Natalie steadies the ladle as Oliver slides a steaming, rubyred bowl of borscht onto the table. The scent of fresh herbs, garlic and rich broth fills the flat, making the kitchen feel like the perfect setting for a family dinner. Then a single name, spoken in a casual tone, shatters the warmth and turns the room into a cold crypt of memories.
Primrose. Olivers exwife. The woman who haunts their flat like a legend, unseen but felt, even though they have been married for two years.
Oliver, Natalie tries to keep her voice steady, though hurt tightens her chest. Im making the borscht exactly as my grandmother taught me. You always liked it. Just a week ago you ate it and praised it, asking for extra. Whats changed?
Oliver shrugs, tears off a piece of black bread and chews lazily while staring at the television mounted on the wall.
Nothings changed, Nat. I just remembered. Primrose had a light touch with the spices. She knew the balance. Its a talent you cant learn. Dont take it personally; youre trying, I see that. Just eat, itll cool down.
Natalie lowers the ladle back into the pot, appetite gone. She sits opposite him, watching his profile. Oliver is a solid man: a streak of silver at his temples gives him gravitas, his shoulders are broad, his gaze confident. When they met three years ago he seemed idealdivorced, childfree, responsible. He spoke little of his former marriage, saying simply, We just didnt click. Natalie, always polite, never pressed. She understood a man in his forties would have a past and she respected it.
Who could have guessed that past would be so tenacious?
The first halfyear after the wedding is blissful. Then, as if an invisible valve opens, memories of Primrose start to leak out. At first theyre occasional slips: Oh, Primrose had a vase just like that, She loved that film. Natalie brushes them off as harmless. But the comparisons become more frequent and, worse, never in her favour.
The shirts creased, Oliver remarks the next morning while getting ready for work, turning in front of the mirror. The folds uneven. Primrose always used a special spray and a steam iron, so the collars were perfect. Her trouser creases were razorsharp. This ones okay for a country setting.
Natalie, who rose at six to make breakfast and iron his suit, feels a lump rise in her throat.
Oliver, I have a regular iron and I iron the way I know how. If you dont like it, you can take the clothes to the dry cleaner yourself, or iron them yourself.
Oliver looks at her through the mirror, puzzled.
Whats with the lecture? Im just sharing a tip. Maybe you should buy the spray? I just want you to improve. Primrose always attended to the little things. Her house was spotless, not a speck of dust.
I keep things tidy too, Natalie says quietly, recalling how she scrubbed the bathroom for two hours yesterday. I work fulltime just like you.
Primrose also worked and managed everything. Anyway, Ive got to go. Ill be late tonight, mum needs help with a leak.
The front door slams. Natalie is left alone as Oliver climbs into his car. Primrose, Primrose, Primrose. The name repeats in her head like a scratched record. If Primrose was such an angel of the kitchen and a fairy of cleanliness, why did they split? Oliver always dodges the answer, mumbling something about people change or the routine gets stale.
That evening Natalie decides not to cook. She has no appetite, and theres no point in turning fresh ingredients into something that will inevitably be not like Primroses. She grabs a pack of readymade cabbage rolls from the supermarket, heats them, and settles with a novel.
Oliver returns around nine, angry and hungry.
Mum says hi, he grumbles, slipping off his shoes. Anne also asked about you. She wonders why you never use the pie recipe she suggested. She says Primrose always baked on weekends, the house always smelled of pastries, and that we always end up eating processed stuff.
Natalie closes the book. Calm becomes harder to find.
Anne can bake herself if she wants. Im not a fan of fiddling with dough.
Exactly! Oliver lifts a finger, as if hes caught her in the act. You dont like it. A woman should love making a home. Primrose”
Enough! Natalie snaps, standing up; the book thuds to the floor. Enough, Oliver. I hear that name more than my own. Primrose cooked, ironed, cleaned, breathed correctly! If she was that perfect, why arent you together?
Oliver is taken aback. He never expected such an outburst from the usually placid Natalie.
Well there were reasons. She was strongwilled, liked to give orders.
So Im just convenient? Natalie sneers. Im quiet, I endure, I try, and you keep poking me with her virtues. Im fed up.
Dont exaggerate, Oliver brushes off, heading to the kitchen. Whats for dinner? More takeaway? Right Primrose would never let me eat junk. She cared about my stomach.
