“I won’t take you there. There will be decent people there, not at your level,” my husband declared, unaware that I own the company he works for.
The bedroom mirror reflected a familiar scene: I was adjusting the pleats of a modest gray dress I’d bought three years ago in an ordinary store. Dmitry was nearby, adjusting the cufflinks on his snow-white shirt—Italian, as he never tired of emphasizing at every opportunity.
“Are you ready?” he asked, without looking at me, while busily wiping the nonexistent dust off his suit.
“Yes, we can go,” I replied, checking one last time that my hair was neatly combed.
Finally, he turned to me, and I saw the familiar expression of mild disappointment in his eyes. Dmitry looked me up and down in silence, lingering on the dress.
“Don’t you have anything more decent?” he asked in a tone tinged with his usual condescension.
I heard those words before every corporate event. Each time, they stung like a pinprick; not fatal, but unpleasant. I learned not to show how much they hurt. I learned to smile and shrug.
“This dress fits me perfectly,” I said calmly.
Dmitry sighed as if I’d disappointed him again.
Fine, let’s go. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself, okay?
We got married five years ago, when I had just finished my economics degree and he was working as a junior manager in a trading company. Back then, he seemed like an ambitious, determined young man with a bright future. I liked the way he talked about his plans, the confidence with which he looked to the future.
Over the years, Dmitry rose considerably in his career. He was now a senior sales manager, serving important clients. He spent the money he earned on his appearance: expensive suits, Swiss watches, a new car every two years. “Image is everything,” he used to say. “People need to see you successful, or they won’t hire you.”
I worked as an economist at a small consulting firm, earning a modest salary and trying not to burden the family budget with unnecessary expenses. When Dmitry took me to corporate events, I always felt out of place. He introduced me to my colleagues with a light irony: “Here’s my little gray mouse for a walk.” Everyone laughed, and I smiled, pretending to find it funny too.
Little by little, I began to notice how my husband had changed. Success had gone to his head. He began to look down on not only me but also on his bosses. “I sell this junk made by our Chinese,” he said at home, sipping expensive whiskey. “The important thing is to present it well, and they’ll buy anything.”
Sometimes he hinted at other sources of income. “Customers appreciate good service,” he winked. “And they’re willing to pay more for it. Personally, I understand, don’t I?”
I understood but preferred not to go into details.
