— No, Dave, what’s she going to do? My wife’s as wooden as a boarding‑school desk, she couldn’t care less. Don’t worry, I’ve already found a buyer for her flat.
I froze in the hallway, bags weighing both hands. The keys were still jangling on the lock—I hadn’t even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags lay potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a bargain‑priced pack of buckwheat and three yogurts for Tommy – only plain, no sugar. I was already calculating whether I’d have time to defrost the meat or, once again, slam a frozen slab onto the pan and end up with steamed rather than fried meat.
Dave stood with his back to the doorway, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in a mug – his instant coffee with three spoons of sugar. He never washed the dishes after himself.
— She’ll never find out, — he muttered, spilling a little from the mug. — I’ll tell her it’s paperwork for the transfer, you’ll sign. She trusts me. Wooden. No feeling, no character. A housekeeper for free.
He laughed. I recognized that laugh – the one he’d let out with his mates in the garage while I was washing up after their night‑in. The same laugh when young Tommy fell off his bike and I ran with a bottle of antiseptic, while Dave stood there saying, “What, you’re a hen? Let him get up on his own.”
A rush of sound rose in my ears, like the pressure before a storm. My fingers clenched the bag handles, the plastic biting my palms white. I set the groceries down slowly, fished out my phone and hit record.
From the kitchen came a low mumble – Dave was already discussing fishing hooks and tomorrow’s trip to the lake with Simon. He always did that: first spat out the venom, then drifted onto nonsense, as if nothing had happened, as if I were truly wooden.
I held the phone to the crack of the ajar door and waited until he finished his chat with Simon and promised to “wash the deal next week.”
Then Dave slammed the receiver down, shuffled a few steps to the fridge, and I turned off the recorder, slipped the phone into my pocket, gathered the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against the frame.
A cold fire pressed under my spoon‑shaped thoughts – I wanted either to scream or howl like a dog. Twenty‑four years of marriage. Tommy, school, university, his loans that I’d been paying off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the meatballs, the endless “Love, where’s my blue shirt?” And now I was wooden. And there was already a buyer.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands, speckled with a fine dust of buckwheat. I looked at my wedding band – thin, worn. He’d given it to me when we were still sharing a student flat, eating spaghetti with ketchup. I felt the urge to fling it out the window, but I didn’t. I inhaled deeply, just as Mum used to tell me: “Lily, if someone offends you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.”
I counted to twenty. Then I rose, splashed my face with icy water and pulled an old notebook from the drawer. I found the number for the council’s service centre – I’d written it down when I’d arranged my mother’s disability benefits.
A woman’s voice floated through the line, explaining that a restriction on any registration actions could be set online, but it was better to come in person. I said I would—right now.
It was about three o’clock. Dave was booming in the kitchen—probably frying an egg. I slipped into the hallway, pulled on my coat.
— Where are you off to? — he asked without turning, the skillet hissing.
— To the shop for bread. Nothing for dinner yet.
— Right, and fetch me a packet of cigarettes too.
I stepped out. In the lift I felt a thud in my chest. Not fear, but the realization of what I was doing. Twenty‑four years I hadn’t acted without his nod. Even the wallpaper colour we’d chosen together, he’d later declare, “Beige is drab, it should have been green.” And I’d stayed silent.
The council office was empty. A clerk stared at my documents from behind a glass partition.
— Are you certain you want the restriction? Without your personal presence, no one, even with a power of attorney, can sell, gift, or exchange the flat.
— Absolutely.
She tapped away at the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later I walked out onto the street with a slip of paper, tucked it into the inner pocket of my coat where the recorder lay.
I returned home with a loaf and a packet of his favourite cigarettes. Dave was slumped on the sofa, watching a war film. I drifted to the kitchen, switched on the kettle. The pan held charred egg remnants. I washed it, out of habit.
Around seven a knock sounded at the door. Dave sprang up, tugging his t‑shirt.
— Oh, it’s for me. Lily, put the kettle on; a nice chap is coming.
I nodded.
