Snow had been falling since dawnheavy, wet flakes that clung to the tarmac and turned the bypass into a slippery ribbon of chaos. Olivia stared blankly out of the passenger window of the black Land Rover, seeing neither the falling snow nor the neon smears of streetlights. All her attention was consumed by the frozen knot in her chest and the monotonous voice of her solicitor, echoing from the mobile clutched in her clammy hand.
Any property purchased by your husband before the marriage, Miss Olivia Smith, remains his alone, even if youve lived there seven years and the council tax is in your name. You cant claim a penny of it, Im afraid.
She slowly lowered the phone into her lap. Seven years. Seven years shed spent sanding that concrete shoebox on the outer ring road into something resembling a home: picking wallpaper, curtains, endlessly scrolling for the perfect lamp for the corner by the telly. Seven years shed been washing, cooking, sighing patiently through his mates lager-fuelled all-nighters, enduring his possessiveness and sulks. And all thatjust a guest in his castle. Now, as the last card of their marriages shaky pyramid gave way (courtesy of the lipstick on his Barbour and a flirty text from Chloe <3), only she would be going out onto the street. Her teachers salary and a sad bag of cardigans, all shed get. Well?" came the impatient bark from behind the leather wheel. What did your bloodsucking solicitor have to say? Spencers broad face, once the mask of rugged masculinity, was twisted into its usual sneer. He knew the answerrelishing it, truth be told. Olivia turned her head, her eyes wide and dry against her pale face. The flats yours. You bought it before we wed. I walk away with nothing. He just gripped the steering wheel tighter, veins pulsing on his temple. I knew it. Did you think Im an idiot, Liv? That Id put you on the deeds? You really thought I wouldnt cover my back? Something snapped inside Olivia. Not heartbreak, not even prideshed moved past that. It was something colder, sharper. He hadnt just stopped loving her; he loathed her. For all those years she hadnt been a wife, just a seasonal lodger who could be turfed out with the bins. Hed planned it all. Calculated it. Like an accountant squinting over the year-end. Youve got it all worked out, she murmured, not recognising her own voice. You have to, darling. Life isnt a fairy tale. Its not my fault if all the women like you try to sue for alimony the minute the law changes. Ive done you a favour, really. Seven years of free rent, and look at youstill ungrateful. Her trembling faded, replaced by a clam, perfect calm. The icy knot in her chest spread until she was filled with nothing but frost. Take me home, Spencer. Ill pack tonight. Home? he scoffed. Its my flat. But Ive picked you a new spot. Take a look. He swung the Land Rover hard onto the verge. They were practically out of town; the streetlamps sparse, lorries thundering past at terrifying speeds. Snow hammered the windscreen. Darkness. Fields. An arctic gust. Out. Fresh airll do you good. Have a think about your future. Have you lost your mind? Its freezing! Im still wearing slippers! Olivia shrank into the seat. Get. Out. His voice cracked like a whip. He unlocked the door with a vicious jab, yanked her arm. The sharp stink of aftershave mixed with last nights gin hit her nose. She tried twisting away, pushing back, but he was big and furious. His fist thumped her templewhite bursts of pain bloomed, then clouded. Another blow to the shoulder. She was dragged from the car like an old rug, knees buckling on the iced-up verge. The door slammed. The black Land Rover spat dirty snow in her face and vanished in the white murk. For several seconds she simply lay there, unable to move. Her body ached everywhere, her cheek and brow numb. Snowflakes settled on her skin, melting into her tears at last. She pushed herself upright, staggering. On her feet: limp woollen slippers shed slipped on mid-lawyer-crisis; her jacket barely fit for a spring drizzle, never mind a proper English winter. She reached for her phone. Dead, of course. The charger wasnaturallyback in his flat, in his plug socket. Not a soul about. Only the distant wail of juggernauts, hurtling by in the night. No one would stop. No one would see the tiny figure tottering along the verge. The terror was so thick she practically chewed it. She realised: this was deliberate. Hed wanted her to freeze. To refresh her memory. To learn her place. Or maybe he just wanted her gone, end of. She was something hed grown tired of. The consequences? Not his problem. Move. She had to move. Anywhere. Olivia turned into the wind and started hobbling city-wards, towards civilisation. Every step sent agony up her throbbing knee. Cold bit deep through cotton, gnawed her bones. Five minutesnumb toes. Ten minutesnumb face. She huffed steam, lashes