Anthony Fletcher was simply there when Imogen came out of the office in Manchester, standing against the door frame as though he had grown out of the paving stones and had been waiting for her since the beginning of time. The evening had the varnished stillness of a dream. She had wanted tea and quiet and the small warm comfort of her own flat. Instead she got a husband with a face like a bolted door.
“Hello,” she said. “What brings you here? You never come to meet me.”
“Right, listen,” Anthony said, without even saying hello first. “Tomorrow you hand in your notice. You resign. And then you go to my mum and dad’s place in Norfolk. You’ll look after them.”
“Look after who?” Imogen tilted her head, as though she had misheard.
“My parents. They’re falling apart, you know. They need someone in the house. It’s settled.”
She was quiet, studying him as if a news ticker were running across his forehead. Settled. Not “let’s talk about it.” Not “I’m asking you.” Settled, like a stamp pressed into a document.
“Interesting,” Imogen said slowly. “Did no one think to ask me?”
“What’s to ask? You’re my wife. It’s family business. In a family you don’t ask, you just do.”
“Family,” she repeated, with real curiosity. “So my family is now a suitcase and a railway timetable.”
“Don’t be clever,” he said, wincing as if sucking a lemon. “You’re always juggling words. I’ve told you, plainly, like one person to another. You go, and that’s that.”
Imogen shifted her handbag on her shoulder. Inside she was boiling, but outside her voice stayed smooth, almost gentle. Patience is an expensive thing, and she did not want to spend it on the front step.
“Tony,” she said softly, “let’s not do this in the street. Come home and we’ll talk quietly. I’ll make tea. Have you eaten?”
“No time for tea,” he said, already looking at his phone, at his watch, somewhere past her. “I’ve got things to do. I’ve told you the main thing, and you’ve heard it. I’ll be back this evening.”
“And the details?” she asked, with a small smile. “The address, for instance. I’ve never been to your parents’ house.”
“Later, later.” He waved a hand and walked off without looking back, as though the matter had been closed for ever.
Imogen stood and watched him go. It was not even anger. It was surprise. How could a man who had shared the same roof with her for years believe that her life was a thing that could be lifted from one shelf and placed on another?
“Well, well,” she said aloud to herself. “‘You go, and that’s that.’”
She sighed and went into the shop. Bread, cheese, something for tea. Her head wanted simple, understandable actions, where you choose the loaf and no one argues with you.
She ran into Poppy Sutton in the vegetable aisle. They worked back to back in the same office and knew far more about each other than either of them wanted to know.
“Oh, look who it is!” Poppy’s trolley was piled so high it looked as if she were stocking up for a siege. “Immy, save me. I’m going to lie down right here, between the courgettes.”
“What’s happened?”
“What hasn’t. The washing machine’s leaked for three days, the child has brought home a cold from nursery, and my husband is sitting there wondering why dinner doesn’t cook itself. I’m like a hamster on a wheel, only the wheel is square.”
“Poor you,” Imogen said, smiling. “I’ve got news too. Fresh, straight from the oven.”
“Go on.”
“Anthony met me outside the office. Ordered me to resign and go to his parents’ village. To look after them.”
Poppy stopped the trolley so sharply that a tin of peas almost jumped out.
“Wait. Ordered? Actually ordered?”
“Actually ordered. ‘You go, and that’s that.’”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” Imogen shrugged. “I stood there admiring how a man can cancel your whole life in one sentence.”
“Right, stop.” Poppy narrowed her eyes. “And his parents don’t have anyone else? There are other children, aren’t there?”
“There’s a sister. Mabel.”
“A sister,” Poppy repeated, with a face as though she had just been handed the secret of the universe. “So his parents have a daughter of their own. But the daughter-in-law has to go and care for them. Is that the arrangement?”
“Absolutely the arrangement.”
“Immy, he’s hung someone else’s burden on your neck like a carrier bag. They’re not even your parents. They’re his. And his sister’s. And you’re the one left carrying it. How convenient for them.”
“Very convenient,” Imogen agreed. “I was thinking the same. How lovely that love for your parents ends exactly where your own convenience begins.”
