Nothing Personal, Just Things
Pack up that vase too, said Margaret Walker, without turning around.
She stood in the middle of the lounge, surveying the shelves with the calm detachment of someone perusing a shop window where everything is already paid for. Composed. Efficient. Eyes narrowed slightly, as a connoisseurs would.
Which vase? asked Emily.
Her voice came out quieter than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again.
Mrs. Walker, which vase do you mean?
That one. The blue one. We brought it back from Prague in ninety-eight. Family heirloom.
Emily looked at the blue vase. She and James had bought it on their third wedding anniversary in a little shop on Charles Street. The shopkeeper was elderly, with a silver beard, and said something in Czech. James laughed, pretending he understood. Afterward, they ate trdelník right on the pavement, and Emily burned her tongue. They both laughed about it for half an hour.
Its not a family heirloom, Emily said flatly. We bought it together, in 2009.
Emily love, Margaret finally turned around, and her tone had that familiar edgeone Emily recognised from the very first year of marriage. The tone of patient explanation, as if to a slow child. Lets not make this more complicated than necessary. You must know that all this She gestured around the lounge. All of this was paid for by our familys money.
Our familys money, Emily repeated. Mine and Jamess.
James earned. We helped him out, his father and I. You kept the house. Not at all the same thing.
James stood by the window, gazing down at London spread below, tiny from the twenty-third floor. Little cars, tiny trees, doll-sized people. He said nothing.
Emily watched his back, thinking that she knew every ridge and curve of it. How his shoulders slumped when he was tired. The mole beneath his left shoulder blade. The way his breathing changed when he feigned sleep. Ten years. Ten years of knowing him, and now he stood at the window looking at a miniature city while his mother packed their life into cardboard boxes.
***
The flat was beautiful. Emily could admit that, even when resentful. High ceilings, panoramic windows, American walnut floorsMargarets rule: heels off, always. The kitchen straight out of a Luxury Interiors catalogue, for which Margaret paid personally, a fact she never missed a chance to mention. Chandeliers in the lounge looking like a frozen waterfall.
Emily had lived there for eight years and never truly felt at home. Not because the flat was unpleasant, but because it was too perfect. Too expensive. Too deliberately styled, all via catalogues Margaret brought in.
When they first moved in, Emily set a simple terracotta pot with a violet on the bedroom windowsill. Bought from a market for a fiver. Within a week, it was gone. Margaret said shed binned it because it didnt fit the scheme.
Emily said nothing. Neither did James.
That was the first. Soon, there were many more.
***
The movers arrived at ten sharp. Two silent men, a trolley, a vast roll of packing tape. Margaret greeted them in the hallway, printed list in hand, numbered with bold section headers. Emily caught a glimpse: Lounge: Corner sofa (leather, grey), 1; Coffee table (marble), 1; Floor lamp (bronze), 2…
She turned away and walked to the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Just to keep her hands busy.
James followed. He paused in the doorway.
Em, he began.
What?
How are you?
She looked at his facehandsome, the one she loved. Now cast in the expression she privately dubbed guilty schoolboy. Brow knit. Eyes averted. Voice quiet, as if asking for permission.
Im fine, she said. Tea?
Em.
James, are you having tea or not?
He hesitated.
Yeah. Please.
She poured boiling water into their mugsthe white ones with painted rabbits theyd bought in Amsterdam. Silly mugs, completely out of place in the high-end kitchen. Margaret referred to them as that tat. Thats why Emily loved them.
They stood side by side and drank tea. In the lounge, they heard the diligent rasp of packing tape and Margarets calm instructions.
She has no right, Emily said, quietly, not to him, not really to anyone. We bought the sofa together. I picked out the floor lamps. Those paintings in the bedroomI brought them back from Florence, paid for them myself.
Ill talk to her.
Youve said that five times today already.
He didnt reply. He looked down at the mug.
James, she said, and now, finally, her voice was tired and flat in a way shed tried to avoid. Im not asking for the sofa. I dont want the sofa. Im asking you just to be here. Do you understand? To stand with me. Just once.
