Cheese Souffle

Marcie pulled a cheese grater out of the bottom drawer, and set it atop the counter, on a chopping board. She turned, opening the fridge, and pulled out a hunk of gruyere, a block of sharp cheddar, and a wedge of specially selected parmesan - she didn’t skrimp at the supermarket with the grana padano this time. No, this dish deserved the expensive ingredients. 

On her kitchen scales she weighed out 75g of unsalted butter, then set it aside in a dish to soften, putting the rest back in the fridge. She got to grating, humming as she did, her wedding song ‘At Last’ by Etta James stuck in her head. 100g of gruyere, 100g of  sharp cheddar, 85g of parmesan - she crossed them off the list as she worked - always organised and methodical in everything she did. It was what James loved most about her.

She weighed 50g of flour, measured 500ml of milk, then chopped up a small white onion, and took a wedge of creamy brie from the fridge which she cut up into haphazard chunks. She popped one into her mouth, sighing at the mild creamy flavour, and smiling to herself as she turned to the cupboard and took out the eggs. 

Separate six eggs, she read from the recipe in front of her, then began cracking them fastidiously to ensure no shell landed in her bowl. She had six egg yolks and six egg whites neatly separated into two ceramic dishes. Perfectly organised, just like her life.

She took pride in her home, and had hired the best interior decorator to bring her vision to life - the classic modern rustic design that was overtaking TV and social media. No expense spared on the materials she had selected, as she ran a hand over the edge of her calacatta marble worktop on her impressively large kitchen island. It complemented the creamy beige cabinets perfectly. 

The phone rang, James’s smiling face flashed on the screen, and she quickly wiped her hands on her apron front and answered it. 

“Dinner will be ready at six, don’t be late,” she said in a sing-song voice. 

“We’re just about to close this massive deal, I won’t be home on time,” he said, “I’m sorry,” he sighed audibly. 

Marcie’s face fell, but she cleared her throat, “That’s OK. It’s an important deal, I know. I’ll save you a plate.” 

“I’ll stay in the city tonight, going to be a late one.” Click. The call disconnected. 

“Happy anniversary to you too,” she frowned, turned to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc she’d had chilling for dinner. She corked it and swigged directly from the bottle, then turned back to her recipe. She still needed to eat tonight. 

She whisked her butter and milk into a beurre manié, seasoning it with paprika, and then placed it in the fridge to chill for thirty minutes while she heated up milk and chopped onion on the stove. As she did so she remembered the morning of her wedding, the magic and anticipation as she had her hair and makeup done, the pure joy on her mother’s face as she helped place her veil on her head. The milk that was meant to be simmering with the bayleaf and onion quickly started to boil over, and she removed it from the heat with a curse under her breath. 

While the milk was cooling, she tapped her fingers nervously on the marble top, and her memories drifted to the first glance of James standing at the end of the aisle, smiling at her. She had been so nervous, thrumming with eager anticipation, this was the start of the rest of her life. The life she had always imagined for herself - a handsome, successful, husband at her side - the perfect home in the suburbs. She glanced out the bifold doors leading to the back garden and sighed at the perfectly manicured emerald green grass with her orderly flowerbeds dotted around its perimeter, injecting bursts of violet and red to the scene. The only thing missing from that garden was a wooden climbing frame and swing set. 

She got to work straining the milk, pressing down on the onions to extract as much flavour as possible, then took another large swig directly from the wine bottle. James would cringe if he saw her drinking like this. Not even bothering with a glass. She placed the pan back on the heat and slowly whisked in her beurre manié, creating a thick sauce. She chuckled to herself, swigging the wine, remembering how she used to drink beer before she met James. “Not very ladylike, Sweetheart,” he had said with a slight frown.

Today was their third wedding anniversary, and she had planned this romantic home cooked meal, James’s favourite cheese souffle paired with the perfect wine. She was going to greet him at the front door in a sexy sheer negligee, and let him take her right there in the front hall if he wanted to. Today was the perfect day - the ovulation stick had confirmed it this morning - and she was finally going to see her perfect life manifested with that playset in the back garden and grubby chubby fingers digging in those flowerbeds she tended to so carefully. 

Ping. She turned her phone over. Ping. No notifications on her phone. Ping. What was pinging? She looked around the room. Ping. She followed the sound to the adjoined dining room, where James’s ipad lay abandoned on the sideboard. He had worked late the night before, not coming to bed until the wee hours of the morning. This deal they were closing today was going to be the make or break of the promotion he’d been working so hard for. She picked up his ipad, thumbing the sides of the cover on it anxiously, then put it back down. Ping. I can’t look at his ipad. She walked back to the kitchen island and began whisking the egg yolks into her sauce. 

