Nothing Personal, Just Things
Pack that vase as well, said Margaret Williams, without even turning around.
She stood in the centre of the sitting room, gazing at the shelves with the focused, appraising look of someone eyeing up a shop display where everythings been paid for already. Calm, businesslike, with the faint squint of an expert.
Which vase? Emily said, her voice coming out softer than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, Margaret, which vase do you mean?
That one over there. The blue. We brought it back from Prague in ninety-eight. Its a family heirloom.
Emily looked at the blue vase. She and Peter had bought it on their third wedding anniversary, in a little shop on Charles Street. The shopkeeper was old, with a greying beard, said something in Czech. Peter laughed, made as if he understood. Then theyd eaten chimney cakes right there on the street, Emily burning her tongue, and the two of them laughed about it for half an hour.
Its not a family heirloom, said Emily evenly. We bought it together. In 2009.
Emily, Margaret finally turned to her, her voice sliding into that special, sing-song patience that Emily had recognised in the first year of marriagethe tone you use to gently explain the obvious to children. Lets not make this difficult. You must understand that all of this, she waved a hand around the lounge, it was all purchased with the familys money.
With the familys money, Emily echoed, mine and Peters.
Peter earned. His father and I helped. You kept house. Its not the same.
Peter stood at the window, staring out over London, which from the twenty-third floor looked toy-like and unreal. Miniature cars. Miniature trees. Miniature people. He said nothing.
Emily watched his back. She knew it by heartthe way he slouched when tired, the mole beneath his left shoulder blade, the way he breathed while pretending to sleep. Ten years. Shed known Peter for ten years, and now he stood at the window, studying a tiny city while his mother wrapped up their lives in cardboard boxes.
***
The flat was beautiful. Emily had admitted that, even when she was angry with it. High ceilings, panoramic windows, walnut parquet she wasnt allowed to scratch with her shoes. A kitchen from a Premier Interiors showroom, which Margaret had paid for herself, and reminded them at every chance. The lounges chandelier looked like a frozen waterfall.
Emily had lived here eight years and never felt it was home. Not because it was a bad flat. It was simply too perfect. Too expensive. Too carefully assembled from catalogues Margaret brought over.
When theyd just moved in, Emily placed a small clay pot of violets on the bedroom ledge, bought at the Sunday market for a tenner. A week later it was gone. Margaret said shed thrown it outit clashed with the theme.
Emily said nothing, then. Neither did Peter.
That was the first time. It was not the last.
***
The removal men arrived at ten. Two quiet men with a trolley and a roll of packing tape. Margaret greeted them in the hallway, list in hand. The list was printed, numbered, and subdivided. Emily glimpsed the first lines: Lounge: 1 corner sofa (grey leather), 1 marble coffee table, 2 bronze floor lamps…
She turned away and headed to the kitchen. Put the kettle on, just to have something to do.
Peter followed, stopped in the doorway.
Em, he said.
What?
How are you?
She looked at him. His handsome facethe same one shed once adoredwas now holding that familiar guilty son look: eyebrows drawn, gaze to the floor, voice hushed and cautious.
Fine, she said. Do you want tea?
Emily.
Peter, do you want tea or not?
A pause. Yes.
She poured boiling water into two mugsthe white ones with the rabbits on, bought in Amsterdam. Silly mugs, out of place in the Premier Interiors kitchen. Margaret called them those cheap things. Which was precisely why Emily treasured them.
They stood side by side, drinking tea, the businesslike rattle of tape and Margarets quiet organising drifting through from the lounge.
She cant just do this, Emily murmured, almost to herself. We bought the sofa together. I chose the floor lamps. The paintings in our roomI brought those back from Florence with my own money.
Ill talk to her.
Youve promised that five times already today.
He said nothing, studying his rabbit mug.
Peter, she said, her voice finally breaking through into that register she didnt want: weary, flat. Im not asking for the sofa. I dont want the sofa. I just I want you to just be here. Stand by me for once. Oncejust once.
He looked up at her.
Im here.
No, she replied, youre at the window.
***
Margaret was sixty-four, and she was a woman who knew how to occupy space so completely that there was slightly less oxygen left for everyone else. Not cruel. Just supremely confident in her ideas of proper and improper, tasteful and not fitting the look.