“You can certainly put things into words,” Poppy said. “So. Are you really going?”
“Do I look like a suitcase without a handle?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t think so,” Imogen said, putting a bag of lemons into her basket. “I’ll go only for tea. And then I’ll come back.”
At home it was quiet and good, right up until the phone rang. On the screen was her sister-in-law’s name. Imogen looked at it for a second, then answered, because curiosity won.
“Immy!” Mabel’s voice poured honey, the sort that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, I’m so glad! Tony’s told me everything! You’re a treasure, a real gift.”
“Hello, Mabel. And what am I a gift for?”
“Well! You’re going to Mum and Dad’s to help! I can finally breathe, you have no idea. I’ve got children, work, a house; I’m being torn to pieces.”
“Wait,” Imogen said gently. “Tony told you I’m already going?”
“Of course he did! He said it’s all settled, you’re resigning tomorrow and getting ready. Immy, you’re so responsible, not like some people.”
“Mabel,” Imogen said, almost smiling, “I’m sorry to spoil such a bright evening. But I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a pause.
“What… what do you mean, not going?” Mabel’s voice had gone dry. “Tony said…”
“My husband says a lot of things. Last year he promised to put up a shelf. The shelf still isn’t there. Same thing.”
“Immy, what are you talking about! They’re parents! They need help! Who, if not you?”
“Indeed, who.” Imogen sounded thoughtful. “For example, a daughter. Didn’t that occur to you?”
“Me?! I have a family! Children! The whole house is on my shoulders!”
“And I, apparently, have no family, no house, no concerns. I’m convenient, Mabel. A gift.”
“You’re twisting everything!”
“I’m just listening and repeating it,” Imogen answered calmly. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Give your parents a kiss from me. In absentia.”
She put the phone down and exhaled. A key turned in the door. Anthony came in, walked through to the kitchen, sat down, and pulled over the plate Imogen had left for herself.
“Anything to eat?” he muttered, prodding at it with a fork.
“It was already waiting for you, as you can see.”
He ate greedily, quickly, dropping crumbs, not looking at her. Then he pushed the plate away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and, to her amazement, got up and went into the bedroom. She heard the wardrobe door creak.
“Anthony?” She looked in. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.” He was pulling out her jumpers and laying them in a suitcase that lay open on the bed. “You need to pack. I’m a good husband, so I’m packing your things for you. Appreciate it.”
“I appreciate it,” Imogen echoed, leaning against the door frame. “I never said I was going.”
“What’s to say? It’s settled. I’ve told everyone. I told Mother. I told Mabel. It’s too late to back out now; we can’t let people down.”
“People,” she repeated quietly. “So letting me down is fine.”
“Don’t start. You always turn everything into a drama. What’s so terrible? You go, you look after them. It’s not hard, and they need help.”
“You know,” Imogen said, folding her arms and watching the growing pile of clothes, “the more you pack, the more interesting this becomes.”
“There, you see,” he said, beaming, and took it all the wrong way. “She’s interested. I told you you’d come round.”
The doorbell rang. George Bennett stood on the doorstep, a quiet man with a heavy, attentive gaze. He came in, saw the open suitcase, and frowned.
“Going somewhere?” he asked. “A holiday?”
“Not a holiday,” Anthony said, walking into the hall and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Imogen’s going to my parents’ village. To look after them.”
George looked at Imogen.
“Is that true?” he asked her.
“That’s Anthony’s plan,” Imogen said. “In that plan I’m only the suitcase. I haven’t agreed. Not by word, not by nod, not by blinking.”
George turned to Anthony.
“Anthony. Let’s step outside.”
They went into the kitchen. Imogen did not hide; she stood nearby, curious.
“What are you doing?” George asked quietly. “They’re your parents. And your sister’s. Why should your wife carry all of it?”
“Who else?” Anthony spread his hands. “Mabel’s busy with the kids. I work. Imogen is the only free person.”
