No, Matt, whats she going to do? My wifes as solid as a plank; she doesnt care about a thing. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I stand frozen in the hallway, bags in both hands. The keys are still jangling on the lockI havent even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags are potatoes, onions, chicken legs, buckwheat on offer, and three yogurts for Tommyonly the plain, sugarfree kind. Im already calculating whether Ill have time to defrost the meat or if Ill have to toss a frozen block into the pan and end up steaming it instead of frying it.
Matt is leaning against the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in his muginstant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washes the dishes after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he says, slurping from the mug. Ill tell her its paperwork for a transfer, youll sign. She trusts me. As solid as a board. No feelings, no character. The housekeepers free.
He laughs. I recognise that laughthe one he lets out with the lads in the garage while Im washing dishes after their gettogether. The same laugh when Tommy fell off his bike as a kid and I ran with a bottle of green antiseptic while Matt just stood there and said, What, are you gonna coddle him? Let him get up on his own.
My ears thrum, pressure building like before a storm. My fingers clamp the bag handles, the plastic digging into my palms until white lines appear. I set the groceries down slowly, pull out my phone, and hit record.
From the kitchen comes mumblingMatt is already debating fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake with Simon. He always does that: first he spits out poison, then he switches to nonsense, as if nothing happened, as if Im truly as solid as a board.
I hold the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and stand there until he finishes his goodbye to Simon and promises to wrap up the deal next week.
Then Matt hangs up, slams the receiver, and shuffles to the fridge in his slippers. I stop the recording, tuck the phone into my pocket, grab the bags, and slip past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I lean my back against the jamb.
A cold fire presses under my cheekbonesomething between a scream and a dogs whine. Twentyfour years of marriage. Tommy, school, university, his loans that Ive been paying off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the meatballs, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt?. And now Im a solid board. And theres already a buyer.
I sit on the bed, stare at my hands, the dust of buckwheat clinging to them. I look at the wedding bandthin, worn. He gave it to me back when we were still sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I want to fling it out the window, but I dont. I take a deep breath, just as Mum used to tell me: Lucy, if someone wrongs you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I count to twenty. Then I stand, splash my face with icy water, and pull an old notebook from the drawer. I locate the phone number for the local councils service centrewhere Id logged the paperwork for Mums disability.
A womans voice explains over the line that a restriction on any registration can be placed through the portal, but its better to appear in person. I tell her Ill be there. Right now.
Its about three oclock. Matt is booming in the kitchenprobably frying an omelette. I step into the corridor, slip on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asks without turning. The pan sizzles.
To the bakery. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and grab me a pack of cigarettes.
I head out. The lift lurches. It isnt fear that makes my stomach drop; its the realisation that after twentyfour years Im finally doing something without his nod. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision, and hed later scoffed, Beige is boring, we should’ve gone green. I kept quiet.
The council office is empty. A clerk at the window studies my documents.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? No one even with a power of attorneycan sell, give away, or exchange the flat without you being present.
Absolutely.
She taps the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I step out onto the street with a slip of paper, slip it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recording phone sits.
I return home with a loaf and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Matt is sprawled on the sofa, watching a war film. I drift to the kitchen, switch on the kettle, scrape the burnt bits of yesterdays omelette from the pan, and wash them away out of habit.
Around seven, theres a knock at the door. Matt leaps up, pulls his shirt over his head.
Thats for me. Lucy, put the kettle on, a nice persons coming.
I nod.
A man in his fifties, wearing an expensive coat and a leather briefcase, steps into the hallway. Matt brightens, a grin spreading.
Meet Mr. Oliver Bennett, estate agent. About the flat.
I emerge from the kitchen, towel still hanging from my shoulders, eyes fixed on Matts selfsatisfied face.
Matt, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He freezes; his smile slides off like poorly glued wallpaper.
What? Yeah what about it?
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. Oliver shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Matts cheeks blanch, then bloom with uneven patches.
What are you on about, Lucy? he begins, but I raise a hand.
Dont. I heard everything. Listen.
I pull out the phone and play the recording. His voice fills the room: My wifes a wooden board Ive already found a buyer she trusts me the housekeepers free
Oliver steps back toward the door.
Matt, werent you told there were complications?
Matt looks at me like Im a stranger.
Did you record me? Were you spying? he hisses.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Tommy, and his girlfriend could have dinner. While you were selling my house. My house, Matt. Not ours. Moms.
He takes a step toward me, but I stay calm.
And today I went to the council and placed a restriction on any action with the flat unless Im there in person. So your buyer I point at Olivercan look elsewhere. This flat isnt for sale any more.
Oliver backs away.
Maybe Ill just leave. Matt, well be in touch. Sorry.
He slides out the door.
Were alone. Matt stands 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. Wood burns, Matt, and Im ash now.
He collapses onto the sofa, clutching his head.
Lucy, Im sorry. It just slipped. I didnt mean it. Simon pushed me
Simon, I smirk, always the scapegoat. Not you, whos spent twentyfour years living off my paycheck, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets, treating me like a piece of furniture.
I slip off my ring, place it on the coffee table.
Tomorrow Ill file for divorce. The flat stays with meits Moms inheritance, you have no claim. Pack your stuff in a week. Ill explain everything to Tommy, hes an adult now.
Lucy?
No. You have no idea how light I feel. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook. I realise I have a home, and I have myself.
I retreat to the bedroom, shut the door, and my phone buzzesa message from a friend: Hows your day gone?
I type back: Perfect. Im no longer a wooden board.
Morning finds me up at seven. Instead of rushing to make tea for Matt, I stretch, slip on a robe, and brew coffee for myselfground, with a pinch of cinnamon. Matt always drinks instant. Ive always loved real beans.
He stumbles out of the room, face crumpled, eyes on the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
And me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Matt. Wooden ones sometimes sprout legs.
I take a sip. The coffee burns my tongue, my hands still tremble, and the cup clinks against my teeth. Yet its the most delicious coffee Ive ever tasted, because I made it for me.
Theres a knock. I set the cup down and open the door. Oliver Bennett stands there again, coat the same, briefcase lighter, looking unsettled.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat is yours, but I wasnt aware I just wanted to offer my services as an agent, in case you ever want to buy, sell, or rent. Honestly.
I stare at him, my eyes flicking to Matt, whos emerging from the kitchen with a twisted grin.
What are you doing here? he roars.
Im working, Oliver replies evenly. I have a new client now.
He hands me a business card. I turn it over, glance at Matt, at his frantic fury, at Olivers practiced smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. I have plansIm getting a cat. Maybe a new frying pan too.
Oliver nods, says goodbye, and leaves. Matt mutters something and disappears into the bedroom. I lean against the closed door, laugha quiet, almost inaudible laugh. For the first time in years Im laughing in my own hallway.
I finish my coffee with a smile, contemplating the name for my new cat: Molly, after the one we had as a child before Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Ill have my own Molly, and no one will claim that shedding is a problem.
