Aunties Exit
Youre not going out in that, said Victor, not even turning around. He was standing in the hallway, adjusting his navy silk tiethe one hed bought last month for some ridiculous sum, which Martha had only found out about when she was hunting for the receipt from the fridge. Im serious.
Victor, its your companys anniversary. Ten years. Im your wife.
Exactly. He finally looked at her, and there was something in his gaze that took her breath awaynot from tenderness, but from recognition. Shed seen that look before, a long time ago, and never named it. Youre my wife. Thats why Im asking you to stay home.
Why?
He sighed, the kind of prolonged sigh that meant: Youre asking silly questions and making me waste my time.
Martha. There will be business partners there. Serious people. The press, maybe.
And?
You He paused, searching for a word, then found it. Youre just ordinary. You know? Ordinary. Look at your blue dress with buttons. The women there will look different.
Martha stood in the kitchen doorway, hands holding an old tea towel, faded from years of washing. She looked at her husband and wondered when this had become normalwhen these words had stopped needing explanation.
Is Millie going with you?
He didnt flinch. That was the scariest part. There was no anger, no bewildermentjust a flat, unblinking stare.
Millie is my assistant. Shes organizing the event.
Victor.
Martha, dont start.
I just asked.
You did more than that. He slipped on his jacket with that easy elegance shed once admired. Youre hinting again. As always. Im tired of it.
Martha placed the tea towel over the arm of the chair, slowly. Her hands trembled faintly, and she didnt want him to notice.
Alright, she said. Alright, Victor.
Thats better. He checked the mirror one last time and seemed pleased. The children at home?
Emilys at her friends. Toms at university. Hell be back about eight.
Tell him not to make noise when I get in. Ill be late.
The door closed. Martha stood in the hallway, surrounded by the scent of his colognea smell shed once loved but now only found expensive and alien.
She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She watched the steam spiral from the spout and thought of how, twenty-three years ago, shed married a man who looked at her so differently. Back then hed loved her laugh, called it the sound of a bell. Shed blush at that.
The kettle whistled. Martha poured hot water into her mug, dropped in a tea bag and watched the dark colour bloom.
Ordinary. Hed called her ordinary. An auntie.
She was fifty-two, not a hundred, not eightyjust fifty-two, and she wasnt unattractive. She was no cover girl, but she certainly wasnt the thing hed reduced her to. Shed good strong hairbrown, almost no grey, because she looked after herself. Her hands could do anything: bake a pie, hem curtains, calm a child at three in the morning, sort out Victors paperwork when his fledgling Granite Construction had tangled itself in receipts and hed begged for help.
Whod stayed up all night to assist? Who kept him afloat in those early years?
Ordinary. Imagine.
She didnt cry. The tears were there, pressing against her chest, but they wouldnt come. Maybe because this wasnt the first time. The first was three years ago, when hed first said, You could dress better. Shed felt hurt. Then shed got used to it. Then shed stopped protesting. And now, here she stood, alone in the kitchen, her husband gone off to his companys anniversary with Millietwenty-eight, it seemed, with no pies in the oven, no faded tea towels, and no twenty-three years shared.
Dusk fell. Mays warmth and the scent of lilacs from the garden drifted inside. Martha finished her tea, washed her mug, and went to the wardrobe.
In the far back, behind winter coats, hung a dress. Dark crimson, velvet, bought three years ago in a department store sale, and once tried on at home. Victor had sneered: Where will you wear that? Too bright for your age. Too much. Shed packed it away, meaning to give it to someone. She never did.
Now she took it out. Shook it loose. The velvet felt soft, warm, alive in her hands. Martha held the dress to herself and looked in the mirror.
No, she wasnt just an auntie.
She was distracted by the jangle of keys. Tom. She listened as he took off his shoes, threw his jacket over a chair instead of the hook, and came into the kitchen.
Mum, is there something to eat?
Burgers in the fridge. Warm one up.
Why are you standing there with a dress?
