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My Husband Brought a Colleague to Our Christmas Eve Dinner—So I Asked Them Both to Leave
Where have you put the napkins? I told you to get the ones with the silver pattern; they match the tablecloth, murmured Margaret, thinly slicing a lemon, almost transparent, not even bothering to turn her head.
Normally at this hour, her husband, Peter, would already have been sprawled in front of the telly, waiting for the New Year’s Eve concert, but tonight he wasnt even home. Margaret grumbled to herself, filling the cosy kitchen with her muttered complaints. Just three hours left to the midnight chimes. Her special family roast goose was browning in the oven, stuffed with Bramley apples just as her grandmother had done each year. The flat sparkled, the tree twinkled with coloured fairy lights, and inside she felt that unique warmth, the quiet electric hope, waiting for something magical, even at fifty.
She dried her hands, checked the clock. Peter was late, detained, hed said, by picking up a forgotten gift for her from the office. Margaret smiled to herself perhaps hed picked something truly thoughtful this time. Silver wedding this year, twenty-five years together. The plan was a quiet, romantic dinner, just the two of them no noisy families, no grown children scattered far away.
The lock clacked in the hall. Margaret patted her hair, slipped off her apron to reveal a velvet dress, and hurried to greet him.
Pete, where have you been? The goose is nearly
Her words stopped. Peter wasnt alone. Next to him, shaking soft snow off an expensive mink coat, stood a young woman, all boldness and flame-red curls, lips painted scarlet. She carried a bag of clementines, while Peter, flashing a sheepish yet rather forced grin, clutched a bottle of champagne.
Margie, come, greet our guest! Peter announced, too loudly for the calm of their front hall. Meet Alice. Alice Green the new chief accountant at work.
Margaret froze; something in her chest turned icy. She darted her gaze from husband to guest and back again.
Good evening, she managed, voice tight. Were we expecting someone?
Alice, eyes bright, offered a gloved hand unashamedly.
Oh, Margaret, hello! You wouldnt believe my night its like something out of an old British comedy! Peter, I mean Mr Greaves, absolutely rescued me. Im ever so grateful!
Peter fumbled with his shoes, avoiding her gaze.
Listen, Margie you see I popped by the office and found Alice in tears. Poor thing a plumbing disaster, flat flooded, heating off, the electricity gone. And the plumbers not coming until next week! No family nearby, all alone on New Years. I couldnt let her spend the night on some station bench, could I? So I said: Alice, come along! Margarets feast is always lovely, she has a heart of gold.
Margaret half-listened, dreamlike, as her cosy little world seemed to disintegrate. Twenty-five years. Romantic evening. The candles already on the table. And this bold apparition in a fur coat.
Do come in, she replied, woodenly. Her voice sounded foreign to her. Since youre here already.
Alice floated in on a heavy, sweet cloud of expensive perfume, immediately overwhelming the scents of goose and pine.
Oh, your home is adorable! she chirped, brazenly surveying the place. Proper retro style. My granny had a dresser just like that. All very Museum-of-British-Life, isnt it?
Margaret clenched her teeth. The sideboard was Italian, solid oak, worth an arm and a leg; no way was she explaining that to a girl young enough, perhaps, to be her own child.
Pete, help our guest with her coat, she snapped, retreating to the kitchen. Her hands were unsteady.
Peter followed shortly, looking battered but stubborn.
Margaret, please? Be kind, its New Years. She truly has nowhere else. Let her stay for dinner, Ill call a cab for her by midnight or if thats hard she can sleep on the sofa…?
The sofa? She rounded on him, clutching her ladle until her knuckles went white. Are you out of your mind? We wanted to be alone tonight. Youve brought home a stranger, who insults our home the minute she steps in! Museum indeed
She didnt mean anything! Shes just young, a bit blunt. Please, Margaret, dont shame me in front of a colleague. Imagine what shell tell everyone if I kick her out. Shes new. I have to work with her.
Margaret stared at him, searching for the man she had shared her life with. Instead: a weary womanizer, desperate to impress his junior with his wifes hospitality.
All right, she said at last. She can stay. But if she comments again
She wont! I promise! Peter pleaded, moving in to kiss her, but Margaret drew away.
Go entertain your freshness. Ill set a third place.
The dinner began under a suffocating awkwardness. Margaret laid plates in silence. Alice, shed of her coat, revealed an overly tight, low-cut dress, grotesquely out of place for a homely supper. She slouched at the table, legs crossed, swirling her wine glass.
