Margaret stood by the kitchen window, her reflection in the glass a reminder of the day that changed everything. Stephen had just closed the front door, the slam echoing through the flat he’d inherited from his late father. She called out, her voice laced with exasperation. «Stephen, are you coming? Did you not forget to bring something for tea? Wash your hands and come through—we’re having dinner.»
He shuffled in, his tan coat still on. «I’ll be right there.»
«Quickly, or your tea will go cold. And where in the name of heaven did you find those biscuits? ‘No added sugar’? That’s not what I asked for! I wanted a proper cake, not these wretched things.» She held up the packet, the bold label glaring: «NO ADDED SUGAR.»
«Darling, I’ve meant to say this, but please don’t take it the wrong way—how are you going to wear a dress at the boss’s birthday bash? Look at you, Margaret.» His voice softened, though the words were sharp. «You’re gaining weight. You can’t squeeze into your old frocks anymore. The lads at work will laugh. They’ll say you’re my mother. Or worse, my grandmother!»
Margaret froze, her hand hovering over the kettle. She didn’t weep—never had that kind of temper—but her breath caught. Three years had passed since her redundancy, since the days she’d worn heels and a pencil skirt to jobs at the finance firm in Manchester. Now, three-bedroom apartments in the city were a far cry from her current reality: a flat in Leeds, a kitchen strewn with shopping bags, and a mirror that no longer lied.
The years had slipped by like the tides at Whitby. Stephen’s parents had gifted them the flat for their wedding, a grand gesture for a man with a modest salary at the marketing firm. They’d thrived for a time—new jobs, new friends, even a holiday to Brighton after their second anniversary. But then the layoffs came, and Margaret’s applications fell flat. Stephen’s suggestion had seemed kind: «Stay home, dear. I can manage. We’ll have babies, fill the flat with life.» She’d half-smiled, thinking it a joke. But staying home looked suspiciously like staying married.
By the time the mortgage payments were current, her wardrobe had shrunk. Novels and film nights replaced her book club and jazz classes. The flat’s beige walls became both sanctuary and cage. One rainy afternoon in late autumn, Stephen left for a business trip, and Margaret went shopping. She bought a pound of olives, two loaves of sourdough, and a dress she hadn’t worn since university.
The boutique assistant at the mall in Leeds—tall, sharp-featured, with a name like Lily—had studied Margaret in the reflection. «You might want to try a larger size,» she’d said. «This one accentuates every… imperfection.» Margaret had laughed, but the mirror betrayed her. The choker neckline strained at her throat; the waistband hung low. She left the dress on the shelf and the mall behind, her cheeks burning as a passerby muttered, «Pardon, luv.»
That night, Margaret resolved to change. She ran on the spot in her living room, counting each labored breath. Stephen found her wheezing, her face red, a skipping rope twitching at her feet. «You look like a chandelier dragging itself over a rug,» he’d said, and she’d laughed until the tears came.
Weeks later, she discovered the new yoga studio on the corner of Barkers Carriage Drive. The instructor, a no-nonsense woman named Daphne, praised her perseverance. «You’re not like the others,» she’d said. «Most give up after the first hour.» Margaret, now lacing into her old jeans without a belt, agreed.
At the annual office party, Stephen winced at the emerald-green gown Margaret chose. «Too revealing,» he muttered as she adjusted the sequined bodice. «You’ll be the talk of the room.»
But the party was a triumph. The director, a portly man in a double-breasted suit, clasped her hand. «Miss Carter, you’ve outshone the chandeliers!»
Stephen sulked by the buffet line, his arms laden with meatballs and Waldorf salad. Margaret, radiant in her new skin, followed him home. That night, she packed a suitcase.
«Leaving for your class?» Stephen asked, his voice flat.
«No. For good.»
Her new life bloomed like the hibiscus in her window box. The office at the CBI, the Friday dinners with friends, the trips to York to see the mistletoe sold in the cathedral markets. She still loved her «Napoleon» biscuits, sometimes pairing them with Earl Grey. But the mirror no longer loomed over her. Stephen, who’d once called her a «blimp,» remained in Leeds, his coat still hanging in the flat they’d shared for too many years.
They’d let him forget, eventually, that he’d been the one to cage her.