Martha turned. Tom stood in the doorway, tall, his dads jaw but her tired, grey eyes. First year at university hadnt been easyshe saw it in the way he stooped, as if he carried something heavy.
Im trying it on, she said.
Its nice. He clattered in the kitchen drawers. Where are you going to wear it?
She hesitated a moment.
Dont know yet. Maybe nowhere.
Tom came back with a plate, sat down, and looked at her directly. Sometimes, his gaze was too adult.
Dads gone to the party?
Yes.
On his own?
She waited. Hung the dress over the back of the chair.
Tom.
Mum, I know. He said it quietly, not angry, not surprised. Emily knows, too. Weve known for a while.
Now the tears camejust a lump in her throat, not flowing; Martha stood, breathing, looking out into the darkened street.
How?
I saw them. In spring. At the café on High Street. He didnt notice. At first, I thought it was for work. But no. It was clear.
You didnt tell me.
What would you have done?
A good question. What would she have done? Pretend shed seen nothingjust as shed done these last three years, noticing things and convincing herself it was nothing, that she was imagining things. The psychology of a woman over fifty who fears the truth is a story on its own.
I dont know, she admitted.
Me neither. He watched her. Mum. You look beautiful in that dress. Really.
Martha looked at her sonthe boy shed once read to at night, taught to tie his laces, waved off to school with a packed lunch. Nineteen now. Grown up, seeing more than shed have liked.
Thank you, she said.
After supper, Martha phoned Emily. She arrived by ten, bursting in with her pink rucksack and the scent of someone elses perfume.
Mum, whats up? Emily stopped, instantly studying Marthas face with a teenagers accuracy. Did Dad say something?
Sit down, said Martha. We need to talk.
They sat at the kitchen table drinking tea as Martha explained. Not everything, but enoughabout Victors words, the dress, her suspicions about Millie, and by the look on her childrens faces, she wasnt wrong.
Emily bit her lower lip, her habit when upset or trying not to cry.
He called you ordinary? she repeated when Martha finished.
Yes.
Thats thats not fair.
Not fair, Martha agreed.
Mum, will you go out? Anywhere? At all?
Martha glanced at the dress, still on the chair.
I dont know yet.
That night, Martha slept poorly. She lay on her side of the wide bed and thoughtabout the years, her youth given to this home, these children, this man. Shed quit her job after Toms birthshed worked in a dressmakers shop, the best in the city centre, under Mrs. Thornton, who had always said Martha was talented. Then Victor had said, You dont need to workIll provide, and shed believed him. Why not? Back then he was providing, and shed thought, this is it: a good life.
A good life. She turned and looked at the dark ceiling.
What could she do now? Sew. Cook. Run a house. Sit at home and be invisible. That last part shed mastered best of all.
No. No, she wouldnt think like that. She could sew, and that was something. She had her hands, her mind, twenty years of experienceeven if unofficial, even if fractured, because shed kept sewing for herself, the children, for Mrs. Baker from next door, whod always said Marthas dresses were better than anything in the shops.
Her thoughts went in circles. Shed drift off, then wake again. In the early hours, Victor came backshe heard the front door, the water in the bathroom, then him lying down beside her in silence, breathing evenly after a few minutes.
Martha lay awake a long time.
He left early the next morning, skipping breakfast.
Ill be busy all week, dont wait up for tea.
Door. Silence.
Martha poured coffee and sat by the window. It was drizzling; the lilacs in the garden looked darker, the leaves glossy with rain. She drank her coffee thoughtfully, almost coldlyand realised that perhaps when pain reached a certain level, it became something else; hard and clear.
The anniversary banquet was on Friday. It was Tuesday.
Three days.
Martha picked up her phone and texted her old friend Jane. Jane Whitworth had been their bookkeeper for years; shed left for another firm, but the two still met up for coffee now and then. Jane was sharp and practicala no-nonsense, fifty-year-old, who saw the world clearly.
Jane, can we meet today?
