My Husband Invited Friends Over Without Asking, So I Checked Into a Five-Star Hotel for the Night Us…

Oh, come off it, Laura, stop moaning, will you? So the lads have popped round to watch the footiewhats the harm in that? Davids voice crashed through the flat, trying to outsound both the cheers of the three hefty blokes in the living room and the blare of commentary. Not seen these mates for ages, since school, even! Be a gem, will you, and cut up some cucumber and that nice smoked sausage we kept for the holidays. Theres beer but nothing to have with it. Come on, help us out.

Laura stood in the narrow hallway, still gripping her keys so tightly they dug half-moons into her palm. She had barely crossed the threshold, already half-dreaming of escaping her stilettosnow medieval instruments after a nine-hour shiftand the sticky makeup on her face. All she wanted was the haven of their flat, to collapse on the sofa with a good book. Her day had been a nightmare: the annual audit at work, her bosss meltdown, and then two hours stuck on the M25 in drizzly misery. Home was meant to be her sanctuary. Instead, shed walked into what felt like Euston Station at rush hour.

The sour stench of cheap lager and pickled eggs hit her like a punch. Their beloved cream rug, which shed fought to keep spotless, was now a battlefield of massive mens shoes, mud still clinging to some. Someones battered parka had toppled from the hooks onto the floor, flopped there like a wounded pheasant.

Laura drew a shaky breath, knuckles white, as she forced herself into the living room. The scene was almost absurd: David sprawled in the armchair, while Pete, Alan, and some bearded stranger had planted themselves on the sofa. Scattered across her glass coffee tableher pride, polished religiously so it gleamedwere empty bottles, greasy crisp packets, all atop a crumpled copy of The Sun and what looked horribly like scales from a Tesco smoked mackerel.

David, she said, her voice low and trembling with exhaustion, we agreed. No guests during the week without warning. Im exhausted. I just want some peace.

He didnt glance away from the screentoo enthralled by millionaires running across a pitch. Oh, here we go, Im tired, Ive got a headache, he chided. For heavens sake, Laura, dont be such an old woman. Lads, tell her!

The bearded stranger, Alan, hollered across the room, Dont mind us, love! Well keep it down. If our lot score, we might even have a little dancecome join us! Want a beer? His keeping it down was about as quiet as a 747 taking off.

No, thank you, Laura replied, a cold, angry determination building inside her. What I want is for all of you to be gone in exactly ten minutesand the place to be spotless.

Oh come on, dont show me up! David finally turned his ruddy, annoyed face to her. Go on, love, why dont you make yourself useful in the kitchen? Stick some sausages on, lads are starving. And stop hoveringits killing the mood.

She looked at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. Ten years of marriage: ten years of keeping things homely, tidy, dinner always ready. Shed tolerated his shed nights, his mothers endless advice, his socks all over the lounge. But tonight, something snappedmaybe it was the greasy fish scales, or the way he barked go stick the kettle on. Either way, shed had enough.

Without a word, she turned and left the room.

Shes miffed, look, drifted after her. Give her a bit, shell come back with sarnies. She always does.

She went to their bedroom, spotting Davids wallet lying atop the chest of drawers. He always emptied his pockets first thing: keys, coins, cards. Just yesterday, his quarterly bonus had arrived. A healthy one, meant for sorting the balcony or, worst case, new tyres for the car.

Her eyes landed on his glinting gold credit card.

A wild, reckless plan formed instantlyone that the old Laura, mild and accommodating, could never have imagined. But that Laura was done. She was reclaiming respect. Or at least compensation.

She snatched up the card, pulled her little overnight bag from the wardrobe. Every action sure, precise. Fresh underwear, her silk pyjamas (David always mocked them as slippery nonsense), phone charger, makeup bag.

From the living room, roars eruptedGOAAAAAL! The walls shook. Someone, she guessed, was bouncing on the sofa.

Laura shrugged on her trench coat, stepped into her pumps, and caught her own reflection: tired eyes, set mouth.