Natalie slips into the bedroom. That night she cant sleep, staring at the ceiling. A plan formsone that could either end their marriage or save it. She refuses to live with three people: herself, Oliver, and Primroses ghost.
Saturday arrives, the day traditionally reserved for housework and shopping. But this time nothing follows the script.
In the morning Anne calls.
Nat, love, how are you? Oliver and I are heading to the cemetery tomorrow for my fathers service. We need the fence painted. Could you make some pasties for the road? Not with cabbageOliver gets heartburn. Meats fine, and keep the pastry thin, as we used to.
Natalie looks at her reflection in the hall mirror, sighs deeply.
Anne, Im working tomorrow. Ive got a reporting deadline and paperwork for the house. I can buy pasties from the bakery near the tube, theyre excellent.
Working on a Sunday? Thats a sin, Nat. And leaving Oliver hungry is a sin too. Primrose never slacked for the family. Shed even get up at night to bake pancakes if Oliver asked.
Let Primrose bake, Natalie snaps, surprising herself, and hangs up.
Oliver, whos heard the end of the call, emerges from the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth.
Why are you snapping at mum? Shes old.
Im not snapping. Im setting boundaries. Im not Primrose, Oliver. Im Natalie. I wont bake pies at night.
Of course, he spits, dumping toothpaste into the sink. You just love your paperwork. You have no femininity. Primrose was a real womanshe could have a career and still pamper her husband. And you sigh.
He waves his hand and heads to the kettle. Natalie stands in the middle of the room, a cold resolve spreading through her. Every remark about Primrose cracks the glass vase of their relationship a little more. The vase is already in pieces; the last shard is about to fall.
She walks calmly to the bedroom, pulls out a large rolling suitcase, and opens it on the bed.
Oliver peeks in, chewing a sandwich.
Where are you off to? A business trip? Helping mum with the garden?
Natalie doesnt answer. She methodically pulls Olivers shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks from the wardrobe and places them in the suitcase.
What are you doing? Oliver stops chewing, bewilderment turning to panic. Nat, why?
Im helping you, Oliver, she says evenly, folding his favorite jumper. Ive realised Im not worthy. I cant sugar the borscht, I cant steam collars, I cant bake midnight pies. Im a lousy housewife, not feminine enough, and my iron is cheap. I cant compete with an ideal.
What ideal? Stop this circus! He lunges for a shirt, but she steps aside.
Dont interrupt. Ive thought this through. You live in constant stress, tolerating my sour food and laziness while dreaming of how perfect Primrose was. I dont want to be the cause of your suffering. I love you, Oliver, and I want you happy. Your happiness seems locked in that past marriage.
She grabs his underwear from the drawer and tosses it into the suitcase.
So I propose the only sensible solution: go back to Primrose.
A ringing silence fills the room. Only the clock ticks and Olivers heavy breathing can be heard.
Youre mad, he whispers. Which Primrose? We divorced five years ago! Shes married nowor maybe not I dont know!
It doesnt matter, Natalie replies, zipping the suitcase. You think of her so often, describe her virtues in detail, that Im convinced she still loves you. A perfect woman will wait for her prince to return, feed him the right borscht, steam his shirts, and youll live happily ever afterwithout me and my storebought rolls.
She places the suitcase on the floor, pulls the handle out.
All set, Oliver. Your things are packed, even your toothbrush and razor. You can leave right now. Anne will be thrilled to hear you both discuss how saintly Primrose is, while I remain the error.
Oliver stands, breathless, as if a fish out of water. Hes used to Natalie being gentle, compliant, answering his grumbles with silence or soft excuses. He never imagined she could act like this.
Nat, come on, its just a slipup, everyone makes mistakes. Why pack a suitcase? This is ridiculous. He tries a weak smile that collapses into a grimace. Lets just sort it out. I wont go to the cemetery; Ill stay home and help with your report.
Natalie shakes her head, her eyes tired but steady.
No, Oliver. This isnt a nursery rhyme. Its selfrespect. Ive endured a year trying to be perfect, learning new dishes, matching an imagined ghost. But you cant win against a phantom. A living person always loses to an idealised image. I wont be secondrate in my own home.
She wheels the suitcase to the hallway.