He lifted his eyes.
I am here.
No, she said. Youre by the window.
***
Margaret Walker was sixty-four and of that breed of English matron who can occupy a room so fully, it leaves no air for others. Not cruel, no. Just precise. Thoroughly convinced of whats proper and what isnt. What fits, and what doesnt suit the scheme.
She loved her sonEmily never doubted that. It was just that her love left no room for anyone elses, least of all Emilys. Not out of malice, but because it seemed inconceivable that anyone could love James as deeply as she.
In the first year of marriage, Emily tried to befriend her. Cooked Sunday roasts. Asked for recipes. Once, bought her a silk scarf after days of searching. Margaret thanked her, set the scarf aside, and explained her skin was too sensitive for silk.
By the second year, Emily stopped trying to be friends and started maintaining a polite distance.
By the third, she realised distance didnt work. Margaret didnt honour boundaries she hadnt put up herself.
By the fourth, fifth, sixth Emily lost count.
***
James Thomas, Margaret called from the lounge. I need you a moment, to decide on the paintings.
He set down his mug. Emily watched him cross the flat to his mother, recognising the brisk step, the squared shoulders. Ready to respond.
How many times over those years had he done that? Answered a voice, a text, a summons.
She wasnt angryhad run out of that feeling. Anger takes energy, and hers was spent long ago.
In the lounge, she heard the conversation. Margarets voice: This one well take, its from the Fort Gallery. Sound investment Then mumbling from James, quietly agreeing.
Emily drank her tea. Washed the mug. Set it to dry.
Then she left the kitchen for the bedroomnot because she needed anything. She simply didnt want to listen as her life was divided line by line from some printed list.
The bedroom was quiet. Sunlight slanted, striping the freshly made bed. They hadnt yet decided whod keep it. Margaret probably already knew.
Emily sat on the edge, hand splaying over the sky blue coverlet.
She remembered choosing that cover. Shed stood in John Lewis, weighing two choices: the grey, practical (hides marks, Margaret would have said), and the blue, delicate as a cloud and thoroughly impractical. She bought the blue. James had been surprised, but said nothing.
Maybe that was the boldest thing Emily had done in the flat.
***
On a whim, Emily opened up the bedroom cupboard overhead, looking for her old bag. It was there in the back, beside a battered shoebox.
Just a cheap cardboard box. On top, written in marker by her own hand: Miscellaneous. Ours.
She didnt immediately recall what was inside.
She took it out. Set it on the bed.
Opened it.
On top were two yellowing cinema tickets, ragged at the edges. Shed nearly forgotten the film: Amélie. Their third date. James hadnt liked itso he claimed, for years. Later confessed, much later, that hed lied, because he was embarrassed.
Beneath was a postcard from Barcelonahoneymoon. Sagrada Familia painted on the front. On the back, James had written: I love you more than Gaudí loved this cathedral. He loved it for seventy-three years. Shed laughed, asked, Will you love me for seventy-three years? Hed said, Ill try.
He was forty now. She, thirty-eight. Ten years together. Sixty-three to go.
She held the postcard, thinking of that.
Underneath: a miniature Eiffel Tower from a Paris flea market, which Margaret swept off the fridge, declaring it kitsch. A plastic Participant wristband from a wild office party where theyd both got tipsy and danced til one. A pressed flower, crumbling at the edgessome meadow on some early morning drive, she vaguely recalled. Three seashells from Brighton beach. A napkin bearing a noughts and crosses game theyd played once, waiting for food at a café.
Everything was cheap. Meaninglessto most. Not listed on any inventory Margaret had made.
Emily sat atop the blue coverlet, holding the napkin, and something long-kept and too tightly held inside her began, slowly, to loosen.
She didnt cry. She never had, not for nothing. She just sat, breathing, while in the lounge the tape kept rasping and Margaret discussed crystal wineglasses.
***
James entered the bedroom, probably looking for something of his.
Whats that?
See for yourself.
He came closer, picked up the old tickets. Looked at the postcard.
Emily saw his face change, slowly, as though the light had shifted behind a cloud.
