Nothing Personal, Just Things
Pack that vase as well, said Margaret Foster, not bothering to turn around.
She stood in the centre of the sitting room, studying the shelves with the air of someone shopping in a store where everything already belonged to her. Calm. Businesslike. With that slight squint of a connoisseur.
Which vase? asked Charlotte.
Her voice came out quieter than she meant. She cleared her throat and repeated, Mrs Foster, which vase do you mean?
That one. The blue one. We brought it back from Prague in ninety-eight. Heirloom piece.
Charlotte looked at the blue vase. She and Peter had bought it together on their third wedding anniversary, in a little shop off Charles Street. The salesman was elderly, with a grey beard, and said something to them in Czech. Peter laughed and pretended to understand. Later, they ate chimney cakes out on the street, Charlotte burnt her tongue, and they both laughed about it for hours.
It isnt an heirloom, Charlotte said evenly. We bought it together. In 2009.
Darling, Mrs Foster finally turned, using that particular patient, explanatory tone Charlotte recognised from her first year of marriagethe tone reserved for the slightly dim. Lets not complicate matters. You must realise all this, she gestured round the sitting room, was bought with our familys money.
With our familys money, Charlotte echoed. Mine and Peters.
Peter earned it. We helped him get started. You ran the house. Its different.
Peter stood at the window, looking down at London, dwindled to a toy city from the twenty-third floor. Little cars, little trees, little people. He said nothing.
Charlotte gazed at his back, knowing every curve by heart: how he slouched when tired; the mole beneath his left shoulder blade; the way he breathed when pretending to sleep. Ten years. Shed known him ten years, and now he stood by the window while his mother packed away their lives into cardboard boxes.
***
The flat was beautiful. Charlotte always admitted as much, even when it annoyed her. High ceilings, panoramic windows, American walnut flooring that heels were forbidden to scratch. The kitchen was from a LuxuryLiving showroomMrs Fosters purchase, and she never missed a chance to mention it. The chandelier in the lounge looked like a frozen waterfall.
Charlotte had lived here for eight years and never once felt like it was home. Not because it was a bad flatjust too perfect. Too expensive. Too deliberately arranged from catalogues Mrs Foster brought over.
When they first moved in, Charlotte set a plain clay pot of violets on the bedroom sill, bought at the market for a fiver. A week later, the pot vanished. Mrs Foster said shed thrown it out because it didnt fit the design concept.
Charlotte had kept quiet. So had Peter.
That was the first time. There were many such times after.
***
The removal men arrived at ten sharp: two silent blokes with a trolley and a reel of packing tape. Mrs Foster greeted them in the hall, list in hand. It was printed, numbered, with bold headings. Charlotte glimpsed the first line: Lounge: corner sofa (grey leather), 1; marble coffee table, 1; bronze floor lamp, 2…
She turned away and retreated to the kitchen. Put the kettle on, just to do something with her hands.
Peter followed her. He stopped at the door.
Char, he said.
What?
How are you?
She looked at himat the lovely face she once loved, now wearing his guilty schoolboy expression: eyebrows drawn, eyes averted, voice soft, almost apologetic.
Fine, she said. Tea?
Char
Peter, do you want tea or not?
He hesitated.
I do.
She poured the boiling water into two mugs. The mugs with rabbits on themthe ones theyd bought in Amsterdam. Comic mugs, completely out of place in the LuxuryLiving kitchen. Mrs Foster called them those cheap things. Thats exactly why Charlotte treasured them.
They stood side by side, sipping tea, while the businesslike shuffling of tape and Mrs Fosters crisp instructions drifted in from the lounge.
She cant just take what she likes, Charlotte murmured, almost to herself. We bought that sofa together. I chose those lamps. I paid for the paintings in our bedroom from Florence.
Ill talk to her.
Youve said that five times today.
He didnt answer. Just stared into the rabbit mug.
Peter, she said, and her voice at last dropped into a tired, flat tone she never wanted to use. Im not asking you for the sofa. I dont care about the sofa. Im asking you to just be here. With me. Just stand here with me. Once. Please.
He lifted his eyes.
I am here.
No, Charlotte replied. Youre at the window.
***
Mrs Foster was sixty-four and one of those women who could fill a room so others barely had space to breathe. Not cruel. Just precise. Utterly sure of what was right, or in keeping, and what wasnt.
