On their tenth wedding anniversary, Emma’s husband Mark invited her to the swankiest restaurant in town to humiliate her with a cheap salad. Little did he realise that the next night she would make him – and the entire restaurant – pay for her cruelty.
The soft glow of the chandelier flooded the restaurant with a warm golden light. The atmosphere was exquisite, with soft velvet chairs and elegant service.
It was our tenth wedding anniversary, and my husband, Mark, had promised to make it unforgettable. I imagined an evening of pleasure, with exquisite food and sparkling wine.
As we were seated at the table, I noticed the familiar smiles exchanged between the waiters. They seemed to know Mark. He had made a reservation at La Belle Époque, the most expensive restaurant in town. It was a place reserved for momentous occasions, and tonight was going to be one.
Mark held out the menu to me with an impassive smile. ‘Order whatever you want, darling,’ he said, though his eyes gave away something else entirely. I glanced at the menu, filled with exquisite dishes with exorbitant prices, and my breath caught at the descriptions.
‘I think I’ll order the lobster bisque to start, and then the filet mignon,’ I said, feeling the excitement boiling inside me.
Mark gave me a strained smile. “Actually, why don’t you start with a homemade salad? Take it easy. You’re trying to lose weight, right? Maybe then you can wear that red dress I love the next time we come here.”
His words sounded like a slap in the face. I looked around, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment. Was he joking? But the steely gleam in his eyes told me he was serious.
‘Mark, it’s our anniversary,’ I objected softly. ‘I thought…’
‘You thought wrong,’ he interrupted, waving his hand at the waiter. “My wife will have the house salad, and I’ll have the Chateaubriand medium rare. And a bottle of your best red.”
The waiter hesitated, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Very good, sir.’
I swallowed my anger, and the salad in front of me turned into a pathetic piece of greens. Mark savoured every bite of his sumptuous dish, showing how tender the steak was and how rich the sauce was. The wine flowed freely – at least for him. As I sipped my water, each moment of the meal stretched into eternity.
Mark’s controlling actions during dinner were a bitter pill to swallow. He savoured his steak, commenting on every delicious bite, while I picked at my salad.
I tried to remain calm, but anger was simmering in the back of my mind. He ordered a decadent chocolate soufflé for dessert and, without even looking at me, said: ‘She’s finished.’
I felt humiliated. That’s how, on our anniversary, I was treated like something secondary. As he savoured his dessert, I decided I wasn’t going to let it go unnoticed. I would make sure he remembered this anniversary in a bad way. I smiled to myself and a plan matured in my head.
I woke up early the next morning. Mark was still snoring next to me. I got out of bed quietly, ideas swirling in my head. After he left for work, I went on my own. I reached out to friends and arranged a few favours. It was time to turn things around.
I spent a day preparing. First I contacted La Belle Époque and spoke to the manager. I explained my plan and booked the same table for the next evening.
The manager, sympathetic to my situation, agreed to help. I then phoned a friend who worked at the boutique and borrowed the stunning red dress Mark had always mentioned from her.
I also contacted a lawyer friend who helped me set up a personal bank account. She confirmed the details of our financial situation and the details of the emergency fund that Mark had stashed away. Knowing I had access to the money gave me the confidence to move forward.
When everything was ready, I wrote a note for Mark: “Meet me at La Belle Époque at 7pm. Dress decently. – Emma.”
By the time Mark got home, everything was ready. The house was quiet and the note was waiting for him on the kitchen table. He smirked when he found it, probably figuring he was in for another night of indulgence at my expense. But he didn’t know what I had planned.
As I prepared for the evening, I felt a mixture of nerves and excitement. I knew it was brave, but it was necessary. I wanted to reclaim my dignity and show Mark that I wouldn’t be treated like a doormat. It would be an anniversary neither of us would forget, but for very different reasons.
Mark arrived at the restaurant looking smug. I was already seated at a table in the red dress he loved so much. When he sat down, I gave him a sweet, enigmatic smile.
‘What does that mean, Emma?’ – He asked curiously.
‘You’ll see now,’ I replied, beckoning to the waiter. ‘I took the liberty of placing an order for us.’