Throwing in the grated gruyere, two-thirds of the parmesan, a little worcestershire sauce and mustard for flavour, she whisked until her wrist ached. Ping. The ipad again. She frowned slightly to herself then took another swig from the wine bottle. She needed to let this sauce cool before continuing, and feeling a bit bored decided to check his ipad. 

4444 she typed in his passcode, but it said ‘passcode not recognised’. She frowned. When had he changed his passcode? This was his passcode for everything. 1703, their wedding anniversary. Passcode not recognised. 1988, his birth year. Passcode not recognised. She chewed her bottom lip, she had one more attempt before it locked her out. 1805, his birthdate. The ipad unlocked, and she saw a little red 6 hovering over the green messages icon. She bit her lip again, sighed, just as the notification bar at the top read: New message from Sophie. Who the fuck was Sophie?

Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. She searched her mind. Wasn’t that a work colleague? Hadn’t he mentioned that name before? Weren’t they working on this deal together? She placed the ipad down on the table and walked back to the island.

She checked the temperature of her sauce and began brushing butter on the sides of the souffle dish, then cursed as she accidentally whacked her finger on the side of it, chipping her French manicured nail. She chugged more wine from the bottle, turning her head to glare at the ipad sitting open on the dining room table, the screen dark again. She coated the base and sides of the souffle dish with the remaining parmesan, picked up her pepper grinder and aggressively seasoned the inside of the dish, when she heard another ‘ping’. 

“What the fuck does Sophie want, James?” she said aloud to herself.

She stormed over to the dining table, unlocked the ipad, and clicked on the green message icon. She gasped. 

There was Sophie, naked, on her husband’s ipad screen. There was Sophie’s unmentionables - her bald unmentionables - expertly groomed, pink glossy lips staring at her. She slammed the ipad down on the table. “What the actual fuck?” she said aloud. Ping. Another message - “I want you…NOW.” The typing bubbles appeared on the screen. He was going to tell her to fuck off, tell her he was happily married to the love of his life, tell her never to message him again. Report her to Human Resources. Get her fired. 

An image of James’s hard cock popped up on the screen. She’d recognise that penis anywhere - the little brown mole on the tip - the one she always ran the tip of her tongue around teasingly when she was giving him head. The little mole she had called cute innumerable times. There was a bead of liquid oozing out the top of it in the photo. Sick climbed up her throat. She turned and ran to the kitchen bin, spewing up into it. 

It reminded her of the night they had met. She had been at the club with a group of girlfriends. Girlfriends she had spent every spare minute with, until she married James, and they were relegated to quarterly gossipy brunches, day drinking mimosas in their designer garb. Never getting messy drunk, just fashionably tipsy. 

Then they had gotten pregnant one by one,and their catch ups became biyearly visits in lounges overflowing with plastic light-up toys. Glass topped coffee tables smeared with sticky substances, and crumbs smooshed into shag rugs. Cold cups of tea and absentminded conversations that trailed off at the sound of a screaming baby. How jealous she was of them. 

The night she met James they had been groomed within an inch of their life, stilettos almost too tall to walk in, smokey eyeshadow and glossy mouths, as they threw back shots of tequila and danced sweatily to thumping music. He had taken her back to his flat that night, and she had ended up with her head in his toilet, spraying pink sick up the insides of the porcelain bowl. 

James had been there, by her side with a cool cloth to press against her forehead, and a spare set of cotton pyjamas for her to borrow. Like the perfect gentleman she believed him to be, he had slept on his sofa, and given her his bed with a bowl next to it just in case she was sick again. In the morning, he had gone out to get them breakfast, and they had spent the day chatting and getting to know one another. He was ambitious, funny, attractive, everything she had ever wanted. She was in love. 

She turned the oven on to 180C and coated a large bowl with lemon juice,whisked the egg whites in the bowl, then whisked a third of them into the cheese mixture. She carefully folded the remaining egg whites into the mixture, ensuring it remained light and fluffy for her souffle. Ping. 

She raced over to the ipad, and saw James’s message to Sophie, “Can’t wait to fuck you in every hole tonight babes.” Her face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. Here she was, fertile, and he was going to go spilling his baby maker’s into another woman’s cunt. Knowing her luck he’d probably get her pregnant and leave Marcie alone in this world. The shell of her perfect life crackling like the eggs for her souffle. 

Pulling up her apron, she dried her cheeks, then chugged the remaining wine from the bottle. She threw it into the recycling bin, and opened the fridge, taking out a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and uncorking it. She took a big swig, then began spooning her mixture into the souffle dish. She dotted the chunks of brie on top and what was left of the gruyere and parmesan, then carefully placed it in the oven and gently shut the door. She set a timer for fifteen minutes. 

