No, Sam, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a door, she couldnt care less. Dont worry, Ive already found a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, bags cradled in both arms. The keys still dangled from the lock I hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags lay potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a bargain sack of buckwheat and three yoghurts for Charlieonly the plain, sugarfree ones. I was already calculating whether Id have time to defrost the meat or whether Id end up slamming a frozen slab onto the pan and end up steaming it instead of frying.
Dave stood with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mug his instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washed dishes after himself.
Shell never catch on, he continued, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, you sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No feelings, no character. The housekeepers on the house.
He laughed. I recognized that laugh the one he let out with his mates in the garage while I was washing up after their gettogether. The same chuckle when little Charlie tumbled off his bike and I ran with a bottle of green dye while Dave stood there saying, Whats the fuss, let him get up on his own.
My ears filled with a rush, like before a pressure surge. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the cling film digging into my palms until white lines appeared. I set the groceries down slowly. Pulled out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mumble Dave was already discussing fishing hooks and tomorrows trip to the lake with Sam. He always starts by spitting out venom and then slides into nonsense, as if nothing had happened. As if I were truly wooden.
I held the phone to the crack of the ajar door and waited, silent, until he finished saying goodbye to Sam and promised to wash the deal next week.
Then Dave hung up, thumped the handset, and shuffled in slippers toward the fridge. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my pocket, gathered the bags and glided past the kitchen into the bedroom. I shut the door and leaned my back against the jamb.
A cold fire pressed under my spoon I wanted either to scream or to howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Charlie, school, university, his loans that Id been paying off from my own holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, his meatballs, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And a buyer already existed.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to them. I looked at the wedding band thin, worn. Hed given it to me when we were still sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I felt the urge to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I breathed in deep, recalling Mums advice: Lucy, if someone hurts you, count to ten before you 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. Inside lay the number for the local Citizens Advice office the one Id used when arranging my mothers disability claim.
A woman’s voice floated through the line, explaining that a restriction on property transactions could be placed online, but it was better to come in person. I told her I would right now.
It was about three oclock. Dave was clattering around the kitchen probably frying an egg. I slipped into the corridor and threw on my coat.
Where are you off to? he asked without turning. The pan hissed.
To the shop for bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
Right, and grab a packet of cigarettes for me too.
I stepped out. The lift jabbed me. Not from fear, but from the realization of what I was doing. For twentyfour years Id never acted without his nod. Even the wallpaper colour was a joint decision until he declared, Beige is boring, we should have gone green, and I said nothing.
The Citizens Advice office was empty. A clerk stared at the documents behind the glass for what felt like ages.
Are you sure you want to place a restriction? Without you being there in person, no onenot even a power of attorneycan sell, gift or exchange the flat.
Absolutely.
She tapped the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I emerged onto the street, a slip of paper in my hand. I slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat, the same one that held the recording phone.
I returned home with a loaf and a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was sprawled on the sofa, watching a war film. I drifted into the kitchen, turned the kettle on. Burnt egg remnants clung to the pan. I washed them away, as habit dictated.
Around seven, the doorbell rang. Dave lunged up, yanking off his tshirt.
Ah, its for me. Lucy, set the kettle down, a nice guest is on the way.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive coat and clutching a briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Dave brightened, flashing a smile.
Meet Mr. Oliver Hart, a realtor. Were sorting the flat.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and fixed my gaze on Daves selfsatisfied face.
Dave, remember you were on the phone with Sam this afternoon?
He froze. His smile slipped away like badly applied wallpaper.
What? Just there was something, wasnt there?
You called me a wooden wife. Said youd already found a buyer for my flat and that Id never find out.
A heavy pause. The realtor shifted his weight from foot to foot. Daves complexion drained, his cheeks mottled with uneven pallor.
What are you on about, Lucy? he began, but I raised a hand.
No. 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 the housekeepers free
The realtor backed toward the door.
Mr. Hart, you didnt mention there were complications.
Dave stared at me as if I were a stranger.
You recorded me? Watched me? he hissed.
I was standing in the hallway with the groceries I bought with my own wages so you, Charlie and his girlfriend could have dinner. Meanwhile you were bargaining away *my* house. My house, Dave. Not ours. My mothers.
He stepped toward me, but I continued calmly:
And today I was at Citizens Advice and placed a restriction on any action concerning the flat unless Im physically present. So your buyer I gestured at the realtor can look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
The realtor hesitated.
I suppose Ill be going then. Dave, well be in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Dave stood in the centre 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. You burned it today, called me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dave, and Ive turned to ash.
He collapsed onto the sofa, cradling his head.
Lucy, Im sorry. It just fell apart. I didnt mean it. It was Sam who pushed me
Sam, I smirked. Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, who lived on my money for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me as décor.
I slipped off the ring and placed it on the coffee table.
Ill file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with meits my mothers inheritance, you have no claim. Pack your things within a week. Ill explain everything to Charlie; hes an adult now.
Lucy
No, dont. You have no idea how light I feel. For the first time in years Im not worrying about dinner. I have a house, and I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, shut the door, and the phone buzzed a message from a friend: How was your day?
I typed back: Great. Im no longer wooden.
I woke at seven. Instead of racing to put the kettle on for Dave, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee for myself. Ground beans with a pinch of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. I had always loved real coffee.
He shuffled out of the room, his face creased, and stared at the Turkish pot in my hand.
What about me?
Its time you find a new housekeeper, Dave. Wooden things sometimes sprout life.
I took a sip. The coffee burned fiercely, 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.
The doorbell rang. I set the cup down and opened it. On the threshold stood Oliver Hart again, the realtor, this time without his briefcase, his coat still immaculate but his expression bewildered.
Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned yesterday that the flat was yours, but I wasnt aware I wanted to offer my services, as a sellers agent. If you ever decide to buy, sell or trade, Im here. Honest. No strings.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. From the kitchen, Dave appeared, his face twisted in irritation.
What are you doing here? he barked.
Working, Oliver replied evenly. I have a new client now.
He handed me a business card. I turned it over, then looked back at Dave, at his helpless fury, at the realtors practiced smile.
Thank you, Mr. Hart, Ill think about it. Not today. Today Im buying a cat. And perhaps a new frying pan.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and disappeared into the bedroom. I leaned against the closed door, laugheda soft, almost inaudible laugh. For the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway in the morning.
I finished the coffee with a smile, pondering the name Id give the cat: Martha, after the tabby that lived with us as a child until Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Ill have my own Martha, and no one will complain that shedding is a problem.
