A Copy of a Wife
Are you sure you wont feel awkward? Sarah asked, standing at the doorway with a bag slung over her shoulder and a confused, almost lost smileone Emily had never seen on her before.
I know its not ideal, I really do. I understand.
Sarah, stop it. Just come in, Emily replied, stepping aside and holding the door for her. The spare rooms ready. Tom doesnt mind. Its really fine.
Tom doesnt mind, Sarah echoed, something in her tone puzzlingno irony, just quiet surprise, as though even the word doesnt mind carried unexpected weight.
He hardly ever minds, Emily called over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen. Shoes off. Slippers are by the radiator.
Thats how it began.
Emily was fifty-two, Sarahher friend since universityfifty-one. Over the last five years, their contact had grown patchy, an occasional call, a cup of coffee in the city centre, but Emily believed she knew Sarah well enough to open her home to her, no hesitations. Sarah had just divorced. Her rental was up. Paperwork for her new place dragged on. She needed a couple of weeksthree at the mosta month if it came to it. A breathing space. Somewhere to get back on her feet.
They lived in Cheltenhambig enough to be a town, not so big it felt anonymous, the kind of place where your local shopkeeper recognises you by voice. Emilys flat was three bedrooms, third floor, windows looking out onto a quiet street. Her husband Tom worked for a construction firm, respectable position but never on the front page. Emily taught economics in the technical college. Twenty-three years together. Their daughter had moved away for work long ago. The flat had that spacious, lived-in feeling of a home where everythings in its place and nothing really ever changes.
Sarah arrived with a single, large suitcase and a box. She unpacked quietly, almost invisibly. For the first three days, Emily barely noticed her presenceSarah went out early, came home late, barely touched dinner, barely spoke. The first evening, Tom asked in passing:
How long?
A month, Emily replied.
A month, he echoed, his tone a perfect replica of Sarahs at the door.
Emily ignored it. She wasnt one to overthink things. Or so she liked to imagine.
The first signal came in the second week. One morning, Emily went into the bathroom and found her perfumethe bottle of Gardenia shed been buying for three years at the pharmacy round the corner from Bath Roadwasnt on the usual shelf, but sitting on the edge of the sink. She told herself shed moved it, put it back and forgot.
Week three, she noticed something new.
They were having breakfast together for once, all three. Emily always made coffee her way: a bit of cold water first, then hot but never boiling, otherwise the coffee goes bitter. Tom knew this, always praised it. That morning, Sarah made the coffeeEmily was on the phone. Tom tasted it and nodded.
Oh. Very good.
I watched Emily, Sarah said. She always does it this way.
Emily gave her a look. Sarah smiled softly, innocently. Emily forced herself to mirror it.
But something snagged, deep inside, unspoken, unexplained.
The worry dissolved into a busy weekdeadlines, lesson plans, piles of marking. Emily came home each night to a tidy, quiet flat. Sarah had washed something, rearranged a little. Tom adjusted faster than Emily expected.
She cooked today, he told Emily that Thursday, as if announcing good news. Bean soup. Very nice.
I make bean soup, Emily noted.
I know. It tasted similar.
She didnt ask whose was better. He didnt say.
Sarah worked remotely, something to do with admin; Emily never dug for details. Most days, Sarah sat in the spare room with her laptop, emerging at lunch to cook, then changing out of loungewear to something more presentable by evening. Emily noticedwhile she herself drifted into soft joggers and a faded jumper, Sarah looked fresh, sharper, like she belonged more than Emily did in her own home.
One night, Tom ended up watching TV next to Sarah. Emily was marking in the bedroom. She could hear their conversation through the wall, chatty, no awkward pauses. Tom telling stories, Sarah laughinga laugh that sounded like Emilys, just softer. Emily clocked it and dismissed the thought. Laughs sound alike. Thats all.
But a few days later, the same thought returnedshe couldnt shake it.
Sarah started wearing her hair differently. Shed always had a neat bob, stylish and crisp. Now she was growing it out, fussing it back in a loose wave, just the way Emily did. Emily only realised, staring at the hall mirror one evening, that their reflections had become uncannily similar. Like looking at an old family photo next to a new one, replaying the same scene.
It suits you, Emily said.
Really? I thought Id try it. Saw it on you and fancied something a bit different.
Once again: on youthat gentle, almost invisible copycatting. Emily smiled and walked away. Inside, she couldnt summon the warmth.