Came the answer promptly: Of course. Three oclock at Café Willow?
Agreed.
They sat in a small café just two blocks from home. Jane arrived in her usual neat grey jacket, short hair, watchful gaze. She listened without interruption, only raising an eyebrow at the word ordinary.
So he actually called you that? Jane asked.
He did.
And about Milliedid you suspect?
Ive suspected for a while. Tom confirmed it last night.
Jane fingered her cup thoughtfully. Martha. Im going to tell you something, and dont be angry.
Go on.
I knewback when I still worked at Granite. Two years ago. I saw them a few times. I didnt say anything, thoughtnone of my business, let them sort it out. Now I see I was wrong. Im sorry.
Martha paused.
Its alright, Jane. It doesnt matter now.
What will you do?
Martha looked up at her friend.
Im going to that banquet.
Jane was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.
With the children?
With the children.
You know itll be messy.
I know.
You know hell be furious?
I do.
Jane fell silent again.
Alright. Tell me: what do you need?
Martha managed her first smile in days.
I need someone to help with my hair. I cant do it on my own.
On Thursday night, Emily sat beside her at the dressing table, gently brushing Marthas hairwith the soft care children only show when things really matter. Her hair was thick, shoulder-length, lightly touched up the night before to even the colour after the winter.
Mum, arent you scared? Emily asked.
A little.
Dad will go mad.
Probably.
What will you say?
Nothing. Martha watched her reflection. Ill just walk in.
Emily pinned up the last section, stepped back, and nodded.
Beautiful, she said. Mum, youre really beautiful. You just forgot.
Martha turned and hugged her tightly, properly. Emily, surprised, hugged back.
The crimson dress lay on the bed, velvet and soft. Martha put it on deliberately, zipped it up at the backEmily helping. She looked in the mirror.
There was a woman she barely recognised. Nonot unfamiliar, just long overlooked. The one whod existed before she started agreeing with everything.
She did her own make-up. Not much, just enough: a touch of mascara, her favourite rose-coral lipstick shed abandoned years ago, earrings of black onyxa gift from her mother.
Mum, Tom called from the hallway. Taxis on the way.
Coming.
She took her little black handbagold, but good. Put on her coat. Her hands still shook slightly. She saw it and forced herself to slow down. Calm. Just calm.
Lets go, she said.
The Northern Star Hotel was a good placenot the citys best, but reputable. Victor had picked it for the prestige: grand hall, high ceilings, their own caterers. Martha had been there only once, eight years ago for someones wedding. She remembered the marble floor, the shining chandelier above the stairs.
The taxi pulled up at the entrance. Martha got out first. She paused on the steps, breathing in the evening airstill warm, almost summery, scented with maple blossom.
Mum, Tom murmured, were with you.
I know. She squeezed Emilys hand. Come on.
A few guests were mingling in the lobby, late arrivals hurrying upstairs with named badges. Martha walked steadily. A young, suited man intercepted them.
Good evening, are you here for Granite Constructions event?
Yes, Martha answered. Im Victor Allens wife. These are our children.
He hesitated a moment but nodded.
Please, second floor, Amber Hall.
Amber Hall was already full: well-dressed people holding flutes of sparkling wine, perfumed air, laughter at the bar, soft background music. Martha stopped at the door and sensed a few glances sliding her way. She was an outsider. She knew it. These people knew Victor Allens lifestyle of late years; some might even know about Millie. None knew the wife.
See Dad? Emily whispered.
Not yet. Martha scanned the room. Well find him.
Victor was across the far side, by a table of snacks, deep in conversation with two men in dark suits. Martha recognised oneGeorge Meredith, an old partner, stout, white-haired, always had a heavy gaze. Victor respectedor fearedhim; Martha was never sure which.
By Victors side stood Millie.
Martha saw her for the first timethough shed imagined her. Young, tall, in a fitted blue dress, flawless hair. Beautiful. Martha noted it with clinical calm, like noting the weather. Beautiful girl. Twenty-eight. Her hand rested on Victors arm with easy, practiced confidence.
