When I walked into the restaurant in a fluffy dressing gown the colour of young carrots and slippers with pink pom-poms, the waiter nearly dropped his tray. Honestly, I could see his eye twitching as he tried to figure out if I was a madwoman or some sort of prankster. Meanwhile, I just smiled sweetly and said:
«Could you show me to the table reserved under the name of William Peterson? Its for his fiftieth birthday.»
The poor man led me through the entire dining room, and I could feel every pair of eyes in the place locked onto me. You know that feeling when youre walking, and your footsteps seem to echo louder than a drum solo? My slippers slapped against the polished floor, the dressing gown flapped dramatically, and the pom-poms bounced cheerfully with every step.
But lets start from the beginning.
It all kicked off the morning of Wills big day. I woke at seven, as usual, and ran through my mental checklist: hair appointment at ten, manicure at one, collect the cake at 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 whod slept through his alarm. Fifty years old, and he still woke up grumpy.
Before my coffee had even brewed, the phone rang. It was Margaret Petersonmy mother-in-lawcalling at eight in the morning. Now, Margaret is nothing if not punctual, but phoning at this hour? Unheard of.
«Good morning, dear,» she chirped, her voice dripping with suspicious sweetness. «Did I wake you?»
«No, no, Margaret,» I lied smoothly. «Just getting ready for the party.»
«Ah, well, thats what I wanted to talk to you about. I have a delicate request.»
I braced myself. When Margaret says «delicate request,» it usually means trouble. After fourteen years of marriage, I knew this drill well.
«Go on.»
«Well, you know today is such an important day for William. A milestone, all eyes should be on him» She paused, and I felt something unpleasant stir in my stomach. «So I was wondering perhaps you could, how shall I put it not draw too much attention to yourself? Let him be the star of the show?»
I nearly spat out my coffee.
«Pardon? Not draw attention?»
«I mean skip the bold dresses, dont dominate conversation, let everyone focus on the birthday boy.»
I let that sink in. So, Ithe wife, the organiserwas being asked to fade into the wallpaper.
«Margaret,» I said coolly, «are you suggesting I turn up to the restaurant in my dressing gown?»
«Now, dont be dramatic,» she chuckled. «Though if you did it with humour, well, why not?»
By nine, Will finally woke up with a yawn so cavernous I half-expected to get sucked into it.
«Liz, where are my socks?» he mumbled, eyes still closed.
«Probably in the same place as your youth,» I muttered.
No responseeither he didnt hear or chose to ignore me. Men in their fifties sometimes revert to teenage habits: perpetually losing things and perpetually grumpy about it.
As he rummaged through the wardrobe, Margarets words stuck in my head. «Dont draw attention»? I was the hostess!
At ten, I was in the stylists chair.
«What are we doing today, Lizzie?» she asked brightly.
«Something invisible,» I sighed.
«Sorry?»
«Literally. Make me disappear so my husband can shine.»
She snorted but obliged, giving me a neat but unremarkable blow-dry.
By one, I was at the nail salon, and thats when inspiration struck: what if I took Margarets request *literally*? Show up in a way that would leave everyone speechless.
When I got home, Will was already suited uplooking annoyingly dashing, I might add.
«Liz, what are you wearing tonight?» he asked.
«Oh, dont worry,» I smiled mysteriously. «Ive got something special planned.»
As usual, he suspected nothing. Men never do.
I pulled out my favourite fluffy orange dressing gown and the slippers with the ridiculous pink pom-poms. One look at this masterpiece, and I knew: if I was going to be invisible, Id do it in *style*.
Walking into the restaurant, the waiters jaw practically hit the floor. Guests whispered behind their hands. And there, in the centre of it all, sat Margaret in her finest «Queen of England» ensemble.
When she saw me, her face went as stiff as a starched napkin.
«Lizzie!» she hissed. «What on earth are you doing?!»
«Whats wrong?» I blinked innocently. «Im following your advice: not drawing attention. See? All eyes are on Will.»
The guests burst out laughing. Will turned beetroot but cracked up too.
From then on, the party took on a life of its own. One tipsy uncle bellowed, «Now *thats* a proper wife! Dressing gown and all!» while Aunt Mabel chimed in, «At least shes comfortable! Look at those pom-poms bounce!»
Instead of stiff formality, the evening became warm, laughter-filled chaos. Will shone like a Christmas tree, and even Margarets stormy expression couldnt dampen the mood.
When the three-tiered cake came out, Margaret finally snapped:
«This is a disgrace! On my sons big day, youve turned it into a circus!»
I just smiled.
«But its a night nobody will forget. Isnt that the point?»
Then Will stood up, firm. «Mum, enough. Liz is the best wife I could ask for. Without her, Id be celebrating alone with a takeaway and the telly.»
Cue applause. I nearly teared up.
Later, back home, Will shrugged off his jacket and grinned.
«Liz, youre completely mad. But thats why I love you.»
And I thought: sometimes, to show who you really are, all it takes is a dressing gown the colour of carrots.
Epilogue: A week later, Margarets photo album appeared with the caption: «Williams 50th.» Half the pictures were of me in that ridiculous outfit.
And you know what? Those were the ones that got the most likes.
Now, whenever someone in the family mutters, «Dont draw attention,» everyone bursts out laughing.