That weekend, Emily rang her daughter.
How are things, Mum?
Fine. Weve got Sarah staying, you remember I told you?
Oh, still? I thought shed be settled by now.
Still here. Her paperworks delayed.
Right. Hows Dad?
All right. He and Sarah get on well.
A pause.
That good or bad?
Its good, Emily replied. It’s good.
After the call, Emily lingered by the window, tea cooling in her hands, pondering the phrase get on well. Harmless words, but shed spoken them as if probing uncertain ground beneath her feet.
Week five, Sarah asked for Emilys apple and cinnamon pie recipe.
The one from last Sunday, it was lovely.
I dont have it written down. I just go by feel.
Can you show me? Ill try to get it right.
Emily explained, step by step. Sarah typed notes into her phone. Three days later, she baked one. Tom ate it with approval, declared it very goodand Emily couldnt tell if that meant the pie, or if hed stopped noticing who baked it altogether.
That evening, Emily went for her coat in the hallway and found a nearly identical one hanging by hers. Pale grey, belted, just like her own. Sarah must have bought it. Emily hung her coat next to it and found herself staringtwo grey coats, side by side.
She didnt ask. Not because she was afraid of the answer. But because she didnt know how to ask without sounding foolish.
Work grew stressful; the technical college was due an inspection. Emily spent evenings over spreadsheets. Tom, more and more often, spent his evenings in the lounge. So did Sarah. Through the closed bedroom door, Emily caught snatches of their conversation. Sometimes she joined themthe chat never stopped, but she sensed she was included as an afterthought, the third to their two.
One night, after Sarah had gone to bed, Emily ventured to Tom:
Tom, dont you think sheswellcopying me?
He looked genuinely baffled. Who? Sarah?
Yes. Hair, coat, recipes, perfume.
Dont friends always pick things up from each other? Seems normal.
Suppose so, Emily conceded, needing it to be over.
He was already scrolling his phone. The matter closed gently, unchallenged.
Lying in the dark, Emily replayed his words. Girls always pick things up from each other. Normal. Maybe shed done the same, once, to Sarah. Its normal. She repeated the word to herself, as if willing it to stick. But it wouldnt.
For the next week, she watched intentionally. She saw what she’d missed before: Sarah, in conversation with Tom, would tilt her head rightjust the way Emily did when listening closely. Sarah mimicked her phrasing, drew out exactly just as she did. Sarah drank tea without sugar now, though Emily remembered shed always taken two lumps. Now, none.
It stopped being coincidence, became something else.
Emily rang her colleague, Lauraa friend she sometimes trusted with things beyond work.
Laura, have you ever felt someone close to you, really, I dont know, becoming you?
How do you mean?
Mannerisms. Habits. Even style. Almost like, bit by bit, they take your life?
Thats quiet envy, Laura replied without hesitation. Read about it once. A person wants your life but cant take it outright. So they take it in pieces.
Emily said nothing.
Has someone done that to you? Laura pressed.
Im not sure, Emily said. But she was sure now.
Emily didnt actually initiate the conversation with Sarah in the end. It just happened, one evening, alone in the kitchen over mugs of tea:
You have it all together, Em. I look at you and wonder how you do itflat, husband, work. Its all there. Sorted.
Took me twenty years to get it sorted, Emily replied.
I see that. It shows. You can feel it. Tom, too
She broke off.
What about Tom? asked Emily.
He appreciates you. Hes told me things are good between you, you understand each other.
Emily put her mug down.
You talk about me to Tom?
Sometimes. Nothing much. Hes always saying nice things.
Thats nice, Emily said. But she felt anything but.
She couldnt say why. Her husband complimenting her to a friendthere was nothing wrong there. Nothing. And yet, something was off. She knew it. That old womans intuition she liked to make fun of was now working overtime, finding the right words only too late.
By the end of six weeks, Sarah asked to borrow her perfumeGardenia.
Ive run out, and wont make it to the shops tonight. Just once or twice, if thats all right?
Of course, said Emily.
That evening, she opened the bottle and saw less than a third left. She remembered half a bottle last week.
She locked it away in the bathroom cabinet with a tiny padlock she hadnt used in years. Then stood at her reflection and thought: Im actually hiding my own perfume from my friend. What am I becoming?
But she didnt unlock the bottle.
Tom came home in a chipper mood, a frequency reserved now, it seemed, for evenings when Sarah was in. He brought a cake. No occasion. Just because.