She loved her sonCharlotte never doubted that. But her love was so overwhelming, so consuming, there wasnt room inside it for Charlotte. Not because Mrs Foster was harshsimply because she couldnt imagine anyone else loving her son as much. Or more.
Charlotte tried, that first year. Invited her for dinners. Asked after her recipes. Once gave her a beautiful scarf shed chosen with care. Mrs Foster thanked her, set it aside and muttered about sensitive skin.
In the second year, Charlotte stopped trying for friendship, choosing distance instead. Polite, not confrontational.
By the third, she realised distance didnt workMrs Foster didnt respect boundaries she hadnt set herself.
By the fourth, fifth, sixth Charlotte stopped counting.
***
Peter John! Mrs Fosters voice carried from the lounge. Come here, we need to decide about the paintings.
He put the mug down. Charlotte watched him go, recognising the familiar movement: a slightly hurried step, shoulders tensed, ready to answer a call.
How many times in those ten years had he done just that? On cue. At the phone. Whenever summoned.
She wasnt angry any longer. She was exhausted. Anger needed energy, and hers ran dry long ago.
There was discussion in the lounge. Mrs Fosters voice: Definitely taking thiscame from the Fort Gallery, sound investment… Peters: mumbled, agreeable.
Charlotte finished her tea. Washed her mug. Set it aside.
She slipped into the hall and went to the bedroomnot because she needed to, but because she couldnt bear to stand in the kitchen listening to her life split down a bulleted list.
The bedroom was quiet. Sunlight lay in stripes across the made bed. They hadnt decided about the bed yet. Mrs Foster probably already had.
Charlotte sat on the edge. Ran her hand over the bedspread.
She remembered choosing the bedspread. In the shop, holding two options: one practical, dark, wont show marks, as Mrs Foster might say; the other, pale blue, sky-coloured, wonderfully impractical. She bought the blue. Peter was surprised, but didnt argue.
That blue bedspread was, perhaps, the boldest thing Charlotte had done in all her years here.
***
Charlotte opened the overhead cupboard in the bedroom for no particular reasonsearching for her old handbag to take with her. The bag was there, hidden behind a shoebox.
A battered, ordinary cardboard shoebox. On the lid, in her handwriting: Misc. Ours.
She didnt remember right away what was inside.
She pulled the box out. Set it on the bed.
Opened it.
On top were two cinema stubs, yellowed, edges torn. For a moment, she couldnt remember what film. Then it came to her: Amelie. Their third date. Peter had insisted afterwards he didnt like it. Years later, he admitted hed liedhe loved it, but was embarrassed to say so.
Beneath the tickets, a postcard from Barcelona. The honeymoon. The Sagrada Familia on the front, and Peters message on the back: I love you more than Gaudí loved this cathedral. And he loved it for seventy-three years. Charlotte remembered laughing, asking, Will you love me for seventy-three years? Hed answered, Ill try.
He was forty now. She was thirty-eight. Ten years together. Sixty-three to go.
She held the postcard, thinking.
Next, a tiny Eiffel Tower magnet from a flea market in Parisimmediately banished from the flats fridge by Mrs Foster with a sniff about tacky souvenirs; a plastic wristband with Participant on it from some office do, where theyd both got merry and danced till one; a dried flower, now crumbling, origins hazyshe recalled a meadow, an early morning drive, pulling over just because it was beautiful; three seashells from a Cornish beach; a paper napkin with a tic-tac-toe game theyd played waiting for bad coffee somewhere.
Every bit cheap. Every bit insignificant. Nothing that appeared on the printed list.
Charlotte sat on the blue bedspread, napkin in hand, and something inside hersomething held tight for so longbegan to gently unfurl.
She didnt cry. She wasnt one for tears. She simply sat, breathing, as packing tape zipped in the lounge and Mrs Foster pontificated about crystal glassware.
***
Peter entered the bedroom, probably meaning to collect something. He saw her, knees drawn up, the box open, and stopped.
Whats that?
See for yourself.
He came over, picked up the stubs. Looked. Took the postcard.
Charlotte watched as his expression shifted. Slowly, the way light changes when a cloud passes.
Amelie, he whispered. I said I didnt like it.
I know.
I lied.
I know.
