No, Tom, whats she going to do? My wifes as solid as a plank, she doesnt care a wink about it. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. The keys were still jingling on the lockI hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, buckwheat on sale, and three yoghurts for Charlieonly plain and sugarfree. I was already wondering whether Id manage to defrost the meat or end up flinging a frozen block into the pan and getting a steamed mess instead of a roast.
Tom stood with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mughis instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never bothered to wash the dishes after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he continued, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for the transfer, you sign. She trusts me. Like a wooden statue. No feelings, no character. Housekeepers free of charge.
He laughed. I recognised that laughit was the one he used in the garage with his mates while I was scrubbing plates after their nightin. It was the same laugh he gave when little Charlie fell off his bike and I ran with a bottle of linseed oil while Tom stood there saying, Come on, toughcookie, get up yourself.
My ears rang as if a pressure wave had hit. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the plastic biting into my palms until white lines appeared. I set the groceries down slowly, pulled out my phone, and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mumbleTom was already debating fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake with Simon. He always does that: first spits out the poison, then slides into idle chatter, as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly a wooden thing.
I held the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and waited until he said goodbye to Simon and promised, Ill seal the deal next week.
Then Tom hung up, clattered over to the fridge in his slippers. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my coat pocket, grabbed the bags, and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I pressed my back against the frame.
A cold sting pressed at my throatlike I wanted to howl or bark. Twentyfour years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his loans that I paid off with my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was called wooden. A buyer was already lined up.
I sat on the bed, stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at the wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me back when we were sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I felt like hurling it out the window, but I didnt. I took a deep breath, just as Mum used to say: If someone hurts you, count to ten before you decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I stood, splashed my face with cold water, and pulled an old notebook from the drawer. Inside was the number for the council officeId written it down when I arranged my mothers disability benefits.
A womans voice explained that a restriction on any registration action could be placed online, but it was better to come in person. I told her Id be there right away.
It was about three oclock. Tom was clattering around the kitchenprobably frying an omelette. I slipped into the hallway, pulled on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning, the pan hissing.
Bread, I replied. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and fetch me a pack of cigarettes too.
I left. The lift jolted as it rose. Not from fear, but from the realization of what I was doing. For twentyfour years Id never acted without his nod. Wed even chosen paint colours togetherthen hed mutter, Beige is boring, it should have been green, and Id stay quiet.
The council office was empty. A clerk at the window stared at my papers.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one even with a power of attorney can sell, give away, or swap the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped the keys. Fifteen minutes later I walked out with a slip of paper, tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recorded phone sat.
I returned home with a loaf and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Tom was slumped on the sofa, watching an action film. I went to the kitchen, turned on the kettle. The pan held burnt remnants of the omelette. I washed it, habit doing its work.
Around seven, someone knocked. Tom sprang up, tugged off his Tshirt.
Ah, thats me. Love, put the kettle on, a nice guest is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in a sharp coat, entered the hallway, briefcase in hand. Tom perked up, grinned.
Meet Oliver Barnett, estate agent. Here about the flat.
I stepped out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and looked at Toms smug face.
Tom, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped off his face like poorly glued wallpaper.
What? Yeah something came up, what?
You called me a wooden wife, said youd found a buyer for my flat, and that I wouldnt know a thing.
A pause hung thick. The agent shifted his weight. Toms skin went pale, his cheeks mottled.
What are you on about, Love? he started, but I raised a hand.
No, stop. I heard everything. Listen.
I pulled the phone out and played the recording. His voice filled the room: My wifes a wooden thing Ive already found a buyer she trusts me housekeepers free
The agent stepped back toward the door.
MrBarnett, there are complications, Tom stammered.
Tom stared at me as if I were a stranger.
You recorded this? Been watching me? he hissed.
I stood in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my own wages, so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were bargaining away my home. My home, Tom. Not ours. My mothers.
He took a step toward me, but I kept my voice steady.
And another thing. I went to the council office today and placed a restriction on any dealings with the flat unless Im there in person. So your buyer I gestured at Oliver can look elsewhere. This property is no longer for sale.
Oliver hesitated.
I think Ill leave. Tom, well keep in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were alone. Tom 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 crushed it, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Tom, and I have burned.
He sank onto the sofa, clutching his head.
Love, Im sorry. It just slipped. Simon pushed me
Simon, I scoffed. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my salary for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets, and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped off my ring, placed it on the coffee table.
Tomorrow Ill file for divorce. The flat stays with meits my mothers inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your stuff in a week. Ill explain everything to Charlie; hes an adult now.
Lila
Dont. You cant imagine how light I feel. For the first time in years Im not worrying about what to cook. I know I have a home and I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, closed the door, and my phone buzzed with a message from a friend: How was your day?
I typed back: Great. Im no longer wooden.
Morning came at seven. Instead of rushing to make tea for Tom, I slipped on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground beans with a dash of cinnamon. Tom always stuck to instant; Ive always loved real coffee.
He shuffled out, his face creased, and glared at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
And me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Tom. Wooden things can sometimes catch fire and turn to ash.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorchingly hot; my hands still trembled, and the mug clinked against my teeth. Yet it was the best coffee Id ever tasted, because I had made it for me.
A knock sounded at the door. I set the cup down and opened it to find Oliver Barnett again, this time without his briefcase, looking bewildered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I wasnt sure I just wanted to offer my services as an agent, should you ever need to buy or sell anything. Honest, no strings.
I stared at him, then at Tom, whose expression was a mix of fury and defeat.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it, but not today. I have plans now Im getting a cat, and maybe a new frying pan.
He nodded, handed me his card, and left. Tom muttered something and vanished into another room. I leaned against the door, laugheda quiet, almost inaudible laugh. It was the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a smile, deciding to name the new cat Molly, after the feline that had lived with us as a child until Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now it would be my Molly, and no one would claim that shedding was a problem.
The day ended with the simple realization that I am not a piece of furniture to be moved at someone elses whim. I have the right to stand in my own doorway, to decide who enters, and to cherish the quiet strength that comes from listening to my own voice.