Lets treat ourselves, he smiled.
Sarah was delightedin the precise way Emily would have been if Tom brought home cake. Not more, not less. Just right. Emily stood at the kitchen door and watched. Sarah smiled right, praised right, inclined her head just so, laughed in time, responded just as she would have: only more keenly, more attentively, with no dull weariness from twenty-three years of routine.
And Tom noticed. Maybe not meaning to, but he noticed.
Emily joined them, ate a slice. It was a good cake. The conversation was about nothing important, and it all seemed normal. But inside, she felt an odd, persistent sensation, like coming home to find all your things in place, but not quite where you left them. Not moved, just nudged a centimetre along.
The work trip came out of nowhere. The college sent her for a four-day course in Gloucester, not far, but a train ride away. The head asked her on Friday, she said yes on Monday. The thought did cross her mind: leaving Tom alone with Sarah for four days. But she squashed it down. Adults. Nothing would happen. She was overthinking.
Before she left they spoke in the kitchen.
Ill be back Friday night, Emily told Tom. Sarah knows her way around dinner. Shes got the knack.
Well manage, he promised. Dont worry.
Im not worried, Emily said.
She watched him closely. He looked at ease, casual. Twenty-three years and she knew every line on his face; tonight he looked relaxed, almost unburdened. Like someone with no worries.
She left Wednesday morning. Read course notes on the train, had coffee from a polystyrene cup, watched the countryside blur by. The course was duller than expected, but useful. That evening, she rang Tom: the conversation was brief.
Hows everything?
All right. Weve eaten. Everythings fine.
Sarah in?
Yes, in her room.
All right. Night, then.
Night.
Nothing odd. She slept in a lonely hotel bed, oddly restless, her thoughts tumblingabout work, about her daughter, about that cracked mug that needed replacing. Then about Sarah. Two grey coats. The perfume.
Thursday afternoon, her head of department phoned.
Emily, bit of a mix-up here. Tomorrows just recap you already know. No point staying. Head home tonight if you wantyou wont miss anything. Ill talk to the organisers.
She got home half nine that evening. The train was early, taxi got her back in no time.
She let herself in, not ringingTom might have been in bed.
He wasnt.
In the lounge, candlelight flickeredjust two, on the little table by the sofa. On the table: plates, glasses, small bowls of something. The air smelt of food. And perfumeGardenia. Emily had locked hers, so Sarah must have bought a bottle.
Tom sat on the sofa. Sarah was next to him, in a blue dress Emily had never seen, but in the exact style she wore, and the exact shade she would have chosen. Her hair was styled in that familiar wave. Her hands, folded in her lap. They were talking. When Emily opened the door, they both looked up.
Three seconds silence.
Youre home early, Tom offered.
Yes, I can see, Emily replied.
She set her bag down, hung up her coat slowly, carefully, her hands obedient so long as she monitored their every move.
Emily, its just dinner, said Sarah gently. Weve eaten, and
I see that, Emily said. Candlelit dinner.
Another silence.
Romantic, really, Emily added, the word coming out smooth, neutralalmost amused, though she wasnt.
Tom stood up.
Youre making this
Dont tell me what Im making, Tom, she said softly.
He fell silent. Sarah watched the tablecloth.
Emily went to the kitchen, poured herself some water, stared at the potted geranium on the windowsillnever missed a Wednesday watering, but shed been away this week. The soil was moist. Sarah must have watered it.
She returned to the lounge.
Sarah, she said, do you think you might find somewhere else to stay tomorrow?
Sarah raised her head.
Emily, I know how this must look she began.
Will you find somewhere tomorrow? Emily repeated. Calm. No raised voice. Just, again.
Yes, Sarah said quietly. I will.
Good.
Emily picked up her bag and went to her bedroom, closing the doornot locking it, just closing it. She lay on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. She heard gentle clinks, the clearing of dishes, the faintest creak of the spare-room door.
Tom didnt come to bed that night. She heard him settle on the lounge sofa. That, she thought, said it all.
She was up first the next day. Made coffee, drank it slow at the window. The city waking up. Friday. A woman with a dog passed below. Pigeons perched on the opposite windowsill. An ordinary morning.
At eight, Tom entered as she was rinsing her mug.
We need to talk, he began.
Yes, Emily agreed.
Emily, theres nothing going on between me and Sarah.
Maybe not.
Not maybe. Theres nothing.
