No, David, whats she gonna do? My wifes as thickskinned as a brick wall; she couldnt care less. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two grocery bags in my hands. The keys were still jangling on the lock I hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken thighs, discounted buckwheat and three plain, unsweetened yoghurts for Charlieonly white and without sugar. I was already calculating whether Id have time to defrost the meat or if Id end up throwing a frozen block onto the pan and getting a steamed mess instead of a roast.
David stood with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mughis instant coffee with three teaspoons 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 a transfer, youll sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No feelings, no character. Free housekeeper.
He laughed. I recognised that laugh the one he let out with his mates in the garage while I was washing up after their gettogethers. The same laugh when little Charlie fell off his bike and I ran with a bottle of antiseptic while David stood there saying, What, why are you fussing? Let him get up on his own.
My ears filled with a rush, like the pressure before a storm. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the cling film cutting white lines into my palms. I set the groceries down slowly, fished my phone out and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mutterDavid was already debating fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake with Simon. He always did that: spit out the poison first, then drift onto nonsense as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly wooden.
I pressed the phone to the crack of the ajar door and waited, silent, until he finished saying goodbye to Simon and promised, Ill sort the deal next week.
Then David hung up, gave a grunt, and shuffled in slippers to the fridge. 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.
A cold fire pressed at my throat I wanted to scream or howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his loans that I paid off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the endless meatballs, the perpetual, Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And the buyer was already lined up.
I sank onto the bed, stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at the wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me when we were still sharing a flat, eating spaghetti with ketchup. I wanted to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I took a deep breath, just as Mum had taught me: Love, if someone hurts you, count to ten before you 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. Inside was the number for the local council officenotes Id made when arranging my mothers disability claim.
A womans voice answered after a long hold. She explained that a restriction on any property transaction could be placed online, but it was best to appear in person. I said Id be there right away.
It was about three oclock. David was clattering around the kitchen probably 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 pack of cigarettes while youre at it.
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 approval. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision until hed later muttered, Beige is boring, it should have been green. Id stayed silent.
The council office was empty. A clerk behind a glass screen stared at my papers for a long moment.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without you being present, nobodynot even a power of attorneycan sell, gift or exchange the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped away at the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I emerged onto the street 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 packet of his favourite cigarettes. David was slumped on the sofa, eyes glued to an action film. I headed to the kitchen, switched on the kettle. The pan held the charred remains of an egg. I washed it, out of habit.
Around seven the doorbell rang. David jumped up, yanked off his shirt.
Oh, thats for me. Love, set the kettle, someone nice is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and a leather briefcase, stepped into the hallway. David brightened, a smile spreading across his face.
Meet Mr. James Parker, estate agent. About the flat.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and fixed my gaze on Davids smug expression.
David, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped away like badly stuck wallpaper.
What? Yeah something came up, what?
You called me a wooden wife. Said youd already found a buyer for my flat and that Id never find out.
A heavy pause fell. The estate agent shifted his weight from foot to foot. Davids face went pale, his cheeks mottled with uneven blotches.
What are you on about, Love? he began, but I raised a hand.
Stop. I heard everything. Here.
I pulled the phone out and played the recording. His voice filled the room: My wifes wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me free housekeeper
The agent stepped back toward the door.
David, you didnt mention any complications.
David stared at me as though I were a stranger.
You recorded me? Been watching 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. And while I was there, you were trading my house. My house, David. Not ours. Mums.
He lunged toward me, but I kept my voice steady.
Also, today I went to the council office and placed a restriction on any action involving the flat unless Im there in person. So your buyer I gestured at James can look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
The agent hesitated.
Ill be going then. David, well be in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. David stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish stranded on the shore.
What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!
You had plans. I had faith. And you burned it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, David, and Im ash now.
He sank onto the sofa, cradling his head in his hands.
Love, Im sorry. It slipped. I didnt mean it. Simon pushed me
Simon, I snorted. Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my earnings for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped off my wedding ring, 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 things within a week. Ill explain everything to Charlie; hes an adult now.
Love
No. You have no idea how light I feel. For the first time in years I dont have to think about what to cook. I have a house. I have myself.
I retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, and my phone buzzeda message from a friend: How was your day?
I typed back: Great. Im no longer wooden.
Morning found me up at seven. Instead of racing to make tea for David, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground, with a pinch of cinnamon. David only ever drank instant. I always loved the real thing.
He stepped out of the bedroom, his face a crumpled map, and stared at the Turkish coffee pot in my hand.
What about me?
Its time you found a new housekeeper, David. Even wood sometimes catches fire.
I took a sip. The coffee scalded my tongue, my hands still trembling, and the cup clanged against my teeth. Yet it was the most delicious coffee Id ever tasted, because Id made it for me.
A knock sounded at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Standing on the threshold was James Parker, the estate agent, now without his briefcase, looking flustered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I wasnt aware Id like to offer my services as a sellers agent, should you ever decide to buy, sell or trade. Honestly, no strings attached.
I stared at him, stunned. From the kitchen, David emerged, his face twisted in helpless rage.
What are you doing here? he barked.
Working, James said calmly. Ive got a new client now.
He handed me his card. I turned it over, examined it, then looked back at David, at his impotent fury, at the agents professional smile.
You know what, James? Ill think about it later. Not today. I have other plansIm getting a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
James nodded, said goodbye and left. David muttered something and vanished into the other room. I closed the door, leaned my back against it and laugheda quiet, almost inaudible laugh. For the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a smile, deciding to name the cat Marta, after the one that lived with us as a child before Dad gave her awayfur everywhere. Now Marta would be mine. And no one could ever say the fur was a problem.