A man in his fifties, dressed in a pricey overcoat, carrying a briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Dave brightened, a grin spreading.
— Meet Oliver Bennett, estate agent. About the flat, we’ll sort it.
I emerged from the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and glanced at Dave’s smug face.
— Dave, remember you were on the phone with Simon this afternoon?
He froze. The smile slipped away like poorly glued wallpaper.
— What? Yeah… there was something, what?
— You called me a wooden wife. Said you’d found a buyer for my flat and that I’d know nothing.
A pause hung heavy. Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dave’s face went pale, his cheeks mottled.
— What are you on about, Lily? — he began, but I raised a hand.
— No. I heard everything. Here.
I pulled the phone out and played the recording. His voice filled the room: “My wife’s wooden… I’ve already found a buyer… she trusts me… housekeeper free of charge…”
Oliver edged toward the door.
— Dave, you didn’t mention any complications.
Dave stared at me as if I were a stranger.
— You recorded me? Been watching me? — he hissed.
— I was standing in the doorway with the groceries I bought on my salary so you, Tommy, and his girlfriend could have dinner. And while you were bartering my house. My house, Dave. Not ours. Mum’s.
He stepped toward me, but I kept my tone steady.
— Also, I went to the council today and put a restriction on any action with the flat unless I’m there in person. So your buyer— — I nodded at Oliver — can look elsewhere. This flat is no longer for sale.
Oliver backed off.
— I think I’ll be off then. Dave, we’ll be in touch. Sorry.
He slipped out the door.
We were left alone. Dave stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.
— What have you done? You’ve ruined everything! We had plans!
— You had plans. I had faith. And you burned it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dave, and I’ve been set alight. I’m ash now.
He collapsed onto the sofa, hugging his head.
— Lily, I’m sorry. It just fell apart. I didn’t mean it. Simon pushed me…
— Simon, — I smirked. — Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my wages for twenty‑four years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets, and treated me like a piece of furniture.
I slipped off my ring, placed it on the coffee table.
— Tomorrow I’ll file for divorce. The flat stays with me – Mum’s inheritance, you have no rights. Pack your stuff in a week. I’ll explain everything to Tommy; he’s an adult now.
— Lily…
— No. You can’t imagine how light I feel. For the first time in years I’m not thinking about what to cook. I’m thinking I have a home. I have myself.
I slipped into the bedroom, shut the door, and the phone buzzed—a message from a friend: “How was your day?”
I typed back: “Fantastic. I’m no longer wooden.”
Morning found me at seven. Instead of racing to boil a kettle for Dave, I stretched, slipped on a robe and made coffee for myself – ground, with a dash of cinnamon. Dave only ever drank instant. I always loved the beans.
He shuffled out, his face crumpled, and stared at the Turkish‑style pot in my hand.
— What about me?
— Dave, it’s time you find a new housekeeper. Wooden things sometimes come to life.
I took a sip. The coffee was scorchingly hot. My hands still trembled, the cup clanged against my teeth. Yet it was the best coffee I’d ever tasted, because I’d made it just for me.
A knock sounded at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Oliver Bennett stood there again, coat unchanged but his expression bewildered.
— Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned the flat was yours, but I didn’t know… I just wanted to offer my services. If you ever decide to buy, sell, or trade, I’m here. Honest. No strings.
I stared at him, stunned. From the kitchen, Dave appeared, his face twisted in frustration.
— What are you doing here? — he barked.
— Working, — Oliver replied calmly. — I have a new client now.
He handed me a business card. I turned it over in my fingers, then looked at Dave, at his helpless fury, at the agent’s practiced smile.
— You know what, Oliver? I’ll think about it. Not today. Today I’m getting a cat. And perhaps a new frying pan.
Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dave muttered something and disappeared into the bedroom. I leaned against the door, laughed—a quiet, almost inaudible chuckle. For the first time in many years I laughed in my own hallway at sunrise.
I finished my coffee with a smile, deciding to name the cat Martha, after the one we once had as a child, before Dad gave her away because “her fur covered the whole house.” Now Martha would be mine, and no one could claim fur was a problem.