Amélie, he murmured. I pretended I didnt like it.
I know.
I lied.
I know.
He sat down beside her, rolling the wristband in his fingers.
That was the do for Petes company. 2015.
2015, yes.
You lost your shoe on the dancefloor.
And you found it under the bar.
And called you Cinderella.
And I told you you made a rubbish prince.
He smiled. Not that weary, apologetic smile of recent yearsbut his old one, lopsided, genuine.
I am, a rubbish prince, he agreed.
Silence fell. From the loungea bang. Margarets sharp, clipped Careful. One movers apologetic reply.
James, said Emily.
Yes?
How did we get here? Not just this room. I meanthis point.
He didnt answer at once, just turned a shell over in his hands.
I dont know.
You do, she said, not angry.
He put the shell back.
Im a coward, he said.
Emily looked at him, at the familiar slope of brow and nose.
I know.
It shouldnt have he stopped. I should haveso many times.
Yes, James.
For the first time that day, he faced her fully.
I want you to know I remember. All of it. He nodded at the box. Buying those tickets. You, burning your tongue on trdelník. The meadow. The shells, Emilyyou said youd make a photo frame. I joked it was kitsch. You sulked. But then we went swimming at three a.m., and
Stop, she said.
Why?
Because it hurts.
He fell silent.
It hurts me too, he said quietly.
***
Margaret appeared at the bedroom door.
James, we need your signature
She noticed the box, took in them sitting side by side. Her face changeda compelling shift, but impossible to define.
Whats all this, then?
Our things, said James.
What things? Thats rubbish, it needs to go.
Mum.
Whatthese little bits, these scraps
Mum, he repeated, his voice changed now. No longer asking. Different.
Margaret looked at him.
What?
Please, leave us alone.
A pause, thick as treacle.
James, the movers are waiting, time is money
Mum. Please. Leave.
Emily didnt even look at her mother-in-law. She studied her own hands, folded in her lap. She heard the dense, ringing silence after his words.
Fine, Margaret said at last, voice even but altered. Fine. Let me know when youre done.
Footsteps. The door stayed open, but the sound receded.
Emily exhaled, unsteadily.
Thats the first time youve done that, she said.
What?
Asked her to leave.
He was silent.
In ten years, she added. The first.
I know.
Why now?
I dont know. Maybe He paused, hunting for words. Maybe seeing that box I realised everything were dividing in therein the loungeits just stuff. The sofas a sofa. A vase is a vase. But this, he nodded at the box, this is us. The only things that are really ours.
Emily watched him for a long time.
James, she said at last, thats a touching speech.
Im not making a speech
Wait. Let me finish. They are beautiful words, but Im tired of beautiful words. Youve always been good with those. Good at explaining why things happened and promising next time would be different, that you understand. But understanding isnt doing.
I know.
No, James, you think you know. But you dont. Or she wouldnt be in our lounge now, boxing up our life to her own list. She made a list, do you get that? Of what is ours. She came and listed it all.
Ill stop this.
Now?
Yes.
Its too late, Emily said. That shouldve happened years ago. Seven years ago, when she binned my flower. Or six, when she rearranged our bedroom while we were away. Or five, when she lectured me on making a cottage pie. Or four, or
Em.
Or three, when she told you, You dont need kids yet, get settled first, and you agreed. I was thirty-five and
She broke off.
The room was still.
That hurt most, she whispered, barely audible. More than anything.
James sat perfectly still. On his face was something Emily had seen only a handful of timesnot guilt, not excuse. Just openness. Unprotected.
I know, he said. I
No more explanations.
I want you to understand.
Not now.
She closed the box. Pressed the lid firmly into place.
Im taking this, she announced. Thats what I want.
Fine.
I want nothing else from this flat.
He looked at her.
Where will you go?
To Kates, for now. Then, Ill find somewhere.
Em.
What?
Dont leave.
She stood. Tucked the box under her arm. So light; oddly light, considering all its weight.
James, Im leaving the flat, not you. I cant live here anymore. I never wanted to. I only ever pretended.
We could leave together.
She stopped. Turned.