“Free,” George repeated, shaking his head. “She’s not free. She’s last in line. I’m telling you this as someone who dragged a family up since childhood: you can’t do it like this. I raised my brother and sister. I know what care is. Care is not ordered. You take it on yourself.”
“Oh, here’s Saint George,” Anthony said, sour-faced. “Your life was your own. Mine is mine. I say she goes, so she goes.”
“They’re your parents, Anthony. Your blood. If you want to help them, sit down and help them. Or share it with your sister. But don’t put it on someone who came into your family from outside.”
“She’s my wife!” Anthony’s voice rose. “A wife isn’t outside. She’s family. You bring a woman home and she mucks in. That’s the deal.”
“Bring a woman home,” Imogen said from the hallway, thoughtfully. “Tony, I’m not a horse. And I’m not a vacuum cleaner that sits in the corner until someone remembers it.”
“Shut up!” he barked. “We’ll sort this out without you.”
George looked at him.
“You’re a fool, Anthony,” he said simply. “An incurable one.” He nodded to Imogen and left.
When the door closed, Imogen went into the bedroom and dialled Mabel. She was suddenly, genuinely interested in getting to the bottom of it.
“Mabel, hello again. One question. Since everyone is so worried about Mum and Dad, tell me: what are you ready to do for them yourself?”
“Me?” Mabel’s voice went guarded. “I’ll send money. Regularly. That’s also care, and not small care either.”
“Splendid,” Imogen said, brightening. “How much?”
“Three thousand pounds,” Mabel said proudly. “Every month. That’s not something everyone could do.”
Imogen could not help it. She laughed, a bright, honest laugh.
“Three thousand pounds,” she repeated, through the laughter. “Mabel, are you serious? Three thousand a month for me to throw away my life and move into someone else’s house. What a deal. Royal generosity.”
“What’s so funny?!” Mabel’s voice tightened. “Money doesn’t grow on trees!”
“Exactly,” Imogen said, still smiling. “And my years don’t either. Thank you, Mabel. You’ve really helped me. Now I know exactly what your care is worth. Three thousand pounds.”
She hung up. Anthony was standing in the doorway, pleased with himself.
“See?” He gestured at the suitcase. “It all fits. Big suitcase, roomy. I’m brilliant.”
“Yes, you’re brilliant,” Imogen said. And then she went to the cupboard, pulled out two large holdalls, and calmly began packing the rest of her things.
“Why so much?” Anthony asked, surprised. “Are you moving out for good, then?”
“What did you think?” she answered, without turning around. “If you’re going, you go properly.”
And something warmed in his chest. She had agreed. His wife had agreed. He had always known that firmness wins. He watched her fill the bags and mentally patted himself on the back.
In the morning Anthony woke in excellent spirits. He stretched, walked around the flat like a man who owned the whole building, and kept looking at the packed luggage by the door.
“Don’t forget,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Mother’s expecting you. She’s made up a bed for you. A separate one. She went to a lot of trouble. Call her and say thank you, why don’t you.”
“I’ll call,” Imogen said, and did.
“Hello,” she said evenly. “It’s Imogen. Thank you for the bed you’ve made up. Very considerate of you.”
“Oh, my dear,” the old lady said, pleased. “I’ve cleaned the room and made space. You come, you come. We need help, goodness me. Floors, the garden, everything.”
“I understand. Thank you again for the bed.”
“So when should we expect you?”
“Thank you for the bed,” Imogen repeated, with a smile, and said goodbye.
The mother-in-law was satisfied. Thanked, so she must be coming. Anthony, who had heard the call, practically glowed.
“See?” he said. “Everything’s going well. I told you.”
“Everything is going well,” Imogen agreed. “A proper celebration.”
She called a taxi. Anthony, suddenly generous, carried the suitcase and the holdalls downstairs himself. He grunted, but he carried them, with the expression of a man doing a good deed. He loaded everything into the boot and slammed it shut.
“Right, then,” he said, brushing off his hands. “Good luck. Call me when you get there.”
Imogen got into the car, waved at him, and drove away. Anthony stood outside the front door, watching the taxi go, prouder of himself than was reasonable.
