23October
Ive been standing in the hallway, two grocery bags weighing my arms, while the frontdoor lock still clicks around the keys. I didnt even manage to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags: potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a bargain pack of buckwheat, and three plain yogurt pots for Tommy he only wants the white, sugarfree kind. Im already calculating whether Ill have time to thaw the chicken or if Ill end up tossing frozen chunks onto a pan and getting steamed meat instead of roasted.
Dave is leaning against the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring his instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washes his cup.
Shell never notice a thing, he says, slurping loudly. Ill just say we need to reregister the lease, you sign. She trusts me. Shes like a wooden statue no feeling, no will. The housekeeper comes free with that.
He laughs, that familiar chuckle thats always echoed in the garage when he was joking with his mates, and the one I heard when Tommy fell off his bike as a kid while I ran with a bottle of green antiseptic and Dave just muttered, Come on, stop being a hen, get up yourself.
My ears ring, like the pressure before a storm. My fingers grip the bag handles until the plastic cuts white lines into my skin. I set the groceries down slowly, pull out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen comes Daves murmured chat with Simon about fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake. He always does that spits out venom first, then slides into nonsense as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly a wooden piece of furniture.
I hold the phone up to the crack of the ajar door and wait until he finishes his call with Simon, promising to finalise the deal next week.
He hangs up, slams his hand on the fridge and stomps away. I stop the recording, slip the phone into my pocket, grab the bags and glide past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the frame.
A cold fire burns beneath my throat I want to scream, or howl like a dog. 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, his meatballs, his endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now Im the wooden wife. Theres already a buyer lined up.
I sit on the bed, stare at my hands, dusted with buckwheat particles. My wedding band, thin and worn, was a gift from the days we were sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I feel the urge to fling it out the window, but I hold back. I take a deep breath, recalling Mums words: Poppy, if youre hurt, count to ten before you decide what to do.
I count to twenty, then rise, splash my face with cold water and pull an old notebook from the drawer. I find the number for the Citizens Service Centre the same line I used when I arranged my mothers disability claim.
A female voice answers, explaining that I can place an injunction on any property transaction through the online portal, but its better to appear in person. I tell her Ill be there right away.
Its about three oclock. I can hear Dave clattering in the kitchen probably frying eggs. I slip on my coat.
You heading out? he asks without turning, the pan hissing.
Just getting some bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
And grab me a packet of cigarettes, will you.
The lift jolts as it moves. Its not fear, but the sudden awareness that Im finally acting on my own. Twentyfour years Ive never made a decision without his nod. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint vote until he later declared, Beige is boring, we should have gone with sage. I stayed quiet.
The Service Centre is empty except for a clerk at the window, eyes scanning my documents.
Are you sure you want to place the injunction? No one, not even with a power of attorney, can sell, gift or exchange the flat without you being present.
Absolutely.
She taps the keys. Fifteen minutes later Im back on the street, the paper slip tucked into the inner pocket of my coat, right where the recorded phone lies.
I return home with a baguette and a pack of Daves favourite cigarettes. Hes sprawled on the sofa, watching a war film. I wander to the kitchen, switch on the kettle, scrape the burnt egg remnants off the pan the same ritual Ive performed a hundred times.
Around seven, theres a knock. Dave jumps up, pulls off his shirt.
Its for me. Love, put the kettle on, someone nice is coming.
I nod.
A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive coat and clutching a leather briefcase, steps into the hallway. Daves face lights up, a grin spreading.
Meet Oliver Brooks, property consultant. Were sorting the flat.
I exit the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, eyeing Daves smug expression.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Simon earlier today?
He freezes. The grin slides off, like wallpaper that never quite stuck.
What? Yeah something about it.
You called me a wooden wife and said youd already found a buyer for my flat, and that Id never know.
Silence hangs. Oliver shifts his weight, his face paling. Daves cheeks turn blotchy.
What are you on about, Love? he starts, but I raise my hand.
No need. I heard everything.
I pull out the phone and play the recording. His voice fills the room: Shes a wooden wife buyer already found she trusts me housekeeper free
Oliver steps back toward the door.
MrThompson, you didnt mention there were complications.
Dave looks at me, as if Im a stranger.
Did you record? Were you spying on me? 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. Meanwhile you were auctioning off my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Moms.
He steps toward me, but I stay calm.
And today I went to the Citizens Service Centre and placed a legal block on any transaction involving the flat without me being there. So your buyer I point at Oliver has to look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
Oliver retreats.
I think Ill be going now. MrThompson, well talk later. Sorry.
He disappears through the door.
Were left alone. Dave stands in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.
What have you done? Youve ripped everything apart! We had plans!
My plans were yours. I had belief. You burnt it today, calling me wooden. Wood burns, Dave, and Ive been set alight.
He collapses onto the sofa, cradling his head.
Love, Im sorry. It just slipped. I didnt mean it. Simon pushed me.
Simon, I say with a wry smile. Always someone elses fault. Not you, the man whos spent twentyfour years on my tab, drinking my tea, sleeping in my sheets and treating me like décor.
I slip off my ring, lay it on the coffee table.
Ill file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with me its Moms inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your things within a week. Ill explain everything to Tommy; hes an adult.
Poppy
No. Dont. You have no idea how light I feel right now. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook. Im thinking I have a home, and I have myself.
I retreat to the bedroom, shut the door, and a buzz from my phone announces a message from a friend: Hows your day?
I type back: Great. Im no longer a wooden wife.
Morning comes at seven. Instead of rushing to brew tea for Dave, I stretch, throw on a robe and make coffee for myself ground beans, a pinch of cinnamon. Dave only ever drinks instant. I love the aroma of real coffee.
He waddles out, eyes the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.
Me?
Its time you found a new housekeeper, Dave. Even wooden ones can sprout life.
I take a sip; the coffee is scorching hot, my hands still tremble, the cup clinks against my teeth. Yet its the best coffee Ive ever tasted, because I made it for me.
A knock at the door. I set the cup down and open it. Oliver Brooks stands there again, coat still immaculate, but now looking bewildered.
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 buyers agent, should you ever decide to sell or buy something else.
I stare at him, then at Dave emerging from the kitchen, his face twisted in frustration.
What are you doing here? he growls.
Working, Oliver replies calmly. I have a new client now.
He hands me a card; I turn it over, then glance back at Daves fury and 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 nods, says goodbye and leaves. Dave mutters something and slips back into the living room. I close the door, lean my back against it and laugh a soft, almost inaudible chuckle. For the first time in years I laugh in my own hallway.
I finish my coffee with a smile, already naming the cat Marta, after the scruffy feline we once had when Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Marta will be mine, and no one will complain about fur.