He sat beside her. Fished out the Participant wristband.
End-of-year do at Simons firm. Mustve been 2015.
Fifteen, yes.
You lost a shoe on the dancefloor.
And you found it under the bar.
And said you were Cinderella.
And I said you made a lousy prince.
He smiledthe old smile, not the tired, guilty one from the last two years, but the genuine tilt of his lips from before.
I did, rather, he agreed.
They lapsed into silence. In the lounge, something thumped. Mrs Fosters voice: Careful! The removal mans: Sorry.
Peter, said Charlotte.
Yes?
How did we end up here? Not this room. Just here.
He didnt answer at once. Twirled a shell in his fingers.
I dont know, he said at last.
You do, she replied, without anger.
He put the shell back.
Im a coward, he said quietly.
Charlotte studied his profilethe elbow, the familiar shape of brow and nose.
I know.
It should have been different.
Yes.
I should have done things. So many things.
Yes, Peter.
He turned to her. For the first time that relentless day, he looked at her directly.
I want you to know, he said, I remember all of it. Everything in here. He nodded at the box. I remember buying those tickets. I remember you burning your tongue on chimney cake. I remember the meadow. The shells, Char. You said youd make a photo frame with them, and I said it was naff, and you sulked, and afterwards we went swimming at three in the morning and
Stop, she said.
Why?
Because it hurts.
He fell silent.
It hurts for me too, he whispered.
***
At the bedroom door, Mrs Foster appeared.
Peter, theres something to sign
She noticed the box. Noticed the two of them sitting together. Something in her face shifted, but it was hard to read.
Whats all that?
Our stuff, said Peter.
What stuff? Thats rubbish, throw it out.
Mum.
Just old tickets, scraps
Mum. This time something new crept into his voice. Not a plea. Something else.
She fixed him with a look.
What?
Could you leave, please.
A long pause.
Peter, the chaps are waitingtime is money
Mum. Please. Leave the room.
Charlotte kept her eyes on her hands, folded in her lap. She listened to the silence after his wordsthick, humming silence.
Alright, said Mrs Foster at last, her voice even but changed. Alright. Call me when youve finished.
Footsteps. No door slam, just footsteps fading.
Charlotte exhaled slowly.
Thats the first time youve done it, she said.
Done what?
Asked her to leave.
He was quiet.
In ten years, she added. First time.
I know.
Why now?
I dont know. Maybe , he searched for words, because I saw this box. And realised all the things were arguing over in there, the loungeit’s just stuff. The sofa is just a sofa. The vase is just a vase. But this, nodding at the box, is us. Its all that matters.
Charlotte looked at him for a long time.
Peter, those are lovely words.
I dont want to just say lovely words. I
Wait. Let me finish. Youre good with words, always have been. Explaining how it got to this, how next time will be better, how you understand. But understanding and doing are two different things.
I know.
No, you dont. You think you do, but you dont. If you did, she wouldnt be out there packing up our lives by her checklist. She wrote a list, dyou see? A list of whats ours. She came in, and wrote a list.
Ill stop this.
Right now?
Yes.
Its too late, Charlotte said. That should have happened years back. When she binned my flowers. Or when she rearranged our bedroom while we were away. Or when she told me I cooked wrong. Or
Char.
Or three years back, when she said you didnt need children yet, you needed to get established, and you agreed, and I was thirty-five and I
She halted.
Such a deep, simple silence.
That hurt more than anything, she whispered. More than anything else.
Peter was motionless. On his face, an expression Charlotte had hardly ever seennot guilty, not sheepish. Just open, unguarded.
I know, he said. Back then
Dont explain.
I want to.
Not now.
She closed the box. Smoothed the lid firmly down.
Ill take this, she said. This is what I want.
Alright.
I need nothing else from this flat.
He looked at her.
Where are you going?
To Jennys for now. Ill find a place.
Char.
What?
Dont go.
She stood, tucking the box beneath her arm. It was unexpectedly light for all it contained.
Peter, Im leaving the flat, not you. I cant stay here. I never really wanted to, I just got used to pretending.
You dont have to leave alone.
She paused.
Turned.
What did you say?
He stood up. Hands at his sides, straight, looking straight at her.
I said, you dont have to leave alone. I dont want the sofa. Or any of the crystal or gallery paintings. I want you, and this box, and nothing else.
