No, Dave, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a garden fence, she couldnt care less. Dont worry, Ive already lined up a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, grocery bags in both hands. The keys were still jangling in the lockI hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags lay potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional pack of buckwheat, and three yoghurts for Charlieplain, white, no sugar. I was already calculating whether Id have time to defrost the meat or if Id end up chucking a frozen block into the pan, ending up with steamed not fried chicken.
Dave was standing 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.
She wont notice a thing, he muttered, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, you sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No emotions, no character. Free housekeeping.
He laughed. I recognised that laughhe used it in the garage with his mates while I was washing up after their gettogether. Hed used it when little Charlie fell off his bike and I ran in with a bottle of antiseptic while Dave stood there saying, What, youre a hen? Let him get up on his own.
My ears rang like before a pressurecooker blowout. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the clingfilm digging into my palms, leaving white strips. I set the groceries down slowly, fished my phone out and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mumbleDave was already chatting with Gerry about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to Windermere. He always does that: first he spits out the venom, then he slides into nonsense as if nothings happened, as if I were genuinely wooden.
I pressed the phone to the crack of the halfopen door and held it there until he finished his goodbye to Gerry and promised to wrap up the deal next week.
Then Dave hung up, gave a curt cough and shuffled 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 leaned against the doorframe.
A cold sting pressed at my throatshould I howl, should I whimper like a dog? 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 right up to her death. His socks, his meatloaves, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt?. And now Im wooden. And theres already a buyer.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I glanced at my wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me back when we were sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I wanted to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I took a deep breath, just like Mum taught me: Blythe, if youre hurt, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I stood, splashed my face with icy water, and pulled an old diary from the drawer. I found the council office numberId used it when I arranged my mothers disability benefits.
A female voice played on the line, explaining that a restriction on any registration action could be placed through the online portal, but it was better to appear in person. I told her Id be thereright now.
It was about three oclock. Dave was booming in the kitchenprobably frying an egg. I slipped into the corridor, threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning, the pan hissing.
To buy bread. Nothing for dinner.
Right, and grab me a packet of cigarettes while youre at it.
I headed out. The lift jolted, not from fear but from the realization of what I was doing. For twentyfour years I hadnt done anything without his blessing. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision until he later declared, Beige is boring, we should have gone green. I kept quiet.
The council office was empty. A clerk stared at my documents from behind her desk.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one even with a power of attorneycan sell, gift, or swap the flat.
Absolutely.
She typed away. Fifteen minutes later I was out on the street with a slip of paper, tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recorder lay.
I came home with a baguette and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was slumped on the sofa, watching an action film. I drifted into the kitchen, turned on the kettle. The pan was still smouldering with burnt egg residue. I washed it, habit doing its thing.
Around seven, the doorbell rang. Dave leapt up, tugged his tee shirt off.
Oh, its for me. Blythe, put the kettle on, a nice chap is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive coat, clutching a leather briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Dave brightened, flashing a grin.
Meet Oliver Brooks, estate agent. About the flat.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel. I stared at Daves selfsatisfied mug.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Gerry this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped off his face like badly hung wallpaper.
What? There was something?
You called me a wooden wife. Said youd found a buyer for my flat. Said I wouldnt know a thing.
A heavy pause. Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot. Daves complexion went pale, his cheeks mottled.
What are you on about, Blythe? he began, but I raised a hand.
No. I heard everything. Here.
I pulled the phone out and played the recording. His voice filled the room: My wife is wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me housekeeping is free
Oliver stepped back toward the door.
Dave, didnt you mention there were complications?
Dave stared at me like at a stranger.
You were recording? Stalking me? he hissed.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were hawking my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. My mums.
He stepped toward me, but I kept my tone even:
And another thing. I went to the council today and put a restriction on any action involving the flat without me being physically present. So your buyer I gestured at Oliver can look elsewhere. This flat is off the market.
Oliver backed away.
I think Ill be on my way then. Dave, lets 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 burnt it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dave, and Ive been set alight.
He flopped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
Blythe, Im sorry. It all just fell apart. I didnt mean it. Gerry pushed me
Gerry, I smirked. Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, who spent twentyfour years living off my money, sipping my tea, sleeping in my sheets and treating me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped off my wedding ring and placed it on the coffee table.
Im filing for divorce tomorrow. 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.
Blythe
No, dont. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in ages Im not worrying about dinner. I have a house. I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, shut 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 dashing to make tea for Dave, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee for myself. Ground coffee with a pinch of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. Id always loved the real stuff.
He shuffled out, his face crumpled, and stared at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
What about me?
Dave, you might want to find a new housekeeper. Wooden ones sometimes sprout legs.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorchingly hot. My hands still trembled, and the mug clattered against my teeth. Yet it was the best coffee Id ever tasted, because Id made it just for me.
The doorbell rang. I set the cup down and opened it. On the doorstep stood Oliver Brooks again, coat still immaculate but his expression frazzled.
Sorry to be early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I didnt know I just thought Id offer my services, as a buyers agent, should you ever want to buy, sell or trade honestly.
I stared, stunned. From the kitchen Dave emerged, his face twisted in bewilderment.
What are you doing here? he barked.
Working, Oliver said calmly. Ive got a new client now.
He handed me a business card. I turned it over, looked at Daves flailing anger, then at Olivers practiced smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Ive got plansIm getting a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and disappeared into another room. I closed the door, leaned against it and laughedquietly, almost to myself. 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 tomcat that used to roam our house when Dad gave her away to the neighbours because her fur was everywhere. Now Marta would be mine, and no one could argue that a bit of shedding was a problem.
