No, Tom, whats she going to do? My wifes like a wooden statue, she doesnt mind a thing. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I stood frozen in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. 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 packet of buckwheat on special, and three plain yoghurts for Charlieonly the white ones, no sugar. I was already calculating whether Id have time to defrost the meat or if Id have to fling it straight onto the pan, turning it into steam instead of a roast.
Tom leaned against the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mughis instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washed the dishes after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he kept on, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, you sign. She trusts me. A wooden wife. No feelings, no character. Free domestic help.
He laughed. I recognized that laughhed cracked it in the garage with his mates while I was washing up after their night out. Hed laughed the same way when little Charlie fell off his bike and I ran with a bottle of green ink, and Tom stood there saying, What are you, a hen? Let him get up himself.
In my ears a pressure built like before a storm. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the plastic biting my palms until white lines showed. I set the groceries down slowly on the floor, fished out my phone, and hit record.
From the kitchen came a murmuringTom was already talking to Simon about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake. He always does that: first spits out venom, then drifts onto nonsense as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly a wooden statue.
I held the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and waited until he finished his goodbye to Simon and promised to wash the deal next week.
Then Tom hung up, thumped the receiver, and shuffled in his slippers toward the fridge. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbed the bags, and glided silently past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the jamb.
A cold fire pressed against my cheeksomething inside wanted to howl, something else to whine 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 until the end. His socks, his meatballs, the endless, Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And the buyer was already waiting.
I sat on the bed, stared at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at the wedding ringthin, worn. Hed given it to me when we were still sharing a student flat, eating spaghetti with ketchup. I wanted to fling it out of the window, but I didnt. I breathed deeply, as Mum had taught me: Lucy, if someone hurts you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I rose, splashed my face with icy water, and pulled an old notebook from the drawer. I found the number for the councils citizen services centrescribbled from the day Id applied for my mothers disability benefits.
A womans voice floated through the line, explaining that a restriction on any registration could be placed online, but it was better to come in person. I said Id be thereright now.
It was about three oclock. Tom was booming in the kitchenprobably frying an egg. I slipped into the corridor, pulled on my coat.
Where are you going? he asked without turning, the skillet hissing.
To get bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
Ah, right, and fetch me a packet of cigarettes.
I left. The lift joltednot from fear but from the realization of what I was doing. For twentyfour years I hadnt done anything without his nod. Wed even chosen wall colours together, only for him to later mutter, Beige is dull, it should have been green. I kept quiet.
The council office was empty. A clerk stood by the window, eyes scanning my papers.
Are you certain you want the restriction? Without your personal presence, nobody, not even a power of attorney, can sell, gift, or swap the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I emerged onto the street, a slip of paper tucked into the inner pocket of my coat, where the phone with the recording lay.
I returned home with a loaf and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Tom was sprawled on the sofa, watching an action film. I crossed to the kitchen, turned the kettle on. The pan held the charred remnants of an egg. I washed it, out of habit.
Around seven, someone knocked at the door. Tom leapt up, yanked off his Tshirt.
Ah, thats for me. Lucy, put the kettle on, a nice guest is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive coat, clutching a briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Tom brightened, flashing a grin.
Meet Oliver Reed, a realtor. Hes here about the flat.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and stared at Toms smug face.
Tom, remember you talked to Simon this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped off his face like badly glued wallpaper.
What? Oh it was just a thing, what do you mean?
You called me a wooden wife. You said youd already found a buyer for my flat. And that Id know nothing.
A silence stretched. The realtor shifted his weight from foot to foot. Toms face turned pale, his cheeks mottled with uneven patches.
What are you on about, Lucy? he began, but I raised a hand.
No, Ive heard everything. Listen.
I pressed play. His voice filled the room: My wifes wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me domestic help free
Oliver stepped back toward the door.
Mr. Thomas, you didnt mention any complications.
Tom stared at me as if I were a stranger.
You recorded? Followed me? he hissed.
I stood at the door with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Charlie, and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were selling my house. My house, Tom. Not ours. Mums.
He took a step toward me, but I kept my tone even.
And today I went to the council and placed a restriction on any action involving the flat without me being there. So your buyer I gestured at Oliver can look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
Oliver hesitated.
I suppose Ill be on my way. Thomas, lets talk later. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Tom 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. Wood burns, Tom, and Ive turned to ash.
He sank onto the sofa, cradling his head.
Lucy, Im sorry. It slipped. I didnt mean it. Simon pushed me
Simon, I smiled. Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, who lived off my money for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets, and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped the ring off and placed it on the coffee table.
Ill file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with meMums inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your things within a week. Ill tell Charlie myself; hes an adult.
Lucy
No, dont. You cant imagine how light I feel now. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook. I know I have a home. I have myself.
I retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, and the 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 set the kettle for Tom, I slipped on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground, with a pinch of cinnamon. Tom only ever drank instant. Id always loved real beans.
He shuffled out, his face crumpled, and stared at the Turkish pot in my hand.
And me?
Its time you found a new housekeeper, Tom. Wooden ones sometimes come to life.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorching, 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. Oliver Reed stood there again, coat unchanged but his expression bewildered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned yesterday that the flat was yours, but I wasnt aware I just wanted to offer my services. If you ever decide to sell or buy, Im here. Honestly. No strings.
I stared, frozen. From the kitchen Tom appeared, his face twisted.
What are you doing here? he barked.
Working, Oliver replied calmly. I have a new client now.
He handed me a card. I turned it over, then looked back at Tom, at his helpless fury, at Olivers professional smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Today Im getting a cat. And maybe a new frying pan.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye, and left. Tom muttered something and slipped back into the room. I shut the door, leaned my back against it, and laughedsoft, almost inaudible. For the first time in many years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a smile, deciding the cat would be called Martha, after the one that lived with us as a child until Dad gave her to the neighboursfur everywhere. Now Martha would be mine, and no one could claim that fur is a problem.