She loved her sonEmily didnt doubt that. It was just that Margarets love was so dense, so all-encompassing, there was never room for anyone else. Not because Margaret was harsh. She simply couldnt imagine that anyone else could love Peter as much as she didor more.
In her first year of marriage, Emily had tried to be friends. Invited Margaret for lunches, asked for recipes. Once bought her a beautiful scarf, searching for the perfect shade. Margaret thanked her, set the scarf aside, and said her skin was too sensitive for that sort of thing.
In the second year, Emily stopped trying to be friends, and settled for polite distance. No conflicts, just reserve.
By the third year, she realised that distance was pointlessMargaret didnt recognise boundaries she hadnt set herself.
By the fourth, fifth, sixth Emily lost count.
***
Peter John, Margaret called from the lounge, Come here, we need to sort those paintings.
He put his mug down. Emily watched him go when called, and she knew the movement by heartquickened step, squared shoulders, ready.
How many times in ten years had he heeded a call like thather voice, her phone, at a moments notice?
She wasnt angry. She was past angry. Anger required energy, and shed run out long ago.
Conversation floated from the loungeMargarets clipped phrases: That ones coming with us, its from the Fort Gallery, a good investment Peters quiet, indistinct assent.
Emily sipped her tea, washed her mug. Set it on the rack.
She left for the corridor, headed to the bedroomnot because there was anything needed, but because she couldnt bear to stand in the kitchen listening as her life was catalogued and divided, item by item, off a printed list.
The bedroom was quiet. The sun came in at an angle, striping the bed. They hadnt decided yet whod keep the bed. Margaret surely already knew.
Emily sat on the edge, smoothing the cover with her hand.
She remembered choosing the bedspread, stood in a shop with two choices: one practical, darkwont show dirt, as Margaret would sayand the other pale blue, almost sky-coloured, terribly impractical. She bought the blue. Peter was surprised, but said nothing.
That blue bedspread was likely Emilys most rebellious act in eight years here.
***
She popped open the overhead cupboard out of habit, searching for an old handbag she wanted to keep. There it was, at the back, next to a box.
An ordinary, battered shoe box. In faded marker, her handwriting: MiscellaneousOurs.
She didnt remember it at first.
She took it down, set it on the bed.
Opened it.
On top: two faded cinema tickets, corners torn. She couldnt recall at first. Then didAmélie, their third date. Peter spent all evening saying he didnt like it, but three years later admitted hed lied, hed loved it, just felt awkward.
Beneath the tickets, a postcard from Barcelona. Their honeymoon. Sagrada Familia on the front, Peters scrawl on the back: I love you more than Gaudi loved this cathedral. And he loved it for seventy-three years. Emily had laughed, asked, Will you love me for seventy-three years too? Hed replied, Ill try.
He was forty now, she thirty-eight. Ten years together. Sixty-three left to go.
She turned the postcard in her hands, thinking about that.
Further down: a tiny Eiffel Tower magnet theyd bought in Paris on a marketimmediately banished from the fridge by Margaret as tacky. A plastic wristband saying Participant from an office do where theyd danced tipsy until one. A dried, crumbling flowershe barely recalled a field, an early morning, stopping just because it was pretty. Three shells from Cornwall. A paper napkin, scrawled with noughts and crosses while awaiting food at some café.
All of it cheap. All of it trivial. None of it on Margarets spreadsheet.
Emily sat on the blue bedspread, holding the napkin, and something inside hersomething shed held tight for so longbegan to slowly, gently unfold.
She didnt cry. Shed never been one to cry easily. She just… sat there, breathing, with the sound of tape and Margarets voice about the crystal glasses still echoing from the lounge.
***
Peter entered the bedroom by chance, probably after something of his own. He saw Emily sitting, shoebox open, paused.
Whats that?
See for yourself.
He came closer, picked up the cinema stubs. The postcard.
Emily watched his facethe way something shifted in him, gradually, like the light changes when a cloud passes.
Amélie, he said quietly. I told you I didnt enjoy it.
I remember.
I lied.
I know.
He sat down beside her, picked up the Participant wristband.
That was Steves work do. 2015.
2015, yes.
You lost a shoe. On the dance floor.
And you found it under the bar.
And I said you were Cinderella.
I pointed out you werent much of a prince.