Petey, can we open the bubbly now? To toast the old year goodbye Im simply desperate for a drink, she simpered, languidly eyeing Peter.
Petey. Margaret nearly dropped the salad bowl, slamming down the herring under a fur coat with a clatter.
In our house, champagne is for midnight, when Big Ben strikes. For now, we have homemade cranberry cordial, she declared.
Alice pouted. Cordial? How quaint. I dont drink sweet things watching my figure. Do you have any Brut? Ive heard sweet champagnes just for those with no taste.
Peter jumped in, eager. Wait, I have decent brandy in the cabinet, Alice. Would you like a tipple?
If you insist. Im frozen do you keep your place this chilly on purpose? Saving on heating bills?
Margaret took her seat across from them, feeling surplus at her own celebration. Peter was playing the host pouring drinks, spooning out caviar, offering tired jokes to which Alice erupted in shrill, theatrical laughter.
And what about you, Margaret, do you work? Alice asked, suddenly, breaking off a mouthful.
I do, Margaret replied with calm dignity. Im head technologist at the biscuit factory.
Really? Alices pencilled eyebrows lifted, amazed. Gosh. You look so homey. You know, like the sort of woman who always waits, cooking stews for her husband. Peter said your baking is marvellous, though apparently the conversation at homes a bit flat. But who cares when theres cake, right?
The silence was piercing now, broken only by the clock and television. Peter turned crimson, choking on his brandy.
I I never said that! he croaked, hammering his chest, glaring at Alice. You mustve misunderstood!
Margaret gently set down her fork. The fine thread on which this evening hung snapped, almost audibly. So: Nothing to talk about? Flat life?
Go on, Alice, she said with an icy grin. What else did Peter tell you? Im interested.
Flustered now, Alice rolled back nervously, digging in deeper.
Oh, dont be upset! Men always want a bit of fun, drama. Peter was wild at the office party last Friday! He danced better than anyone we even did the samba, everyone clapped. He moaned that you dont dance at home, said your legs hurt.
Margaret looked at her own feet under the table. They only ached after shed stood, for three days running, preparing the perfect New Years spread for her beloved husband.
Peter sat, petrified, knowing disaster loomed.
Lets have a drink! he blurted, desperate. Peace on Earth, and all that
No, wait, Margaret locked eyes with Alice. What about your plumbing, Alice? Tell us what happened.
Plumbing? Ohyes, dreadful! The pipes burst. Water everywhere! I panicked called Peter right away. Such a reliable man, unlike my ex.
Odd, mused Margaret aloud. Minus five outside tonight. With your pipes gone, no heat, no power, youd hardly arrive here perfect, with salon hair and a flawless manicure. Youd reek of floodwater, not of beauty parlours and luring off other peoples husbands.
Alice flushed, scandalised.
How dare you! Im a guest! Peter, say something!
Peter shrank.
Margie, please, maybe she just had time to change
Enough, Pete, she said, quietly but firm. She stood. Ive ignored your little flings for years: your sidelong glances, your office delays. I thought you cared for family, thought we were partners. But I am just the cook with nothing to say
She strode to the window, yanking the curtain wide to the dark patchwork of suburban gardens, fireworks fizzing over fences.
Right, she turned, addressing them both. Shows over. Miss Green, collect your clementines and kindly leave.
Alice opened her mouth, but Margarets eyes blazed with such wintry resolve, Alice faltered.
Peter! Alice shrieked, clinging to a last hope. Are you really letting her throw me out tonight?
Peter, inspired (or muddled by the brandy), slammed his hand on the table.
Margaret! Enough! This is my house too! I brought a guest. Alice stays. Well see in the New Year like civilised folk
Like what? Margaret prompted. Do go on.
Like harpies! he shouted.
Margaret nodded evenly, without tears or uproar. She opened the sideboard, pulled out the big holdall meant for Christmas parcels to the grandchildren, and upended the sweets and gifts onto the carpet.
Your house, is it? She threw the holdall at Peters knees. Splendid. Im off, then. But heres the detail, Pete this flat belonged to my parents. Youre only a lodger here. And I promise you, first thing Tuesday Ill be seeing the solicitors. And now both of you, out you go.
What? Peter paled, the drink evaporating. Margaret, what do you mean? Go where?