Sausages, was it? she whispered to the glass. Well see about that.

She slid out, door barely clicking behind her. No one noticed her escapethe football and lager-fuelled bellows masked everything.

It was cold and raw outside, but Laura flushed with adrenaline. She called for a taxi: Executive, please. Well, tonight called for itmake it Premier.

The cara sleek black Jaguar with buttery leather seatsarrived in minutes. The driver, trim in his blazer, stepped out to hold the door.

Evening, madam. Where to?

The Grand Hotel, she replied. The poshest stay in Oxford, all marble and liveried doormen. Shed gawped at its twinkling windows plenty of timesnever dared imagine stepping inside as a guest.

Excellent choice, nodded the driver.

As they glided through the city streets, Lauras bag buzzedDavid. The game mustve hit half-time and hunger set in. She silenced her phone. Let him stew. Let him imagine shed just nipped for milk.

The Grand Hotels foyer smelt of lilies and money, with a chandelier splintering light across marble and a perfect-smiled receptionist.

Good evening. Do you have a reservation?

No, Laura placed the gold card on the counter. I need a suite. With a jacuzzi, and a river view.

Without missing a beat, the receptionist tapped away. Our Executive Suite is available, seventh floor. Breakfast and 24-hour spa access included. That will be three hundred pounds a night. Shall I proceed?

Three hundred poundsclose to half her months wage, or a third of Davids bonus. Her years of frugality tried to protest, but she promptly silenced them.

Yes. Please do.

Your passport, madam?

A minute later, the card reader beeped: Payment successful. Laura imagined Davids battered phone, surely chiming with a text: £300 spent at GRAND HOTEL.

Would he notice yet? Unlikelyhis match was more important.

A bellman led her up to the suite. The door opened onto a space fit for royalty: super-kingsize bed draped in white, living area with sumptuous armchairs, a marble bath the size of their own lounge, and windows framing the citys twinkling lights.

Alone, Laura immediately ditched the shoes, relishing the thick carpet under sore feet. She eyed the mini-bar: a dinky bottle of Moët cost as much as a crate of Davids lager.

To hell with it, she muttered, cracking open the bottle.

She poured herself a glass, settled in, and turned her phone back on. Fifteen missed calls. Three messages:

Laura, where are you?

Are you at Tesco? Grab some mayo!

Laura? Whereve you gone? Were all starving!

Nothing but orders. Laura took a cold sip, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly.

Another message popped up.

Laura, just got a weird bank alert. £300! Whats that? Cant find my card. Did you take it? Text menow!

Hed finally noticed. She smirked and dialled room service.

Good evening. Id like to order dinner to my suite. Yes, its late, but Im famished. King prawn salad, rare steak, and… tiramisu. And a bottle of your best Rioja. Put it on the room.

She turned on the taps in the marble bath, sprinkled scented salts. The phone began to ring again. Davids name flashed. She answered, finally, as she slipped into the foaming warmth.

Yes?

Laura! Are you mental? Davids voice was shrill, panic rising. The background was ominously quietthe mates mustve slunk off by now. Where are you? Whys there £300 missing? What have you bought? A fur coat?!

No, darling, Laura replied serenely. Ive bought myself silence. Im at a hotel.

A hotel? Why?!

Because home feels like a Wetherspoons, and reeks of fish. Because, as I said, Im exhausted and you ignored that. You told me to make sausages. All I want is steak and a soak.

Are you drunk? Laura, get back home! Thats our repair moneyits not just yours! And now what, another charge for dinner?

Probably another eighty quid. Dont panic. Besides, youve got plenty of sausages in the freezer.

Bloody hell, Laura, youve lost it! You spent nearly four hundred quid! Just for the night? Theres food at home!

Enjoy it, love. Maybe Alan can help with the frying pan. You lot are mates, after all.

Laura, stop this nonsense! Come back nowthe lads have shoved off! Ill clean up, promise!

