OP - you have inspired me to write the story of Sandra. My groundbreaking play, ‘Nobody’s Wife’, will tell the story that REALLY matters from the dawn of a major world religion. It will finally give Sandra the voice her husband and history denied her.
Act One - Sandra silently seethes as she carries out the drudgery of changing sheets, cooking breakfasts, putting chocolates on the pillows etc. while her husband swans about enjoying the status of Innkeeper. (In what I’m hoping is a wryly ironic touch, he is never named in the script.) Later, she heads to the Bethlehem branch of CostCo to stock up on those little sachets of UHT milk. She says ‘hello’ to a passing merchant she recognises. ‘Who was that?’, the merchant’s wife, a jealous sort, demands. ‘Oh, her?’, replies the merchant nonchalantly. ‘She’s nobody. She’s just the innkeeper’s wife’.
Sandra hears every word, having paused to glance at a multipack of mince pies. It hits her like a thunderbolt. The words ring in her ears. ‘Nobody’. ‘Just his wife’. ‘Just. A. Wife’. Her she is, stood in a massive queue on Christmas Eve while her useless husband plays mine host, dishing out free drinks and hackneyed bonhomie. Well no more.
(At this point I’m considering having Sandra burst into a rendition of ‘Nobody’s Wife’ by Dutch singer Anouk. Too on the nose?)
Sandra heads home to the inn. ‘Ah, at last!’ he says. ‘We’ve had a couple of walk-ins turn up. You can make up Number 12 can’t you?’
It’s the final straw. She snaps. ‘No I fucking CAN’T! I’ve been on my feet all day! I haven’t even started on the sprouts for tomorrow, there’s not a single present wrapped and now you want to make up beds for walk-ins?! No, just NO!’
‘Come on Sand’, says her husband, flustered by this sudden burst of defiance. ‘It’s Christmas Eve; she’s pregnant. Where else would they go?’
‘Not my problem’, replies Sandra, warming to her theme. ‘It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake - they should have booked! Stick them in the stables for all I bloody care! There’s no room at the inn! Do you hear me! NO ROOM AT THE INN!’
(Curtain down.)
Act Two - Five years on, a divorced Sandra owns the largest chain of inns across the Middle East. All her managers are women and they only ever employ male chamber ‘maids’. The subversion of the patriarchy has begun.
But Sandra has a secret. Her first inn was founded on capital from a source that gives her great shame. For it was she who tipped off Herod as to the location of Mary and Joseph, and was paid handsomely in return. A rich, successful businesswoman, a feminist pioneer - but at what price, dear Sandra? AT WHAT PRICE?!?!
(Curtain down.)
Just to warn you all, I’ve already registered the concept for copyright and will sue anyone who tries to steal it. Or at least set fire to your hair.