And only when the car had disappeared around the corner did something hit him in the chest. The address. He hadn’t given her the address. Imogen had never been to his parents’ house. His mother had always come to them.
“Oh bugger,” he muttered, and grabbed his phone.
He called Imogen. Long rings. Again. Rings. She sent it to voicemail. He typed a text with the address and added: “Don’t get lost. Call when you arrive.” Sent. He stood there a while, soothing himself: she’ll read it, she’ll get there, it’s fine. His wife had gone. She had got into the taxi herself. Herself.
The day passed in errands. By evening, Anthony had almost forgotten the worry, certain it was all going to plan. And then his mother called.
“Tony,” she said, confused, “where is Imogen? No one has come. I’ve waited all day. I made the bed. I started a pie. There’s no one here.”
“No one? But she left this morning. By taxi. I loaded her bags myself.”
“There’s no one, son. No taxi, no Imogen. Maybe she got lost?”
“I’ll sort it,” he said, and hung up.
He called his wife. Once, twice, five times. Then the phone was off. Texts were not delivered. He stood in the middle of the room, and slowly, heavily, the truth settled on him: Imogen had not gone. All her things, the suitcase, the bags, had gone somewhere — but not to his mother.
“Oh, she—” he breathed. In him rose a dark, stuffy anger. “She tricked me. Tricked me completely.”
He paced, called again and again, left voicemails that began with demands and then turned into shouting at the emptiness. There was no answer. He slept badly.
In the morning he went to her office. He waited. Imogen came out — calm, rested, as though yesterday had not existed.
“Where were you?!” he shouted, right on the front step. “Where are your things?! Mother waited all day! What have you done?!”
“Good morning, Anthony,” Imogen said, unruffled. “I didn’t go anywhere. And to be perfectly honest, I never meant to. Not from the start.”
“How can that be?! You got into a taxi! You packed your things!”
“You packed them,” she corrected him. “With a great deal of enthusiasm, I might add. The taxi took me and my bags somewhere else. A place where I’m not treated as furniture.”
“You’re having me on!” he spluttered, his face blotching. “I was speaking to you like a human being! And you —!”
“A human being asks, Anthony. A human being doesn’t say ‘you go, and that’s that.’ By the way, don’t forget. The rent on the flat is due Friday. I don’t live there any more, so it’s entirely your problem now. Logical, isn’t it?”
“You’ll come home, and today you’ll go to my mother!” he yelled, not listening. “I said you’ll go! No more of your little games!”
“Anthony.” Imogen looked at him without a trace of a smile, and her voice was flat and cold. “Listen carefully. If you ever give me an order again — right here, on this doorstep — I’ll open my phone and file for divorce. Online. Three taps. Do you want to try?”
He fell silent. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’m not threatening,” she added calmly. “I’m just telling you the terms. The way you like it. Decided.”
And she walked away, light-footed, without looking back. She did not say when she would come back. Or whether.
Anthony was left standing. The anger emptied out of him, and in its place came a sticky, unpleasant fear. It reached him slowly that she really had gone — with the suitcase, with the holdalls he had packed with his own hands. As if he had been walking her to the door. As if he had been throwing her out. He had loved her. He had never thought, never believed, that she could — firmly, calmly — stand up and leave him.
His phone rang. Mabel.
“Anthony, what about Mum and Dad?!” his sister rattled. “When is Imogen finally going to arrive?”
“Never,” he snapped. “She isn’t going. If you’re so worried, get in the car and go to Mother yourself.”
“How dare you speak to me like that?!”
“And you can put your three thousand pounds back in your purse,” he said, and heard the short beeps of Mabel hanging up.
He sat down on the kerb at the edge of the office. He did not go home. He decided to wait until evening. Wait for Imogen. And talk to her. Without “decided.” Without “you’ll go.” Just talk. If she still wanted to listen to him.
He sat there and thought: the firmness he had been so proud of was nothing but ordinary stubbornness. And the woman beside him had been mistaken for a thing you could lift and move from one shelf to another. And the thing had stood up and left. On her own two feet. With his suitcase.
THE END.