Tom, she said, staring out the window. You dont get what Im saying. It isnt about whats happened or hasnt. Its what I saw last night, and all through this last month and a half.
What did you see?
She turned.
I saw someone move into my home whos slowly become me. My hair, my perfume, my recipes, my coat, my gestures. And you, my husband, noticingand liking it. Because its me, but not tired. Not routine. Not after twenty-three years.
He said nothing.
Thats not a question, Emily added. Just what I saw.
Youre overreacting, he said, after a long pause.
Maybe, she allowed. But Im off to work. When Im back, I dont want to see her things in the spare room.
Emily
And by the wayblind trust thats probably my weakness. I trusted. Both of you.
She left, the door shutting with a barely audible click.
She taught two classes. Marked attendance. Drank tea with Laura in the staff room, nodding in the right places though she barely heard a word. Lauras glance said everythingno question needed.
Emily got home at three-thirty. The spare room was immaculate. No sign Sarah had ever been there, save for a little white plastic comb on the bathroom shelf. She picked it up by its tip and dropped it in the bin.
Tom was sitting in the lounge, staring at his phone. He looked up as she entered.
Shes gone.
I see.
What happens now?
She hung up her coat, moved into the kitchen, busying herself at the hobshe didnt need to cook, she just needed movement.
Emily, Tom came to the doorway. Its been twenty-three years. You cant just He trailed off.
Yes, I can, she cut in. Give me space. Time to think.
How long?
I dont know. A few days.
A few days became a week. They lived in the same flat as strangers brought together by a roof and habit. Polite. No shouting. Ate meals apart. Slept in separate beds. Tom tried to talk, but Emily replied only in short answersnot out of anger, but because she wasnt ready to say everything. The words inside were stacked together, and she feared that, if she started, she could never take them back.
She thought a lot that week. About the beginning, about letting Sarah in without second thoughtbecause thats what friends did, because thats normal. About the niggle shed buried. About quiet envytaking anothers life, bit by bit, through perfume, through pie, through gesture.
But the pain wasnt about Sarah. Not really. It was Tom.
He could have not noticed. He could have noticed and told Emily. He could have ignored the improved copyEmilys own phrase. But he didnt. He brought home cake. Sat and laughed with Sarah. Hosted a candlelit dinner when his wife was away. Maybe he didnt mean harm, maybe he just hadnt thought.
Early the next week, Emily called her daughter.
Mum, whats wrong?
Why?
You sound different.
I think your dad and I might separate, Emily said, the first time out loud.
A long silence.
Because of Sarah?
Not exactly. Maybe she just showed what was already there.
What was?
I cant explain. We both got used to not seeing each other. Then she came, became mebut fresher, more alertand he liked it.
Mum
Dont. Im not upset, Im just explaining.
Will you be on your own?
For now, yes. Thats all right.
She said the word, and this time it settledall rightbecause it was her choice.
The proper talk with Tom came Sunday night.
I think we should live apart for a time. I need space. I need air, to work out who I am without you, without this flat. Without everything.
Is this final?
I dont know. But those candlesthat dinnerit wasnt really about that. It was everything before. And I saw it, said its fine, but it wasnt. Not really.
I dont know what you think I did, he said.
Nothing in particular. You just stopped seeing me. Would you have noticed if a stranger became your wife right in front of you? If youd been watching me, you would have.
No answer. There was none to give.
Ill probably sell the flat. Or buy your halflater. Well work it out.
Where will you go?
Ill rent. Here or elsewhere. Ill see.
Starting over at fifty-two he muttered, pity in his voicefor her, himself, she couldnt say.
Yes. At fifty-two. Start again at any age. Some do it far later.
She rose, passing the bathroom, unlocking the cabinet. She held the Gardenia, paused. Then, in the hall, she placed it gently in the rubbish. Not thrown away, set down. Something she didnt need anymore.
She put the kettle on.
She worked methodically in the days that followed. Rang the estate agent about the flat. Consulted a solicitor. Met Laura for tea. Laura didnt fuss, just said, yes, when needed, and Emily knew she understood.
Do you blame her? Laura asked.
Sarah? Emily paused. Not really. I blame myself for not seeing what was plain. Calling it fine when it wasnt.
Youre not to blame for trusting.
Blind trustmy own words about me.
Just trust. Not blind, Laura offered.
Maybe.
And Tom?
With Tom theres anger. Muted, though. Itll pass.