Really? Will you also magic the stink out, and scrub the dishes? No, sweetheart. Ive paid for twenty-four hours, and I intend to use every one. Ill even get a massage in the morningthey say the spa here is divine.

A massage too? Thats criminal! Come home. Ill do the lotplease!

Laura smiled at the ceiling. Im glad youre finally finding your domestic side. Practise. Ill see you tomorrow, after lunch. Raise your voice and Ill book another night. RememberIve got your card.

She disconnected, phone off, and slipped further under the bubbles.

Moments later, a soft knockher dinner, wheeled in by an impeccably polite waiter: white napery, silver cutlery, the comforting warmth of steak, an elegant pudding. Laura, robed and radiant, feasted while Oxford twinkled beyond the glass.

For the first time in years, she didnt feel like a servant, or the backing track to someone elses life. She felt cherishedby herself, if no one else.

The night was blissful. The bed, a cloud. No one snored or stole the covers. She woke to bright sunlight and the clear feeling that all the tension had leached away.

Downstairs, the spa: swim, steam room, skilled hands working the knots from her shoulders. Goodness, youre wound up, missusneed to look after yourself, murmured the masseuse.

I think I will, Laura promised as the aches melted.

By the time shed checked out, it was nearly two oclock. Her phone flickered back to life: a flood of missed calls, a final text from David: Ive cleaned everything. Please come homelets talk.

She called a taxiagain, Premier, why not?and set off.

Slotting her key into the door, she smelled bleach, lemon, and a trace of distinctly sheepish husband.

David sat at the kitchen table, a cold mug of tea before him. The flat gleamed. Not a trace of yesterdays mess; rug, kitchen, and even the cooker scrubbed spotless.

He sprung upright when he saw her. He looked a wreckdark circles, clothes rumpled.

So, yourewell, back, he gasped. Laura, you went too far. Four hundred quid in a single night!

Laura calmly put her bag down, set his card on the table.

I know, David. Three hundred and eighty-five pounds, to be exact. Thats the price of my peacea lesson for you.

David groaned, clutching his head.

Four hundred quid! Thats half the balcony fund!

Add up what a decade of being a live-in cleaner, cook and counsellor costs, Laura said, sitting opposite, her gaze steady. You took my efforts for granted. You made me invisible in my own home. Yesterday, you proved my no means nothing. If this happens again, I wont go to a hotel. Ill go for good. And divorce is a hell of a lot pricier than four hundred quid.

He looked at her, really saw herrefreshed, composed, dangerous.

Alright, he murmured, eyes dropping. I get it. Alans a right prat. Told him not to come again.

Good, Laura stood. Now, Im starving. Any sausages left, or did you lot polish them off?

He scrambled up.

No! II made soup. Chicken. From a tin, but with potatoes and all that. Want some?

Laura almost laughedtinned soup, the mighty gesture.

Go on, then. Ladle it up.

They ate in silence, David sneaking glances as though afraid she might detonate. Laura tasted salttoo much, but she relished every spoonful, thinking: Four hundred pounds well spent. Sometimes, to be truly valued, you really do have to make yourself an expensive womanquite literally.

That evening, they watched a filmher choice, a soppy romance David usually called tosh. Midway through, he tugged her close.

Laura

Mm?

Was it amazing? The hotel?

She let her head rest on his shoulder. Incredible. Jacuzzi, river view. Fluffy robes, the lot.

Maybe maybe we could go, together next time? For our anniversary?

She smiled. Well go. But you, my dear, keep your card handy. You never know, I might get a midnight craving again.

David let out a nervous laugh, holding her a little tighter.

Id better learn to cook steak, hadnt I? Cheaper in the long run.

Half a year on, guests only came over by prior agreement and only ever on weekends. Miraculously, David began washing up after himself, the spectre of The Grand and a dented bank account proving a better motivator than years of hints.

Laura even opened her own accounther Emergency Suite Fundtopping it up bit by bit every month. Just in case. It was a quiet comfort, knowing there was always money for a riverside escapeand honestly, that knowledge warmed her heart better than any fireplace ever could.