She looked at him.
Inside, something complicated was happeninga tangle of hope, fear, exhaustion, and something unnamed.
Peter, she said quietly, youre forty. You walk out with me, your mother will
I know.
be furious.
I know, Char.
And youre ready for that?
I dont know if I am. But I know if I dont do it now, Ill lose all respect for myself.
A beat.
Thats a different conversation, she said.
Is it?
Yes. This isnt I want you back. Its I want to start respecting myself. Thats not the same.
Maybe, he said. But perhaps you cant have one without the other.
***
In the lounge, Mrs Foster was directing the movers. When they entered, she turned. Glanced at Charlottes box. At her son.
Finished? Had your little talk?
Mum, Peter said. Enough.
What?
All of this, he gestured at the half-packed lounge, with its boxed lamps and exposed furniture, keep it. Im not contesting.
Mrs Foster stared at him.
What are you talking about?
The sofa, vases, glassware, the LuxuryLiving kitchen. Yours. Do as you wish.
Peter, these are quality items, assets, its
Mum. Im leaving with Charlotte and this box. Thats all I want.
Silence.
Mrs Fosters gaze flicked between them. Her face now held not anger, or resentment, but confusiona woman who always knew the rules confronted by a new game.
Youve lost your mind, she muttered.
Maybe.
Its reckless. Its
Mum. He stepped forward. Stopped next to her. Charlotte saw that he looked at his mother without bitterness or accusation, just directly. I love you. But I cant do this anymore. This isnt living. Its managing a project. And I dont want to be your project.
For a long time, Mrs Foster said nothing. Then,
Youll regret it.
I might, he replied. But I want to regret my own choices, not someone elses.
***
They left the flat just after one. Charlotte carried the box. Peter, a small overnight bag and his work laptop.
In the lift, they said nothing. The mirrored wall showed their reflection: two slightly older people with tired faces, one carrying a box, the other a bag for three days.
They exited into the lobby. The concierge nodded. The automatic doors slid aside. Outside was a normal April day, chilly and grey, the smell of wet leaves and distant rain in the air.
They stopped on the steps.
Where to? asked Peter.
I told you. Jennys.
I cant go to Jennys.
You dont have to.
I dont want to not go with you, Char. I want to go wherever you go.
Charlotte looked out at the street. The small people viewed from upstairs were now full-sized people, ordinary faces, doing ordinary things.
Peter, she said. We dont have a flat.
I know.
We hardly have any money. Its all tied up till the courts done.
I have some saved. Mum didnt know.
Alright. But its temporary. Well have to rent something tiny, and probably ugly.
Okay.
No LuxuryLiving kitchen.
Thank God.
She looked at him. His face was lightened, though for such heavy circumstances lightened was hardly a word.
This isnt the end, she said. Its just starting. Therell be court, your mum, a whole lot more.
I know.
Im not sure well manage.
Im not sure either.
And still?
He paused. Then said, And still.
Charlotte adjusted the box beneath her arm. It was lighta handful of tickets, postcards, a fridge magnet, a wristband, a pressed flower, three seashells, and a napkin scrawled with tic-tac-toe.
All that was left of ten years. And, all that really mattered of those ten years.
In that case, lets go, she said.
And they went. Out onto a regular April street, in a regular grey day, no plan, no certainty, one bag and one shared box between them. Somewhere above and behind them was the flatwalnut floors, waterfall chandelier, and Mrs Foster, no doubt still speaking instructions to the movers.
But they walked forward. Charlotte didnt know if it was the right thing. She wasnt sure of almost anything, except this: she had the box beside her. And him, walking alongside. And April. And the scent in the air that came only in spring, when its still cold, but you know at last the cold wont last forever.
Peter, she said, as they walked.
Yes?
Do you remember collecting seashells?
In Cornwall. You wanted to make a frame.
You said it was naff.
It was naff.
Ill make it anyway.
Alright.
No space to hang it right now.
Well find some, he said.
Charlotte didnt reply. She just walked beside him, box in hand, thinking that well find some wasnt a promise. Just words. But sometimes, just words are all you have. And sometimes, thats enough to take the next step. And another. And another.
Lifes value is not measured by the things we collect, but by the memories and courage we carry forward, one uncertain step at a time.