crusting white. Through it all, the only clear idea thudded through her skull: Hes off celebrating. With his mates. Toasting his so-called win. He was, too. Spencer swung his precious Land Rover into an upmarket spa on the ring road, where his old uni pals, Vic and Andy, waited, just as smug, just as buzzed. Whats with the grin, mate? Flat safe and sound? winked Vic, passing a tumbler. She toddled out of my property quick enough. Gave her a taste of the great outdoorsfreezing, just like her, ha! Spencer cackled, knocking back the whisky as if hed just beaten the house at poker. He relished every detail. The lawyer, the look on her face, the roadside dramaspun it all for maximum macho effect. His mates howled. Thats how you do it, Spence! Women need to know when theyre beaten. All this talk of half my assetsas if! They sweated in the cedar sauna, sipped cognac from crystal, munched rare steaks, swapped idiotic jokes. Spencer was on top of his world. Hed calculated, manoeuvred, and won. Life was a breeze. But far beneath the smugnessdeep, sticky discomfort. A flashback to her eyes, right before he hit her. Not fear. Something else. Emptiness. Like shed already left before hed shown her the door. He pushed the feeling away, poured another, and owned the night. They broke up at three in the morning. Spencer, half-sozzled and chuffed, took a cab to his own front door. His. Now, truly, indisputably his. He bungled his key in the lock, shoved the door open, and flicked on the hall light. And the flatimmaculate, but wrong. Like a museum. Or a crypt. Every scrap that hinted at Olivia had vanished. No photos, no needlepoint cushions, no battered paperbacks, no ridiculous African violets on the sill. But that wasnt the worst of it. Shed taken only what was hers. Just hers. With surgical precision, shed amputated every item shed bought, carried in, or selected for their life together. The living room curtainsgone. Those dusty pink ones shed obsessed over for half a year. Every piece of art, every poster leaving just a ghost-shadow where dust had failed to settle. The kitchen shelves were bareher spice jars, knives, the weird pottery mugs. Even the kitchen roll holderunscrewed and vanished, just a sad screw poking from the tiles. He staggered through the flat. In the bedroom, her side of the bedstripped. Bedside a desert. Her wardrobe rails, empty. Shed even swiped half of his pillowsthe ones shed bloody chosen. The bathroom, total wasteland. No shampoo, no elastic band twisted round the tap, no fluffy dressing gown on the hook. Floor mat? Gone. He sat down, hard, on the chilling floor in front of the telly nook, staring at the blank wall. All that remained was dead silence, a suffocating emptiness. Sure, the furniture was still there. But any warmth, any comfort, any human texture had been scoured away. In one night, shed erased seven years of their lives. Turned his castle into a utilitarian box with echoing windows. He recalled her parting glanceno pain, nor plea. Cold calculation. Just like his own. Shed never intended to freeze to death. Shed given him the performance he wanted: helpless, defeated. Meanwhile, while he drowned in brandy with the lads, shed returned, probably in the same cab, reclaiming her territory. Audacious, wasnt it? Coming back to his place! Shed cried not a single tear, just got on with it, methodically erasing herself. A sudden wave of fury broke. He jumped up and slammed his fist against the wall. Cow! he shouted into the emptiness. The flat just swallowed the noise. He lurched for his phone, ready to ring her and lay into herbut realised her number was already blocked, and anyway, what would he say? Give me back my curtains? He turned to the window. The city sprawled below, indifferent. Somewhere out there, shed landed. Maybe at a mates. Maybe she was already flat-hunting, teeth chattering, on her paltry teachers pay. But wherever she was, it was probably homey, full of her idiotic cushions and resurrected violets. Here? Here was nothing but frostnot from outside, but the kind that seeps inside your chest. Planning, calculationhed mastered it all. But Olivias leaving wasnt a retreat. It was a winners exit, taking her spoils and leaving him a charred wasteland where home used to be. Hed got his precious flat. Every last square metre. Now, each one pressed down on him with the ghostly pressure of total emptiness. Spencer stood at the window, gazing into the bottomless holes left by the missing drapes, his own reflection looking back with hollow contempt. Then he shuffled to the kitchen for a drinkbut there were no glasses left. Just his battered old mug, Best Dadnicked from work somewhere back in the mists of time. He swigged whisky straight from the bottle, sitting on the bare floor in his cold, silent flat. His flat, forever now. And outside, of course, relentless as fate, the English snow kept falling.
