When I walked into the restaurant in my bright orange terrycloth dressing gown and fluffy pink pom-pom slippers, the waiter didnt believe I was the birthday boys wife. Honestly, I saw his eye twitch as he tried to work out whether I was a madwoman or part of some elaborate prank.
I simply said, cool as a cucumber:
«Please take me to the table booked under the name William Peterson. Theyre celebrating a fiftieth birthday.»
The poor chap led me through the entire dining room, and I could feel every pair of eyes on me. You know that feeling when you walk in and your footsteps echo like youre the only person in the room? My slippers slapped against the parquet, my gown billowed dramatically, and those cheerful pom-poms bounced with every step.
But lets start at the beginning.
It all kicked off that morningWills big day. I woke up at seven as usual and ran through the days schedule: hairdresser at ten, manicure at one, collect the cake by three, and be at the restaurant by four to check the table settings and greet the first guests. Will was still sprawled across the bed, snoring like a teenager. Fifty years old, and yet he wakes up like a grumpy sixth-formerdragging himself out of bed with a face like a slapped custard.
The kettle hadnt even boiled when the phone rang. It was Margaret Petersonmy mother-in-law. Eight in the morning. Now, Margaret is nothing if not punctual, but calling at this hour? That was new.
«Lillian, darling, good morning,» she cooed, her voice dripping with suspicious sweetness. «Did I wake you?»
«No, no, Margaret, I was already up. Getting ready for the party.»
«Oh, thats exactly what I wanted to discuss. I have a delicate request.»
I braced myself. When Margaret starts with «delicate request,» trouble follows. After fourteen years of marriage, I knew the drill.
«Go on.»
«Well, you know today is such an important day for our William. A milestone, all these gueststhe attention should be entirely on him.»
She paused, and I felt something unpleasant stir inside me.
«And so I was thinking perhaps you could, well keep a low profile? Let my son be the star of the evening?»
I nearly choked on my tea.
«Sorry, what do you mean by keep a low profile?»
«You knowskip the flashy dresses, dont draw too much attention, dont interrupt, dont argue. Let everyone admire the birthday boy.»
I stood there, processing. So my role tonight was to be a ghost at my own party.
«Margaret,» I said icily, «would you like me to turn up in my dressing gown?»
«Now, now, no need to exaggerate,» she chuckled. «Though if you want to add a bit of humour, why not?»
By nine, William finally stirred with a yawn so enormous I half-expected to be sucked into the void.
«Lil, where are my socks?» he mumbled, eyes still shut.
«Probably in the same place as your youthlost forever,» I muttered.
No response. Either he didnt hear or pretended not to. Men in their fifties sometimes revert to teenage habitslosing everything and scowling at the world.
While he rummaged through the wardrobe, I couldnt shake Margarets words. Keep a low profile? This was *my* party too!
At ten, I was in the hairdressers chair.
«What are we doing today, Lillian?» the stylist chirped.
«Something invisible,» I sighed.
«Sorry?»
«Literally. So you can see my husband shining while I fade into the background.»
The stylist snorted but didnt argue. She gave me a neat blow-drynot too glam, not too plain.
By one, I was at the nail salon. And thats when it hit mewhat if I took Margarets request *literally*? Turn up looking so absurd that no one could ignore the irony?
When I got home, William was getting ready. His new suit, which wed picked out together, fit him perfectly. Handsome devilalmost brought a tear to my eye.
«Lil, what are you wearing tonight?» he asked.
«Oh, dont worry. Ive got something special,» I said with a mysterious smile.
He, as usual, suspected nothing. Men never do.
I pulled out my bright orange terrycloth dressing gownthe one I usually wore for loungingand my pink pom-pom slippers. One look at this *masterpiece* of an outfit, and I knew: this was it. If I couldnt shine, Id go full-blown ridiculous.
I strode into the restaurant. The waiter nearly dropped his tray at the sight of me. Guests whispered behind their hands. And there, in the centre, sat Margaret, dressed like the Queen at a garden party.
Her face fell like shed just spotted a mouse in her handbag.
«Lillian!» she hissed. «What on earth are you doing?!»
«Whats wrong?» I blinked innocently. «Just following your advicekeeping a low profile. See? All eyes are on Will.»
The room erupted in laughter. William flushed, but he couldnt help chuckling too.
From then on, the party took on a life of its own. One tipsy uncle bellowed,
«Now *thats* a proper wife! Shows up in a dressing gown for her husband!»
Aunt Mabel added,
«At least shes comfortable! Look at those pom-poms bounce!»
Instead of stiff formality, the room buzzed with warmth. People laughed, took selfies with me, and William glowed like a Christmas tree.
Only Margaret sat gloomier than a rainy Bank Holiday.
When the three-tiered cake came out, she exploded.
«This is disgraceful! On my sons most important day, you turn it into a circus!»
I shrugged.
«But everyone will remember it. Isnt that the point?»
Suddenly, William stood up.
«Mum, enough. Lillians the best wife I could ask for. Without her, Id be celebrating alone with a telly and a six-pack.»
The guests cheered. I nearly teared up.
Back home that night, William tossed his jacket aside and grinned.
«Youre mad, Lil. But thats why I love you.»
And I realisedsometimes, to show people who you really are, all it takes is a dressing gown the colour of a traffic cone.
A week later, Margarets photo album appeared with the caption: *Williams 50th!* Half the pictures were of me in my gown and pom-poms.
And guess what? Those were the ones that got the most likes.
Now, whenever someone in the family says «keep a low profile,» everyone just laughs.
