Beef Wellington Blues

Date: 11/11/2025

The restaurant is buzzing with noise and hungry diners. The kind of chaos that clings to the walls like grease. My husband and I sit by the window, away from the chaos, pretending that distance might save us. Candlelight flickers between us — warm, forgiving light that forgives nothing. Something feels off. Mat’s eyes keep drifting to the side, always to the same place: a blonde at the bar, all shine and laughter and effortlessness. She’s the kind of woman who’s never paid a gas bill or cried in a supermarket car park. Her laughter tinkles — too loud, too light. I feel that knot tighten in my stomach. Familiar. Foreboding. I try to reel him back into conversation, but his attention’s gone rogue. I sigh, long and knowing. I’ve lost. “Go on then,” I mutter. “Off for your pipe.” And I hope he bloody well chokes on it. He doesn’t even tell me he’s going — just drifts off like smoke. “Mat,” I call after him. But he’s already gone. A man on a mission. Moments later, the blonde follows. Of course she does. I may as well be wearing a fluorescent badge that says ‘Husband for rent.’ The tears come before I can stop them — ugly, heavy things. Clumsy, noisy. I’ve become a clown in a circus of pity. People stare. Some whisper. Someone actually points. Anger replaces humiliation. Before I can think better of it, I hurl a plate at an innocent man’s head. It hits. Shatters. He laughs. For a fleeting, stupid second, I think — well, that’s one way to meet someone. Then Mat returns, looking rumpled and guilty. His once-pressed suit now looks as creased as Morgan Freeman’s forehead. A man passing by smirks: “Doesn’t your wife do the ironing, mate?” I don’t. Ironing is a complete waste of life. But the comment burns anyway. “Dick,” I mutter. Moments later, Mat’s making another excuse to leave. I wave him off. “Go ahead,” I say, already hollow. I drift over to the ball pit where the boys are playing. “A bit old for ball pits, aren’t you?” “Never too old,” says Maxi, burying himself in plastic colour. I smile, but it feels false — like holding a cracked mask in place. Alex senses it. He puts an arm around me. “It’s okay, Mum.” I hope he’s right. Suddenly, the ball pit swallows me whole. And then I’m running. Streetlights flicker past. My breath rasps. Lycra clings. A torch is strapped to my forehead like a minor of emotional wreckage. I’ve somehow become one of those people who jogs for joy — or maybe out of sheer desperation. Up ahead, a dog appears. A whippet — chocolate-brown, spindly elegance, eyes full of old-world melancholy. An English gentleman in canine form. The kind of dog who’d own a smoking jacket if dogs did such things. “Hey, boy,” I whisper. “You lost?” A nearby door opens. A man steps out, face sour. “Have you lost a dog?” I ask. He glares like I’ve offended his ancestors. “I’m a cat person,” he snaps. “Keep that mutt away from my fur babies.” I crouch to check the tag. There’s a name and a number, but the digits won’t stay still — wriggling and slipping away like tiny eels. I try to catch them on my phone, but they refuse to stay put. I give up. Sophie appears up ahead, haloed by streetlight. “Can you call for me?” I ask. “I’ll call my mum,” she says. “Does your mum own this dog?” “No, but she’ll know what to do.” Her mum doesn’t answer, of course. Botox paralysis, apparently. Can’t move her face, can’t move the story forwards. Then Liz appears — reborn. Full makeover. Ice Blonde bob, sharp enough to slice a watermelon clean in half. She looks like she’s been carved from glass and malice. “Hey Liz,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Loving the new look.” She mimics me perfectly, voice high and mocking. “Hey Liz, I’m loving the new look.” It stings. “What’s her beef?” I think. As if on cue, Liz’s eyes brighten. “Beef? I love a Beef Wellington!” And somehow, we all laugh. A strange, bubbling laughter that borders on hysteria but feels like freedom. Through the blur of tears and laughter, I see movement across the street. The whippet again — this time with his owner. They walk in quiet rhythm, leash slack, perfectly in step. The man bends to scratch behind the dog’s ear. The dog leans in, utterly forgiving. I watch them go. Husbands, dogs — they stray, they sniff out trouble, they chase what glitters. But somehow, they always find their way home. Maybe not out of love — maybe just out of habit. Familiar smells. Familiar plates. Familiar mistakes. “Beef Wellington,” I murmur to no one. “Best served warm. Like second chances. Or stupidity.”