie: Im okay. Well talk tomorrow.

Doug got nothing.

Then she cleared the tableno rush, no resentment. Boxed up leftovers, put plates to soak, took out the bins, folded the tablecloth, returned Mrs Harris her chairs (Mrs Harris peeked out in her dressing gown, noted the absence of questionsa wise woman).

Back home, she ran a bathlong, with as much foam as she wanted, watching the ceiling stain from that old leak that had been waiting for three years to be painted. She realised that long-unpainted ceiling and her long-neglected life were, frankly, one and the same.

Doug got in at ten. She could hear the key, the boots. He hovered in the doorway. She lay in bed with her book.

Know what youve done? he asked.

Yes.

And?

And thats it. I know.

Judith and Brian…theres going to be all sorts, you do realise?

I do, Elaine said simply. Doug, Im shattered. Lets just talk tomorrow.

He dithered, then left for the living room and the sofa. She listened but did not follow.

She switched off the lamp.

Slept ten hoursfor the first time in ages.

The sixth of May dawned as mundanely as ever: sunlight peeping between the curtains; birdsong; the aroma of coffee shed set on a timer. She drank her coffee, ate toast, opened her laptop to check the weatherand there, still open, was a tab for an English Heritage coach tour: The Cotswolds and the Southern Cathedrals. Shed opened it weeks ago, read a bit, and then closed itno time.

Now she clicked it.

Stratford-upon-Avon, Salisbury, Winchester, Bath. Eight days, small group, coach, breakfast included. The photos: steepled churches, cobbled streets, cream teas in sunny courtyards. Elaine, who had never actually been to any of them because Doug was a Why leave when weve got the allotment? type. Every summer for twenty yearsplot 57, potatoes, weeding, the odd bottle of cider.

Elaine rang the travel agent at nine sharp.

Good morning, Im calling about your Southern Tour package? said the agent, cheery and well-rested.

Yes, is there a place for the next available trip? Elaine managed.

One place left, departing the fourteenth.

One is perfect, she replied. And she booked it, paid by card right there and then.

She sat with the receiver, gazing out of the window, peaceful. Not elated, but calmthe feeling of having made the right decision, when the mind and body finally agree for once.

Ollie rang in the morning, tiptoeing nervously around the subject.

Mum, can we talk? Judiths furious. Brians put out. I mean… its all just come out of nowhere.

Yes, I know.

Could you ring Judith and apologise? It would calm things down…

No, Ollie.

What do you mean, no?

I wont apologise for asking people to leave my home on my own birthday.

But Mum

Ollie. Listen to me. Im fifty. Yesterday I spent my birthday as a skivvy at my own party, exhausted, unnoticed, fetching and carrying. Not one proper please or thank you all day. And heres the thingI let it happen. I set that table. I invited those people. And Ive been doing it for twenty years. Because Ive never once said, hey, what about me?

A bus trundled past. A pigeon landed on the windowsill and fluttered off.

Mum… Ollies tone had shifted, suddenly softer. Youre right. Its just… so sudden…

It is for me too.

Are you going to keep being like this now?

Elaine smiled. I dont know about forever. But she said, I booked a coach tour.

What?

The Cotswolds and Cathedrals. Eight days. I leave on the fourteenth.

A pause.

On your own?

On my own.

Mum, Ollie whispered.

Ollie, this is the first trip Ive planned just for me, in fifty years. Its about time, isnt it?

Ollie just said, Call me, yeah? and hung up.

Doug got the news over lunch. No hand-holding, no build-up: Coach trip. Fourteenth. Eight days. Cotswolds and cathedrals.

He stared for a while. Didnt ask me?

No.

Whats that supposed to mean?

Whatever you want it to.

Elaine, are you… all right? Should you maybe see someone?

She tasted the soup, adjusted the salt. Im fine. Soup will be ready soon.

He left without further comment.

In the days that followed, Doug alternated between sulks and little outbursts: Youve changed, people dont do this, you never used to be like this. Elaine simply listened. No explanations, no defending herselfa new experience, after years of apologising for things that werent her fault. This time, nothing.

Ollie rang again later in the weekJudith now threatening never to set foot in their house again. Fine, said Elaine. Ollie expected her to shout, to plead. Instead: But shes family, Mum!

Not mine, Elaine replied quietly. Shes Brians blood, not mine. Im more interested in whether weme, you, Dougcan figure out how to live better. Judith is not my project.

Ollie fell silent, then tried asking about the travel arrangements, the itinerary, the hotel. A small but important step, Elaine realised.

On the thirteenth, she packedone small suitcase, light enough to carry herself, her own things only. She included the blue dress (let it have an outing at last).

Doug came in, clocked the suitcase, sat down on the bed. Youre really doing it.