What next?
Ill rent a flat. Change my hair. Buy a different perfume. She smiled, small, forced. Probably not Gardenia.
Sounds wise.
And Ill try to find what I actually like. Whats mine, not just habit.
Thatll take time.
I know. Ive got time.
Laura poured more tea. Outside, a soft autumn drizzle, not yet bitterly cold, just grey. Emily watched it; only weeks ago shed have told you exactly what her life looked like: the flat, Tom, work, routine, recipes, her perfume bottle in its place. Now she saw how unreliable in its place could be.
But she didnt feel what she thought she shouldno emptiness, no loss of support. Something else. A strange freedom: like taking off an old coat and realising, after so long, just how much it had pinched at the shoulders.
You know, Laura, she said, for the first time in years, I dont know what comes next. And its bearable.
Bearable, Laura echoed with a smile. Good word.
Another week passed. Emily found a small one-bedroom flat in a different part of Cheltenham, bright, with a view over the park. Expensive, but manageable. She went for the viewing, wandered the empty rooms, felt the floorboards creak just a touch underfoot, and thought: I could make a life here.
Ill take it, she told the landlady, an elderly woman with tired eyes.
For long?
Dont know. For the year, at least.
Back at home, Emily quietly started packing. Not dramatically, not quickly. Just separating hers from not-hers: books, crockery, clothes. Some things she binned. She found a blouse she hadnt worn in three years but kept just in case. Looked at it, then placed it in the donation pile.
She gave away the pale grey coat as well. Bought another, navy blue, different cut. In the mirror, she saw no echo of Sarah. Good.
She hadnt heard from Sarah, nor did she reach out. One message from Sarah: Emily, I know I hurt you. Im sorry, if you ever can forgive me. Emily read it, put her phone aside, and didnt replynot out of anger, simply not ready. Or not wanting to. She didnt know the difference yet.
Tom still lived in the old flat. Their interactions were polite, necessary. There was bitterness there, but also relief. She saw he didnt know how to fix what was brokenand maybe never realised what exactly hed lost.
The Friday before her move, Emily went perfume shopping. Lingered at the counter, sniffing tester after tester. The salesgirl, cheerful, suggested this or that. Emily declined, no explanations. Then she found oneSilver Cedar. The smell was not floral, but woody, with a gentle, glowing warmth. Nothing like what shed worn for years. She bought it, precisely for that reason.
Lovely choice, the girl said.
Well see, Emily replied.
The move took half a day. Laura helped with boxes. Tom also offered his help, and Emily didnt refuse. They worked quietly. The boxes arrived. In the new flather flatEmily put things wherever she liked, made her own order.
That evening, alone, she opened Silver Cedar and dabbed a bit on her wrist. The scent was unfamiliar, not unpleasantjust different. She inhaled again. Thought: Ill get used to it. Or maybe I wont. Maybe Ill just let it be.
Outside, the park was shivering into winter. The yellow leaves, nearly all down. The streetlights flicked on early as always in November. Emily boiled the kettle, fished out a mug from the boxesa clean one, without cracksand stood by the window.
The phone vibrated. Her daughter.
How is it, Mum? Have you settled?
Im settling.
Are you scared?
Emily looked out at the lights.
No, she said. Honestlyno, Im not.Her daughter was quiet for a moment, as if taking the measure of her answer. Good. Im proud of you, Mum.
Emily smiled, watching a man toss a ball for his dog beneath the sodium glow, breath streaming like smoke. The world outside was unremarkable, steady, but she felt something in herself, a trembling newness that was not fear at allmore like the pulse of possibility.
I think Im a little proud of me, too.
She ended the call, set her tea to steep, and wandered the flather flatbrushing her fingertips along bare walls, thinking about curtains, a rug, the oddments and objects that would someday say this is mine.
That night, she left the bedroom door open. The flat was so silent she could hear her own movements: kettle cooling, slippered feet, the gentle exhale as she climbed beneath the duvet. She listened to the rain tapping the window, to the space opening around her, familiar yet uncharteda border shed finally stepped across.
Before switching off the lamp, she glanced at her reflection: not quite the woman she was, not yet someone new, but herself, unmistakably herself, andfor the first time in a long timeenough.
She held her wrist to her nose, breathed in the Silver Cedar, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she decided, she might buy fresh flowers.
Or she might not.
For now, in the hush of her own making, she let the silence answer, and found it kind.