She picked up her iphone and opened the group chat. Her and her girlfriends used it to stay in contact - this was their lifeline to each other in a world that had been irrevocably changed by marriage and children. Now it was mostly full of memes about annoying husbands and TikTok videos about gentle parenting. She was on the periphery of it, reacting to every photo sent of a blue-eyed child with a little red heart. Each one piercing her own, reminding her of the emptiness she felt in her life and in her womb. 

The last message was from Rachel - a photo of them all crowded around Marcie in their matching mauve bridesmaid dresses clutching bouquets of white peonies - smiling at the camera. “Happy Anniversary Marcie and James!” Everyone had ‘loved’ the photo. Marcie had smiled when she received it, how even after two children Rachel could remember her special day. She began crying again as a string of snot hung from her nose. She took another swig of the pinot. 

She dialled Rachel’s number. 

“Hello you sexy bitch are you pregnant yet?” Rachel practically shouted into the phone over the shouts and screams of her children in the background. 

Marcie crumpled. “He’s cheat-” 

“What? I can’t hear you. Tom! Tom! Hush, mummy’s on the phone. One second Marc,” she heard the TV in the background now blaring out the annoying theme tune of some children’s programme, “Marcie?” 

“He’s cheating on me.” 

“What? James? No.” 

“Some super hot bitch named Sophie just sent him a photo of her perfectly bald cunt.” 

“Wait, is he with you?” 

“No, he said he had to work late to close this deal, you know, for his promotion. He left his ipad here, though.” 

“What the fucking fuck? It’s your anniversary.” 

Marcie began sobbing uncontrollably. Rachel started saying soothing nothings into the phone, “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” How could a woman’s bald cunt on his phone be a misunderstanding?

“No, no Rachel. He wrote back about fucking her later, he’s with her not with me on our fucking anniversary!” she said raggedly through ugly tears. 

“I’m coming over. Will! Will I have to go to Marcie’s, you’re on.” Rachel hung up the phone. 

Marcie sat at the dining table, clutching the bottle of wine to her chest like the child she yearned for, and opened James’s ipad. She began scrolling up, reading through the many exchanges between him and Sophie. Months. It had been going on for months. She felt sick again, but began chugging from the bottle. The timer went, and she rushed over to the oven. 

The souffle had sunk in the middle, utterly ruined.

She left the oven door open, and turned it off, the sunken souffle sitting there like a sad heap as she began sobbing at the sight of it. They had been trying to get pregnant since they got married. It had been fun, to begin with. Lately it had become almost medical, but tonight was going to be different, she had the lingerie and fresh wax down south to prove it. 

Rachel came rushing down the hall to the kitchen, she had let herself in, and she found Marcie crying in front of the open oven door. She peered inside to the deflated souffle, “It’s only a fucking souffle,” Rachel joked, as she wrapped her arms around Marcie’s neck pulling her into a hug. 

Ping. They turned to look at each other, and Marcie raced on wobbly legs to the dining table where she opened the ipad. Sophie had written back, “Left your wife yet? You know you only get the third hole once you’re MINE.” 

Rachel gasped, and Marcie barely turned in time to spray chunks of vomit across the shiny tile floor. Rachel began cleaning up the mess, ordering Marcie upstairs to the shower, where she slumped down fully clothed and let the warm water run over her, swallowing the sound of her tears as it did. 

Rachel appeared in the bathroom door frame a few minutes later, “He’s a fucking bastard.” 

He hadn’t been, though. She had done her due diligence. They had lived together for a year before they got engaged. She went to yoga on a Sunday morning with his mum. She met his friends, his work colleagues, and watched his county football association matches. They had gotten married, honeymooned in Jamaica, bought this house which she had poured her life and soul into making perfect. She had quit her job to support his career, to prepare for having a family, to devote herself to raising perfect little Jameses. They had alternated Christmases with her family and his. Her parents loved him, and he would meet her dad in the pub every other week for a pint. They were the perfect couple, everyone said so, and everyone was as excited as they were for them to have a baby. 

Somewhere along the way she had lost herself on mumsnet, commenting back and forth with mystery users on the internet about their IVF experiences, even going to acupuncture because one woman swore it had helped her conceive. Her own girlfriends, unaware of her inner failings, as they sent messages like “It’s Marcie’s turn next!” in the group chat alongside photos of poop explosions and ruined sleepsuits. 

She just had to be organised, had to pee on the ovulation stick, had to take the prenatals, had to exercise and get a solid eight hours of sleep every night, eat foods rich in choline and omega-3 fatty acids. Every month that she woke and found her red droplets hitting the toilet bowl beneath her another little piece of her deflated, sinking into herself, into her sadness, like the souffle in the oven downstairs.