I am.

Eight days.

Eight days.

He rubbed his brow. Is there something quick I can bung in the microwave? Not handy in the kitchen, never have been…

Doug, youre a grown man. Theres food for three days. After that, make something or order a takeaway. Youll cope.

He looked half ready to argue but, for once, left it unsaid. Maybe she just seemed different. Maybe even Doug could tell.

All right, he said gruffly. Off you go then.

No Have a lovely time, no Take care. But no dramatics, either. Progress, perhaps.

That evening her old friend, Jane, called; theyd been mates since school, though these days mostly over the phone.

I heard from Mrs Harris you threw everyone out last Sunday, Jane said. Absolute legend, you.

Not threw, Elaine replied, trying to sound stern. But she laughed.

Its about time, Jane went on. Youve held everything together for thirty-odd years. Im glad you finally…

Oh, dont get mawkish, Elaine cut in, still laughing.

All right, all right, no speeches. Where you off to?

Cotswolds. On my own.

On your Owen! Id love to do that.

So do it.

My David would never let me.

Jane, Elaine told her, thats something you say at eight, when your mother wont let you out. At fifty, no one can stop you but you.

Jane giggled, then went quiet. You really are different, Elaine.

Maybe. I just got tired of being convenient.

We all do. You, though, you actually did something about it.

Maybe. We just dont talk about ittoo embarrassing.

Do you feel embarrassed?

Elaine peered out at the street. Evening light, windows glowing. She could see, across the way, a woman doing dishes, another flat flickering with TV light, someone pacing a room.

No, she said. Not even a bit.

On the fourteenth of May, Elaine woke at half five. Doug was still asleep in the lounge. Coffee. Toast for the journey. Passports, check.

She put on the blue dresswhy not? At fifty, you can wear what you want at six in the morning.

She stood in the lobby by the front door, looking round her familiar flat. Three rooms, ninth floor, the view of the poplars, the ceiling stain. The faded rooster towel. Comfortable, familiar, even dear in a way. But she was walking out that door as a different woman, and that was no small thing.

She heard Doug shuffling through to the kitchen, hair awry, old T-shirt and joggers. He studied the suitcase.

Heading out then, he said.

Taxis here.

He hesitated, then added, Happy birthday, Elaine. Didnt say it before.

She looked at himfifty-four, grey about the edges, tired. Twenty-seven years together. She didn’t know what lay aheadwhether things would change, whether this meant something, whether theyd find their way back. Life wasnt a TV dramano quick fix after an eight-day tour.

Thank you, Doug, she said, simply.

She opened the door and stepped out.

The taxi waited in the car park. Her suitcase went in the boot, she herself into the back seat.

Train station? asked the young driver.

Yes, please, she replied.

Reading was waking upquiet streets, only early birds about. May morning, light and just a little brisk. Trees in new leaf, dazzlingly green, the sky an impossible shade of blue. Elaine gazed out of the window, struck by how long it had been since shed noticed such basicsleaves, sky, sunlight.

At the station everything was in costly, undercooked-travel-chaos mode: hot pasties on sale, tinny announcements, people everywhere. She fought her way to platform three, right on time.

The train arrived, and she climbed aboard, found her seata window one, mercifully. Her carriage companions, a pair of elderly women, nodded a greeting and offered tea. Elaine said Maybe later, thank you.

The train pulled out, Reading scrolling past: flats, trees, garages, more flatsthen, suddenly, fields and hedgerows. The view open and full of sky. She watched the countryside and, for once, didnt think or planjust watched.

Her phone buzzed quietly. Ollie: Mum, all okay? On the train?

She replied: On the train. Im fine. Dont worry.

Then a message from a new number: Hello, this is your tour manager, Catherine. See you in Stratford with your group soonsafe travels! She replied: Thank you. Im on my way.

She slipped her phone away and gazed back out of the window.

The train ate up the miles, whisking her awayfields, sky, the sweep of England. Behind her: Reading, the faded tea towel, the ceiling stain, the kitchen blitzed just days before. Ahead: Cotswold villages, ancient towns, strangers in a tour group, eight days truly her own.

She didnt know what would greet her back homewhether shed have The Talk with Doug, whether she and Ollie would find a new way forward, whether Judiths silence would last forever. It didnt matter. Once, all uncertainty had seemed like dooma problem to be smoothed over. Now, it just felt likewell, life.

And life went on: uncertain, but hers at last.

The train rolled on through the green countryside. Elaine Smith gazed from the window and thought that, the next time someone snapped, Grab the crème fraîche! at her, shed likely just smilepolitelyand say, No.

A tiny word. Only two letters.

Yesterday, for the first time, shed truly meant it.

Its never too late.