Theres Dad, Emily said, her voice surprisingly steady. With that lady in blue.
Martha moved forward.
She crossed the room slowly. Some people turned, some stepped aside. She didnt look around, she walked straight for the snack tableand the man beside it.
Victor saw her when she was still three yards away; his face changed in a flashlips parted, then tightened, eyes gone cold.
Martha, he said softly. What are you doing here?
I came to your company anniversary, she replied, just as softly, just as level. Ten years. Its important.
George Meredith looked at her, then at Victor, then back at her.
Martha Allen? he said, with warm surprise. Goodness, its been years. You look wonderful.
Good evening, George, she replied, smiling. So do you.
Millie quietly took a half-step back, slipping her hand from Victors arm.
Emily, standing just behind Martha, now took a step forward. Fifteen, straight-backed, dark-eyedshe looked at Millie with pure, unfiltered attention, that honesty adults dislike simply because its true.
Dad, Emily said, neither loud nor soft, but clear enough for people nearby to hear. Why were you just hugging her? Shes not Mum.
Around them, the air shiftedlike someone had turned the music down a notch. The two men beside George exchanged glances. A pearl-necklaced woman at the next table turned her head.
Victor went pale, the tan on his face doing little to disguise it.
Emily, he began. Its for work, Ill explain
Dad, Im not a child, she said with the same quiet voice. Tom and I have known for a while.
Tom stood beside his sister, arms by his sides, silent, just looking at his father.
George coughed. Set his glass on the table.
Victor, he said, in a tone holding everythingdisapproval, pause, and what would follow. You seem to have family business to attend. Well talk later.
He nodded at Martha with old-fashioned courtesy, turned away and walked to join other guests. His companions followed.
Millie muttered, Id better go check on catering.
She slipped away into the crowd.
Victor and Martha were left alone, apart from the children. He looked at her with an expression shed used to mistake for tiredness; now she saw it was something elsenot anger, not annoyance, but confusion. He didnt know what to do.
Martha, he finally said, hoarse. Do you realise what youve done?
I came to your companys anniversary, she repeated. Ten years. An important date.
She took a glass from a nearby traychampagne, bubbles streaming steadily.
You couldve stayed at home, he said, in a lower voice. Like I asked.
I could have, Martha agreed. But I didnt.
She met his gaze, and at that moment something settled in hera sense not of anger or triumph, but of clarity. She looked at this man: expensive suit, cufflinks, tiethe man shed cooked for, laundered shirts for, raised children with, believed in for twenty-three years. And thought: so much wasted time.
Ill drink to your company, she said. Then Ill go. The children are tired.
She turned to Tom and Emily.
Lets go, she said quietly.
As they left, Martha felt the eyes on herstrange eyes, some curious, some sympathetic, some critical. It didnt matter. Noshe felt the pain, but not more than what already hurt.
At the door, Tom took her arm.
You were brave, he said.
I just came, she answered.
You came, he agreed. Thats what matters.
At home, she carefully took off the dress, hung it up, washed, and sleptslept deeply, with none of the anxious half-wakefulness that had become her norm.
What happened next unfolded slowly but surely, as inevitably as spring thaw. Not right away, but in the two weeks that followed the banquet. Martha pieced it togetherfrom Jane, who heard things from mutual friends, and from Emily, who glimpsed a message on her fathers phone while it charged in the kitchen.
George Meredith declined to sign the new building contract. Not abruptly, but with the reticent tact of experienced men. He simply called after the banquet and said, Not readyneeds more thought. Meredith, from the old school, cared about family in concrete terms, and the scene in Amber Hall killed his respect for Victor Allen. Not because Victor had a mistresspeople dobut because hed paraded her at an official event in place of his wife. That was disrespect to the home, to order. Meredith wouldnt have that.