What did you say?
He stood, hands at his sides, facing her directly.
I said we can leave together. I dont care about the sofa, or the crystal, or the Fort Gallery paintings. I need you. And this box. Thats all.
Emily stared at him.
Inside, something complex and uncertain was risinghope and fear, exhaustion, and something unnamed.
James, she said slowly, youre forty. If you walk out with me, your mother
I know.
will be furious.
I know, Em.
And youre ready for that?
I dont know if I am. But if I dont do it now, Ill never respect myself again.
A pause.
This is a different conversation, she said.
Is it?
Yes. This isnt, I want you back. This is, I want to be able to respect myself. Thats not the same.
Maybe, he said. But one probably cant happen without the other.
***
Margaret was coordinating the movers in the lounge when they entered. She turned, clocking Emilys box and her sons face.
All done then?
Mum, James said. Stop.
Stop what?
All of this, he gestured: the packed-up sofa, a floor lamp in bubble-wrap at the centre of the room. Take it. Its yours. I want nothing.
Margaret stared.
What are you talking about?
The sofa, vases, glasses, paintings, the kitchen. All yours. Do as you wish.
James, these are assets, this is valuable
Mum. Im leaving with Emily and this box. Thats all I want.
Silence.
Margarets eyes flitted between them, uncertain for the first time, as though shed found herself in a game with new rules.
Youve gone mad, she whispered.
Perhaps.
Its reckless. Its
Mum. He stepped closer, gentle but firm. I love you. But I cant live this way. This isnt a life, its a project management exercise. And I wont be managed anymore.
Margaret stayed silent for ages. And then said,
Youre making a monstrous mistake.
Maybe, James answered. But Id rather regret my own decisions than someone elses.
***
They left the flat just after one. Emily carried the box. James had a holdall of clothes and his work laptop.
They said nothing in the lift. The mirrored walls reflected two not-so-young people, faces drawn, one with a cardboard box, the other a bag for a weekend.
At ground floor, the concierge nodded. Sliding doors parted. Outside was a standard April day, brisk and grey, smelling of mouldering leaves and far-off rain.
They stopped, just past the steps.
Where? asked James.
I told you. Kates.
I cant go to Kates.
You dont have to.
I dont want to go to Kates. I want to go wherever youre going.
Emily looked at the street. Down here, the people all had proper size and facesreal, busy people going about their lives.
James, she said. We have no flat.
I know.
Weve barely any cash. Everythings tied up until court.
I put some aside. Mum didnt know.
Okay. But that wont last. Well have to rent. Something tiny, probably grim.
All right.
No Luxury Interiors kitchen.
Thank God.
She looked at him. He looked right backa curious expression on his face, as if a weight had shifted.
This isnt an ending, she said. Its just starting. Therell be court, your mum, all of it.
I know.
Im not sure well make it.
Neither am I.
And still?
He hesitated before quietly answering,
And still.
She repositioned the box under her arm. Light, so light. A few tickets. Postcard. Magnet. Wristband. Flower. Three shells and a noughts and crosses napkin.
All that was left of ten years. And, all that had ever really mattered from those years.
Lets go then, she said.
And they walked. Down an ordinary April street, on a grey English day, no plan, no surety, just one bag and a cardboard box between them. Behind and above, somewhere, they left the flat on the twenty-third floor, with its walnut floors and frozen-waterfall chandelier and Margaret, doubtless still marshaling the movers.
But they walked on. Emily didnt know if it was right. She didnt know much of anything, except this: the box beneath her arm. Him beside her. April. And that scent you only smell in English springwhen the cold is still there, but you know, at last, that it wont linger.
James, she said as they went.
What?
Do you remember the shells?
Brighton. You wanted a photo frame.
You said it was kitsch.
“It is kitsch.”
Ill make it anyway.
All right, he said.
We dont have a place to hang it yet.
Well find one, he answered.
Emily didnt reply. She only walked on, holding the box, thinking, well find oneits not a promise, just words. But sometimes, just words are all you have. And sometimes, thats enough for one step more. And then another. And another.
