No, Sam, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a sparrowtree, she doesnt give a toss about anything. Dont worry, Ive already got a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. The keys were still dangling from the lockI hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional pack of buckwheat and three plain, sugarfree yoghurts for Tommy. I was already weighing up whether Id have time to defrost the meat or, once again, fling a frozen slab onto the pan and end up steaming it instead of frying it.
Dave was standing with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in his muga instant coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. He never bothered to wash the dishes after himself.
She wont notice a thing, he mumblespat, spilling a little from the mug. Ill tell her its paperwork for the transfer, youll sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No feelings, no character. The housekeepers on the house.
He laughed, that familiar chuckle Id heard in the garage when he was joking with the mates while I was washing up after their gettogether. The same laugh when little Tommy fell off his bike and I ran with the green ointment while Dave stood there saying, What, are you going to coddle him? Let him get up on his own.
My ears rang like before a pressure surge. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the clingfilm cutting into my palms until they were whitestriped. I set the groceries down slowly, fished out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen came the low mutter of Dave already chatting with Simon about fishing hooks and a trip to the lake the next day. He always does thatspits out the poison first, then slides into idle chatter, as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly wooden.
I held the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and waited, watching him say goodbye to Simon and promise to seal the deal next week.
When Dave hung up, he gave the fridge a clatter with his boots, 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 jamb.
A cold fire pressed at my throatshould I scream or howl like a dog? Twentyfour years of marriage. Tommy, school, university, his loans that Id been paying off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she died. His socks, the meatballs, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt?. And now Im called wooden. And theres already a buyer.
I sat on the bed, stared at my hands, dusted with buckwheat flour. I looked at the wedding bandthin, worn. Hed given it to me when we were still sharing a student flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I wanted to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I breathed in deep, just as Mum used to say: Liza, if youre hurt, count to ten before you decide what to do.
I counted to twenty. Then I got up, splashed my face with cold water and dug out an old notebook from the drawer. I found the contact number for the council officeId written it down when I arranged my mothers disability claim.
A female voice on the other end explained that a restriction on any registration action could be placed online, but it was better to come in person. I said Id be there right away.
It was about three oclock. Dave was booming in the kitchenprobably frying an egg. I slipped into the hallway, threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he called without turning, the pan hissing.
Just to the shop for bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and grab me a pack of cigarettes while youre at it.
I left. In the lift I felt a thump, not of fear but of realization: Id spent twentyfour years doing nothing without his nod. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision until he later muttered, Beige is drab, it should have been sage. I kept quiet.
The council office was empty. A clerk named Claire stared at my papers for a long moment.
Are you certain you want to place a restriction? Without your personal presence, no one even with a power of attorneycan sell, gift or exchange the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped the keys. Fifteen minutes later I stepped back onto the street with a slip of paper, tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat, the same one holding the recorded phone.
I returned home with a baguette and a pack of Daves favourite cigarettes. Dave was sprawled on the sofa, eyes glued to an action film. I moved to the kitchen, switched the kettle on. The pan was still smouldering with burnt egg bits. I washed it, out of habit.
Around seven, someone knocked at the door. Dave leapt up, yanked his Tshirt off.
Oh, its for me. Love, set the kettle, a nice blokes coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive overcoat and carrying a leather briefcase, stepped into the hall. Dave fluttered, a grin spreading across his face.
Let me introduce you, he said. Oliver Barnes, estate agent. Here about the flat.
I slipped out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glared at Daves smug expression.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped away like badly stuck 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 pause hung in the air. Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot. Daves face paled, his cheeks mottled with uneven colour.
What are you on about, love? he started, but I raised a hand.
Dont. 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 housekeepers free
Oliver took a step back toward the door.
Dave, you didnt mention there were complications.
Dave stared at me as if I were a stranger.
Did you record me? Were you watching me? he hissed.
I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my wages, so you, Tommy and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were selling my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Mums.
He moved toward me, but I kept my tone steady.
And another thing. I went to the council this morning and put a restriction on any action with the flat unless Im there in person. So your buyer I gestured at Olivercan look elsewhere. This flat isnt for sale any more.
Oliver retreated.
I suppose Ill be off then. Dave, well 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 smashed it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood does burn, Dave, and Ive burnt out.
He collapsed onto the sofa, cradling his head.
Love, Im sorry. It slipped. I didnt mean it. It was Simon who pushed me
Simon, I sneered. Of course. Always somebody else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my pay for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped the wedding ring off, set it on the coffee table.
Tomorrow Ill file for divorce. The flat stays with meMums inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your stuff within a week. Ill explain everything to Tommy; hes an adult.
L
No, I cut him off. You cant imagine how light I feel now. For the first time in years Im not worrying about dinner. I know I have a home, and I have myself.
I went to the bedroom, shut the door and felt my phone buzza message from a friend: So, how was your day?
I typed back: Great. Im no longer wooden.
Morning came at seven. Instead of racing to set the kettle for Dave, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground beans with a pinch of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. I always loved the real thing.
He shuffled out of the room, eyes glazed at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
What about me? he asked.
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Even wooden ones sometimes learn to move.
I took a sip; the coffee was scorchingly hot. My hands still trembled, the cup hit my teeth, but it was the best coffee Id ever tasted because Id made it for me.
A knock at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Oliver Barnes stood there again, his briefcase now missing, looking flustered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I didnt know I just wanted to offer my services as a private client. If you ever decide to buy, sell or let, Im here. Honest.
I stared, while Dave emerged from the kitchen, his face twisted in anger.
What are you doing here? he roared.
Im working, Oliver said calmly. Ive got a new client now.
He handed me his card. I turned it over in my hands, then looked at Daves helpless fury, then at Olivers professional smile.
You know what, Oliver? Ill think about it. Not today. Ive got plansI’m getting a cat. Maybe a new frying pan too.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and disappeared into his room. I closed the door, leaned my back against it and laugheda soft, almost inaudible laugh. For the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway.
I finished my coffee with a grin, already deciding to name the cat Martha, after the one we had as kids before Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Martha would be mine, and nobody could say the fur was a problem.