To all that drama you miss. To the samba, to Alices place or help her mop up. Youre a real hero, after all. Its dull here, a house museum.
Margaret, wait! He leapt up, knocking over his chair. Im sorry, Im a fool, Alice is just a colleague! Let her leave, Ill stay!
She looked at him with new contempt. Minutes before, hed have defended Alice to the end; the moment trouble sniffed in, hed cast her aside.
No, Pete. The salads turned. Like our marriage. Gather your things. Five minutes.
Alice, comprehending the hopelessness, and seeing the scandal coming, quietly fetched her coat.
Lunatic, she muttered, pulling on her fur, Ill get my own taxi, Peter. Dont need your reliable with all its extras.
The front door banged shut, leaving the room stinking faintly of perfume and something worse.
Peter loitered, clutching the empty holdall.
Margie he whimpered. Shes gone. Please, can we just forget this? Look, the goose is getting cold.
Margaret walked to the oven, pulled out the roasting tray. The scent of apples and cinnamon rose, but now it made her queasy.
Forget? she repeated. You brought your mistress here on our silver wedding; discussed me behind my back; let her sneer at me in my own kitchen.
She hefted the dish, heavy and ceramic.
Pete, go. Im not joking. If you dont leave Ill call the police and tell them youre drunk and threatening me. And theyll believe me.
He looked at her then and realised she would. In this homely woman, a new force had awakened.
He skulked off to the bedroom. She heard drawers bang, clothing hastily packed. He shuffled back, coat askew, a shirt-sleeve waving forlornly from the bag.
Youll regret this, Margaret! he shouted, trying for grand dignity, already at the door. Youll be left all alone! Who wants you at fifty?
Myself, she replied, double-locking the door behind him.
Peace, blessed silence. Margaret slid down to the floor, her back against the cold wood. Shed expected sobs, but there was only a strange relief, as though some ancient, hulking furniture had been removed, and at last she could breathe.
She stood, swept into the kitchen. The table was set for three all that food, the salads, caviar, goose, now mere props for a cancelled play.
She picked up Alices plate, lipstick-smeared, unfinished sandwich, and hurled it into the bin crash! The sound was almost melody.
Then Peters. Crash!
Two places removed, she left only her own, gilded-edged china. She filled her flute to the rim with icy champagne.
On the television, the Prime Minister began his annual speech. Big Bens hands ticked towards midnight, to a year that had robbed her of illusions but returned her self-respect.
Happy New Year, Margaret, she toasted her reflection in the windows black glass.
She helped herself to the best part of the goose the golden-crisp leg. She heaped some salad; the potato salad, surprisingly, was perfect.
Her phone chimed a message from her daughter, Emily: Happy New Year, Mum! We love you both! See you and Dad next week with the grandkids!
Margaret smiled softly. Real life never left you: children, grandchildren, work, her beloved home. Whatever was gone it must have been rotten through.
A sip of champagne fizzed and sparkled up her nose. For the first time in years, she was not serving, not fussing, not topping up everyones glasses. She simply enjoyed the quiet.
Outside, neighbours whooped Hurrah! and set off fireworks. The world celebrated and so did Margaret. Her own freedom.
Later, she packed up the food she couldnt eat alone, neat and tight in containers. Tomorrow, shed bring it down to Mrs Vale, the concierge, and to Michael, the caretaker. Kind people, deserving a treat.
The goose? Shed eat the rest herself, in her own time. Shed earned it.
Before bed, she wiped off her make-up. A beautiful, cared-for, slightly tired but lively-eyed woman gazed back not some cartoon auntie in curlers.
He wanted more excitement? Margaret gave a wry smile to the mirror. Well, Peter, youve got it now plenty of action ahead, finding a flat, splitting everything, explaining to the children.
She lay in the vast bed, sprawled like a starfish. The pillows didnt smell of anyone elses aftershave, only fresh linen and lavender.
In the morning, the sun woke her. Her very first thought wasnt Must make Peters breakfast but Would I like coffee and cake at that lovely café on the corner? And that was a wonderful thought.
She didnt know what tomorrow would bring thered be divorce, hard talks, sorting out the house. But that all belonged to later. This day was all hers: quiet, delicious food, and peace. No one would ever again call her home a museum or her life, dull.
She finished the last of her champagne, settling into the bright, silent morning. Alone, yes. And more herself than ever.
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The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. 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He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. 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