He smiled. Not the tired, guilty smile of recent years, but the old onea bit of a lopsided smirk.
I wasnt, he agreed.
They sat without speaking. From the lounge came a thud, Margarets clipped, Careful, a removal mans apology.
Peter, Emily said.
Yes?
How did we get here? Not this room. Herethis point?
He didnt answer right away, fingers turning over a shell.
I dont know, he said at last.
Yes, you do, she replied softly.
He placed the shell back in the box.
Im a coward, he said.
Emily looked at himhis profile, the lines she knew so well.
I know.
It shouldnt have ended up like this.
No.
There are so many things I should have done.
Peter.
He turned to face herreally face her for the first time all day.
I want you to know, he said, that I remember all of it. Every little bit. He nodded at the box. I remember buying those tickets. Eating chimney cakes, burning your tongue. That meadow. The shellsyou said youd make a picture frame with them, I called it tacky, you sulked, we went swimming at 3am and
Stop, she said.
Why?
Because it hurts.
He fell silent.
It hurts me too, he said quietly.
***
Margaret appeared in the doorway.
Peter, the men need your signature
She noticed the box. Saw them side by side on the bed. Something in her face shifted, but it was hard to say what exactly.
Whats that?
Our things, said Peter.
What things? Thats rubbish, you ought to throw that out.
Mum.
Just scraps and old tickets
Mum, he said again, but this time something new had entered his voice. Not a plea. Something firmer.
She looked at him.
What?
Could you leave, please?
A long pause.
Peter, the removers are waiting, times
Mum. Please leave the room.
Emily didnt look at her mother-in-law. She stared at her hands on her knees. The silence after Peters words was thickit rang in her ears.
All right, said Margaret at last. Her voice was level, but something had changed in it. Fine. Let me know when youre finished.
Footsteps. The door left ajar, footsteps receding.
Emily let out a slow breath.
Youve never done that before, she said.
What?
Asked her to leave.
He said nothing.
In ten years, she added. Not once.
I know.
Why now?
He hesitated. I suppose I saw this box. And for the first time, it really hit me: all the things were dividing out thereits all just stuff. A sofa is just a sofa. A vase is just a vase. But this he nodded at the box, this is us. The only thing thats truly ours.
Emily looked at him a long time.
Peter, she said finally. Thats a nice speech.
Im not trying to be poetic
Hold on. Let me finish. Its a nice speech, and Im tired of nice speeches. Youre good at them, always have been. You used to explain so well why things happened and how next time would be different, and that you understood. But understanding and doingthose are different things.
I know.
No, Peter, you think you know but you dont. Or your mother wouldnt be standing in our lounge right now, packing our lives into boxes on her terms. She made a list, you realise? A list of whats ours. She turned up and made a list.
I can stop this.
Right now?
Yes.
Its too late, Emily said. You should have done it years ago. When she binned my flower on the ledge. Or six years ago when she rearranged our bedroom furniture while we were away. Five years ago when she told me I was cooking stew the wrong way. Or
Emily.
Or three years ago, when she insisted you didnt need children yet, that we should get settled first, and you agreed, and I was thirty-five, and I
She faltered.
It was very quiet.
Thats what hurt most, she said. Barely a whisper. That was worse than everything else.
Peter didnt move. His face wasnt angry, or searching for an excuse. For once, he just faced her, unguarded.
I know, he said. Back then
Dont explain.
Id like to.
Not now.
She closed the shoebox. Pressed on the lid gently, firmly.
Ill take this, she said. Thats all I want.
All right.
I dont need anything else from this flat.
He looked at her.
Where will you go?
Ill stay with Marianne for now. Then Ill rent.
Emily.
What?
Dont go.
She stood. Tucked the box under her arm. It was light. Surprisingly so, for all it held.
Im leaving this flat, Peter, not you. I cant stay here anymore. I never wanted to live here; I just got used to pretending.
We could leave together.
She stopped.
Looked back.
What did you say?
He stood too, arms at his side, straight-backed, facing her.
I said we could leave together. I dont want the sofa, the crystal glasses, the gallery paintings. I just want you and this box and thats it.
Emily looked at him.
Inside she felt something complicated happenall tangled up: hope, fear, exhaustion, and something else she couldnt name.
