No, Dave, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a coatrack, she couldnt care less. Dont worry, Ive already got a buyer lined up for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. The keys were still jangling in the lock I hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional packet of buckwheat, and three yoghurts for Charlie he only eats the plain, sugarfree kind. I was already weighing whether Id have time to thaw the meat or, as usual, fry it straight from the freezer and end up with something that looked more steamed than fried.
Dave was leaning against the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mug his instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never bothered to wash dishes after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he said, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, you sign, and shell believe me. Shes wooden. No feelings, no personality. Housekeepers free of charge.
He laughed. I recognised that laugh the one hed let out with his mates in the garage while I was scrubbing up after their gatherings. The same chuckle hed have when young Charlie fell off his bike and I ran in with a bottle of antiseptic while Dave just stood there saying, What, let him stay down? Hell get up on his own.
My ears rang like before a storm. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the plastic biting into my palms until white lines showed. I set the groceries down slowly, fished my phone out and hit record.
From the kitchen came Daves mumbling he was already debating fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake with Sam. He always started with a bit of venom before moving on to nonsense, as if nothing had happened. As if I were really just a wooden statue.
I held the phone up to the crack of the halfopen door and waited until he said goodbye to Sam and promised to wash the deal next week.
Then Dave hung up, shuffled a couple of steps to the fridge, and I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the frame.
Cold dread settled under my collarbone I wanted to either scream or howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his loans that I was paying off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I shuttled to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, his meatballs, his endless, Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And the buyer was already waiting.
I sank onto the bed, stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to my fingertips. I looked at the wedding band thin, scuffed. Hed given it to me back when we were sharing a tiny flat and survived on spaghetti with ketchup. I felt like ripping it off and tossing it out the window, but I didnt. I took a deep breath, just as Mum used to tell me: Love, if youre angry, count to ten before you decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I got up, splashed my face with icy water and dug out an old notebook from the drawer. Inside was the number for the Citizens Advice office Id used it when I arranged my mums disability claim.
A womans voice explained that a restriction on any registration actions could be set online, but it was better to appear in person. I said Id be there. Right now.
It was about three in the afternoon. Dave was banging around the kitchen probably frying an egg. I slipped into the hallway, threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning, the pan hissing.
To the shop. No crumbs for dinner.
Oh, right, grab me a pack of cigarettes too.
I left. The lift jabbed up and down. Not out of fear, but from the realisation that I was finally doing something on my own. Twentyfour years I hadnt taken a single step without his nod. Even the wall colour was a joint decision until hed later muttered, Beige is boring, shouldve been sage. I kept quiet.
The Citizens Advice office was empty. A clerk in a window stared at my paperwork.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one not even by power of attorney can sell, give, or exchange the flat.
Absolutely.
She typed away. Fifteen minutes later I walked out with a slip of paper, slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat where the phone with the recording lay.
I got home with a loaf of bread and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was sprawled on the sofa, watching an action film. I went to the kitchen, turned the kettle on. The pan still had the charred remains of yesterdays eggs. I washed it, out of habit.
Around seven, someone knocked at the door. Dave leapt up, pulled his Tshirt over his head.
Thats for me. Love, put the kettle on, a nice person is coming.
I nodded.
In stepped a man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and a leather briefcase. Dave brightened like a kid with a new toy.
Meet Oleg Borisov, estate agent. About the flat.
I stepped out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glanced at Daves smug face.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Sam earlier today?
He froze. His smile slipped off like badly hung wallpaper.
What? Yeah there was something, what?
You called me a wooden wife, said youd already found a buyer for my flat and that I wouldnt find out anything.
A heavy pause. The agent shifted from foot to foot. Daves complexion drained, his cheeks turning mottled.
What are you on about, Love? he began, but I raised a hand.
Stop. I heard everything. Listen.
I pulled the phone out and hit play. His voice filled the room: My wifes wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me housekeepers free.
The agent stepped back towards the door.
Dave, you didnt mention any complications, he said.
Dave stared at me as if I were an alien.
You recorded me? Been spying? he hissed.
I was standing in the hallway with the groceries I bought on my salary, so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were hawking my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Mums.
He lunged forward, but I kept my composure.
And another thing. I went to Citizens Advice today and put a restriction on any action concerning the flat unless Im physically present. So your buyer, I pointed at the agent, can look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
The agent backed away.
I think Ill be on my way then. Dave, well be in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Dave stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.
What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!
You had plans. I had faith. And you burned it today, called me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dave, and Ive gone up in flames.
He collapsed onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands.
Love, Im sorry. It slipped. I didnt mean it. Sam pushed me
Sam, I snorted. Of course. Always someone elses fault. Not you, the man who lived off my wages for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me like furniture.
I slipped the wedding band off and placed it on the coffee table.
Ill file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with me its Mums inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your stuff in a week. Ill tell Charlie myself, hes an adult.
Lily?
No. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in ages Im not thinking about what to cook. I know I have a home. I know I have myself.
I retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, and the phone buzzed with a message from a friend: So, how was your day?
I typed back: Brilliant. Im no longer wooden.
Morning found me up at seven. Instead of racing to make tea for Dave, I slipped on a robe and brewed coffee for myself. Ground beans with a dash of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. Ive always loved real coffee.
He emerged, looking a bit dishevelled, and eyed the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
And me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Wooden people sometimes sprout legs.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorching hot. My hands still trembled, and the mug clinked against my teeth. Yet it was the best coffee Id ever tasted, because Id made it for me.
There was a knock at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Standing on the doorstep was Oleg Borisov again, sans briefcase, still in his coat, looking flustered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours yesterday, but I wasnt aware I just wanted to offer my services as a private client. If you ever decide to sell or buy, Im here. Honestly. No strings.
I stared at him, then at Dave, whose face was a twisted mask of frustration, then back at Olegs practiced smile.
You know what, Oleg? Ill think about it. Not today. Ive got plans Im buying a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
He nodded, handed me a card, and left. Dave muttered something and vanished into another room. I closed the door, leaned against it and laughed quietly, almost unheard. For the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a grin, already naming the cat Marta, after the one we had as kids before Dad gave her away to the neighbours fur everywhere. Now Ill have my own Marta, and no one will complain that shedding is a problem.