Others followed. Business reputations take years to build, seconds to break. Problems arose. Granites board started asking awkward questionsabout management, about recent shortcuts in contracts. It was about more than the dress or Millie now; sometimes one crack takes the rest with it.
Millie left Granite three weeks after the banquetquietly, without scandal, a resignation letter and away. Victor wandered for days looking lost, like someone had pulled the rug beneath him.
One evening, he came home and sat at the table. Martha set soup in front of him and left the room. He sat a long time, sighing.
That evening, he called her in.
Martha. We need to talk.
We do, she agreed. But first, tell medo you want to talk or be listened to?
He didnt get the difference at first; then, maybe, he did. He lowered his gaze.
Im sorry, he said.
Martha sat opposite him, her hands quiet in her lap. No tremble. She looked at her husband and thought: too late. Not out of anger, but because forgiveness needs something aliveand whatever that was, between them, had long dried up, somewhere between the years and the word ordinary.
Alright, she said. I hear you.
But it wasnt forgiveness. He knew that.
She brought up divorce herself a month later. Calmly, backed by a solicitor Jane helped her find. The flat was split. The children stayed with Martha, the only thing Victor didnt dispute.
While the divorce was underway, Martha opened a dressmakers shopa little two-room place down the road. She weighed up her optionsa bakery would have been simpler, but her hands remembered needle and fabric better than anything. Mrs. Thornton, now retired, answered her call immediately: Martha, you should have done this a decade ago.
It was niceand a little bitter. Ten years ago, she hadnt had the choice. Now she did.
The first months were hard. Money was tight, customers few. She worked from morning till night, coming home with an aching back and chalk under her nails. Emily sometimes dropped in after school, did her homework in a corner, ate sandwiches, and asked questions about fabric. She had an unexpected eye for colour, Martha noticed, storing the thought away for another day.
Tom was fighting his own battles. Victor rang sometimes, suggesting meet-ups. Tom went, then came back quiet. One evening, he told Martha:
He wants me to understand him.
And do you? she asked.
I dont know how to understand someone whos ashamed of his own wife. Tom stared out the window. Mum, youve never been youre normal. Always.
Thank you, son.
I mean it.
He paused.
Im having trouble with Pollymy girlfriend, he said suddenly. After all this she says shes not sure what kind of father Ill be. Says shes afraid of repeating it.
Thats not your fault, Tom.
I know. But she doesnt.
Martha thought carefully.
Give her time. Let her see. Words wont helpjust time.
He nodded, uncertain. That story with Polly dragged on, and Martha watched with gentle worry, but kept her distance. Children need their own space to find their own answers. Shed learnt that late, but she had learnt it.
The shop slowly grew. After a year, regular clients began to appear. After a year and a half, the first wedding dress orders camethe most difficult, but the best paid. Martha took on an assistant, a young woman named Lucynothing to do with Millie, but with skilful hands and a character that could fill a story of its own. They got on. Worked mostly in companionable quietunderstood each other in the flick of hands over fabric.
Jane dropped in sometimes; theyd have tea among paper patterns and spools, chatting about what women after fifty chat about: health, children, what really mattered. Once, Jane said:
Know what I like about you? You dont get angry.
I dosometimes, Martha admitted.
Noyou get cross. Its different. Anger destroys. Crossness passes.
Martha thought about it, and agreed.
By seventeen, Emily had settled decisively on wanting to study design. She didnt shout about it, didnt demandshe simply came one day with a folder of drawings for her mum to see. Martha looked at them for a long time. There was life in themrough, with mistakes, but vision.
Its yours, said Martha.
You dont mind?
No. Its yours, and you know it better than I do.
Emily smiled, quietly but warmly.
Mum. Youve changed.
Changed?
You used to ask: What would Dad say? What would people think? You dont any more.
Martha looked at her daughter.
I learnt late, she said.
Not too late. Emily stacked her drawings. Youre alright.
It was the best thing Martha had heard in years. Better than praise, better than compliments. Just youre alright from someone who sees you truly.