Peter, she said slowly, youre forty. If you leave with me, your mother
I know.
will be furious.
I know, Emily.
And youre ready for that?
I honestly dont know. But I do know that if I dont do this now, Ill never respect myself again.
A pause.
Thats a different conversation, she said.
Is it?
Its not I want you back. Its I want to start respecting myself. Theres a difference.
Maybe, he said. But Im not sure you can have one without the other.
***
In the lounge, Margaret was talking to the movers. When they came in, she turned. She saw the box in Emilys hands, her sons expression.
Is that it? Sorted everything out?
Mum, Peter said. Stop.
Stop what?
All this, he waved at a lounge already stripped, a floor lamp wrapped in bubble wrap in the centreTake it all. Im not contesting anything.
Margaret stared.
What are you talking about?
Sofa, vases, glasses, paintings, designer kitchen. All yours. Do whatever you wish.
But Peter, these are expensive, theyre
Mum. Im leaving with Emily and this box. Thats all I need.
Silence.
Margaret looked at him, then at her daughter-in-law, back again. Something entirely new in her facenot anger, not wounded pride. She looked lost; someone suddenly faced with new rules.
Youve lost your mind, she whispered.
Perhaps, said Peter.
Its reckless. Its
Mum. He stepped beside her. Emily watched as he faced his motherno reproach, no blame, just direct. I love you. But I cant go on like this. Its not living. Its project management. And I dont want to be a project.
Margaret stared at him for a long time. At last, Youll regret this.
Maybe. But if I must regret something, Id rather it be my own choice.
***
They left the flat just before two. Emily carried the cardboard box. Peter slung a small overnight bag with clothes and his work laptop.
They said nothing in the lift. The mirrored wall reflected two tired adults, one with a bag for three days, one carrying a shoebox.
On the ground floor, they passed the concierge, who nodded. The automatic doors slid open. Outside was a normal April daychill and grey, with the smell of damp leaves and distant rain.
They paused on the steps.
Where to? Peter asked.
I told youMariannes.
I cant go to Mariannes.
You dont have to.
I dont want to not go to Mariannes. I just want to go wherever you go.
Emily looked at the street. The people below, from up there, had seemed tiny, but up close were just people, with real faces, off to their own business.
Peter, we dont have a flat.
I know.
Were skint. Everythings tied up for the solicitors.
Ive got a little put aside. Mum never knew.
Fine. But its only temporary. Well have to rent somewhere cheap, probably ugly.
Okay.
No Premier Interiors kitchen.
Thank goodness.
She looked at him. He looked back. There was something a bit like relief on his face, but relief wasnt nearly heavy enough for all it had taken.
This isnt the end, Emily said. Its only the start. Therell be court, your mother, and a lot.
I know.
Im not sure well make it.
Im not either.
And still?
He was quiet. Then said, And still.
Emily shifted the box beneath her arm. It was so light. A few tickets, a postcard, a magnet, a wristband, a dried flower, three shells and a napkin with noughts and crosses.
All that was left from ten years. And, maybe, the only things from those ten years that had ever mattered.
Lets go then, she said.
And they went. Out onto an ordinary April street, on an unplanned, uncertain afternoon, just one bag and one cardboard box between them. Somewhere behind, on the twenty-third floor, was a flat with walnut floors and a waterfall chandelier and Margaretwho was probably already telling the movers what to pack next.
And they just walked on. Emily didnt know if it was the right thing. In fact, she knew hardly anything for sure right then, except this: she had a box under her arm. And Peter next to her. And it was April. And that scent you only get in spring, when its still cold, but the cold is clearly on its way out.
Peter, she said as they walked.
Yes?
Remember when we picked those shells?
At the Cornish coast. You were going to make a frame.
You said it was tacky.
It is tacky.
Ill do it anyway.
All right, he said.
No space to hang it just yet.
Well find somewhere, he said.
Emily didnt reply. She just kept walking, with her box, thinking how well find somewhere wasnt a promise, not really. It was just a phrase. But sometimes, just having a phrase is enough to take the next step. And maybe another. And another.
Personal lesson: Sometimes the things that matter most arent on anyones list. And sometimes, true courage is just saying enough and stepping outbox in handinto the cold, not knowing where the path might lead, but knowing at least youre walking together.