Leave. Stay with your mum. Think it over. Or try to win Primrose back. I wont hold you here any longer.
Oliver spends ten minutes trying humor, then anger, then pleading, but Natalie stays firm. She opens the front door, locks it twice, watches as he snatches the suitcase, mutters, Youll regret this, you fool! and storms down the stairwell.
Natalie collapses onto the floor, tears of relief streaming down her face. The flat finally quiets; the ghost of Primrose seems to have fled with Oliver.
A week passes. Oliver lives with his mother. Anne calls Natalie daily, alternately cursing her and begging her to take Oliver back. Natalie doesnt answer. She enjoys lifelight salads, steamed fish, ordering pizza. No one nags about underseasoned rice or dust on the shelves.
On Thursday evening Natalie returns from work. Outside the block she spots a familiar car. Oliver sits inside, his head resting on the wheel. He rushes out, looking dishevelled: his shirt is wrinkled, a threeday beard, eyes weary.
Natalie, we need to talk.
Speak, she says, not inviting him in.
I I was an idiot. I get it now.
What did you get? she asks, a wry smile on her lips. That Primrose wont take you back?
Oliver blushes, lowers his gaze.
I called her, just to check how she was. I thought maybe
And?
She sent me away. Said Im a nag, a tyrant, that shes married now and he never lets a speck of dust bother him. She claimed I ruined five years of her life with my complaints.
Natalie laughs, loudly, genuinely. The puzzle finally fits.
So Primrose was just a figment of your imagination? You built an ideal to avoid seeing your own flaws, to justify constant dissatisfaction?
Probably, Oliver shifts his weight. Living with mum is impossible. She nags me from morning to nightcup in the wrong spot, loud snoring. She also romanticises her late father, saying he was perfect, though I remember they argued daily. Nat, let me back home. I swear I wont mention Primrose again. I realise how lucky I am with youwarm, real, genuine. Im a fool.
Natalie watches him, feeling a flicker of pity. A man who cant value the present, forever chasing a phantom past.
Oliver, she says thoughtfully, Im not sure I want you back. Ive enjoyed being on my own. No one compares me to anyone. No one criticises my cooking.
Please, Nat! Ill change! Ill iron my shirts myself! Ill learn to cook, I swear! Give me one chance.
She remains silent, examining her shoes. Forgiveness? Maybe. People err. But if she lets him in now, everything could revert in a month.
Alright, she finally says. One chance, but with conditions.
Anything! he exclaims, eyes bright.
First: the name Primrose is banned in this house. If I hear it, the suitcase appears at the door within a minute and youre out for good. Second: stop comparing me to anyoneyour mum, a friends wife, the neighbour. I am me. If you dont like it, find someone else. Third: weekends we either cook together or order food. Im not a chef.
Deal! he says, almost shaking with excitement.
Last one. Go to the flower shop now and buy me the biggest bouquet they have. Not Primrose liked, but what I love. You remember which flowers I adore?
Oliver freezes, sweat beading his forehead. He scrambles through his memory.
Lilies? No, they give me headaches. Roses? Too cliché Tulips! You love white tulips!
Natalie barely smiles.
Peonies, Oliver. I love peonies. Tulips are fine if theyre fresh. Youve got an hour.
Oliver darts to his car, floors it, tires screeching. Natalie watches him go, unsure how long his enthusiasm will last. Perhaps in six months hell start complaining again. She knows one thing: she has changed. She will never again let a ghost dictate her worth. The suitcase will stay on the shelf as a reminder, not a burden.
When Oliver returns with a massive bunch of soft pink peoniesapparently sourced from a boutique on a rainy autumn afternoonNatalie lets him in.
That night they eat pizza. Oliver devours it as if it were ambrosia, praising the crisp crust.
Delicious, he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You pick the best delivery.
Natalie smiles. The spectre of Primrose, finally dispelled, fades into the scent of peonies and pepperoni. The next day Anne calls, asking if her daughterinlaw is still a suffering one. Natalie snaps back:
Mum, stay out of it. Were fine. And by the way, your pie recipe isnt needed. Nat makes a brilliant tiramisu.
Life settles. Natalie knows that selfrespect is the foundation you never sacrifice, even for love. And if that foundation ever cracks again, she already knows how to pack a suitcase in fifteen minutes.