She saw Victor rarely. Sometimes he came for the children or dropped off stuff theyd forgotten. He looked differentsometimes still holding it together, sometimes not. She heard by word of mouth that Granite had had a board shakeup, and he was now just a mid-level managersomething like contracts manager. It was a fall, no doubt. But Martha didnt think about it long. She had her own life.
The third summer since the divorce was a good onewarm and long. The shop moved to larger premises, with three seamstresses. Martha would sit some evenings out on the balcony of her new flatone shed rented herself, away from the family flat, a difficult but necessary stepdrinking tea, watching the sunset. Not every night, mostly she worked or did paperwork. But when she just sat quietly, she noticed something: she was content. Not storybook happy, but quietly content. Tired, but peaceful.
That autumn, he came.
She saw him through the shop window, standing uncertainly at the door. He looked oldernot just older, but aged, as men do when their confidence leaves them. Shoulders slumped; his suit good, but a little dated.
She went to him.
Victor, she said. Come in.
They sat at the small meeting table shed set up for client consultations. Table, two chairs, a vase of dried flowers. She made tea, set him a mug.
How are you? he asked.
Well, she replied. Busy. Work is going well.
Ive heard. He looked at her. Youve done well.
She said nothing. Just cupped her tea in both hands.
Martha. He hesitated. Ive been thinking
Thinking, she repeatedno question, just echo.
I was wrong. About a lot. I see it now.
Victor
No, let me say it. Youyou were a good wife. You kept the house. Raised the kids. I never noticed. Or I did, but I thoughtits how things are. How they should be. I was wrong.
Martha looked at him: this middle-aged, tired man, in whom she saw the Victor shed married, the Victor whod called her ordinary, and the Victor who sat silent at home after Millies departure. All the same man. She understood.
I hear you, she said.
I thought He paused. No, its silly.
Say it.
I wonderedmaybemaybe we could not start over, but see each other? Talk? Im on my own now, Martha. Completely alone.
Silence.
Martha placed her mug tidily. Looked out the window: grey autumn sky, leaves on the pavement, an old bicycle by a lamp-post. Then she turned to him.
Victor, she said. Im not angry with you. Honestly. Thats behind me. Im sad about the yearsnot about you, but the years, that they were as they were, not different. Thats all.
Martha
Let me finish, she said gently, but firmly. Youre not alone. You have the children. They come to you. You know that. They havent stopped being your children. But I cant be what you came for. I dont know what you wanta conversation, the comfort of habit, not to be alonewhatever it is, I cant be that.
Why?
She pausednot to give a wounding answer, but a truthful one.
Because Ive finally become myself, she said, not boastful, just matter-of-fact. And it took too much effort. I wont go back.
He was quiet a long time, staring at his untasted tea. Then, slowly, he nodded.
I see.
I know you do.
The children he started.
Youre their father, said Martha. Thats up to you now, not me. Go to them. Speak to them. Toms struggled, but hes openif youre real with him.
Victor stood. He straightened his jacket, a habitual gesture shed known half her life.
That dress suits you, he said suddenly.
She glanced down. She was wearing a different dress todaynot the crimson, but a navy one with a plain collar. Shed made it herself, that winter.
Thank you, said Martha.
He left. She heard the door to the shop open and close. Then silence.
Martha sat another few minutes. It was quiet in the consultation room, slightly cool, the dried flowers, mugs of cold tea, her sketches on the tables edge.
Then she got up, rinsed her cup, returned to her table, picked up a pencil and bent over her sketch.
The door cracked open. Lucy poked her head in.
Mrs. Allen, your next clients here.
Yes, said Martha. Ask her to wait a moment.
Lucy nodded, closing the door behind her.
**
And so Martha carried on, steady and quiet. She learned that the opinion of others, even those you love, should never dull the colour of your own life. Sometimes it takes courage not to fight, but simply to arrive, to be seenand in that, you find again who you really are.
