Diary Entry 18th January
Its been snowing since morning. Heavy, wet flakes, the kind that dont melt but instead blanket the road, turning it into an icy ribbon of danger. I stared out of the passenger window of our black Range Rover, hardly seeing the tumbling snow or the flashes of headlights. My whole attention was locked on the icy knot in my chest and the calm, monotone voice of the solicitor on the phone, clutched tight in my clammy hand.
Joint assets gained in marriage are split fifty-fifty, Miss Olivia Turner. Yes. But any property your husband purchased prior to the weddingeven if youve lived there for seven yearsdoes not get divided. It remains his.
I lowered my phone into my lap. Seven years. Seven years I’d poured myself into turning that concrete shoe box in Croydon into a home: choosing wallpaper, sorting through markets for the right lampshade, fussing over curtains. Seven years of cooking, cleaning, putting up with his laddish mates till three in the morning, tolerating his moody, jealous streak. All those yearsjust a guest. In his castle. And now, the rotten scaffolding of our marriage collapsed after that awful night when he didnt come home, and in the morning I found someone elses lipstick and a text with a heart. Now it turns out Im the one wholl walk out. Just me, my teachers wage, and a suitcase full of clothes.
Well? Ben said sharply, swerving into the next lane. Whats your bloodsucker solicitor got to say? His big, once-comforting face twisted into a familiar sneer. He already knew. Saw my answer coming, and it seemed he was relishing it.
I turned towards him. My eyes felt too big for my pale face, dry and brittle.
The flats yours. You bought it before we married. I dont get a penny.
He didnt bother to answer, just clenched the steering wheel tighter. His jaw muscles knotted.
I figured as much. What did you expect, Liv? That Id be daft enough to sign away half? Did you honestly think Id leave that sort of thing to chance? His voice was thick with satisfaction.
Something broke inside me. Not pain from betrayalnot even outrage. That had all faded long ago. This was something else. Cold. Clear. He didnt just stop loving me. He couldnt stand the sight of me. All those years, Id been a lodger, someone to be turfed out when convenient. Hed planned it all. Calculated. Like a bloody accountant.
You calculated everything, I said, barely recognising my own voice.
Lifes about calculations, darling. Dont be an idiot. You lot will all be after alimony soon enough, the way the laws going. Ive saved you from that, you know. Free rent all these years. So, cheers for that.
The trembling inside me, the one I tried to hide, melted into a peculiar calmness. The ice grew inside, crowding out everything else.
Take me home, Ben. Ill pack my things tonight.
Home? He scoffed. Thats my home. But dont worryIve found you a new place. Over theresee?
He swerved off onto the hard shoulder. Wed left London behind; lamp posts thinned out, the lorries thundered past. Snow hammered the windows. Everywheredark fields and biting wind.
Out you get. Have a little think about your future.
Youre mad! Its minus five out there! Im in slippers! I shrank back into the seat.
I said out! His bellow left my ears ringing. He unlocked the central locking and yanked my arm hard. The reek of his expensive aftershave, sharp with booze from last night, caught in my nose.
I tried to grab hold of something, push him offbut he was huge, furious. His fistwith that heavy class ringsmashed my temple. White stars exploded in my vision, pain flooding hot and sharp. Another blowmy shoulder. He dragged me from the car like a discarded bag. My knee cracked against the kerb on the icy verge. The door slammed. The churning four-by-four spat a spray of filthy snow into my face, then vanished into the blizzard.
I lay there, unable to move. My body throbbed with pain, cheek and temple gone numb. Snow melted on my skin, mixing with tears at last. I staggered up. On my feetthe old wool slippers Id thrown on before the solicitors call. On my backa thin jacket, hopeless against the sharp cold.
I fumbled for my phone. Dead. Charger was his, still plugged into his socket. Not a soul aroundjust the roar of lorries ripping by, none slowing. No one would stop. No one would see a small shape shivering by the verge in the dark.
Terror was so thick I could taste it. He wanted me to freeze. To clear my head, see my place. Or perhaps No, he wouldnt kill me. He just tossed me away, bored of his old toy. The rest didnt matter.
I had to move. Walk. Somewhere. I turned my face to the wind and limped towards London. Each step sent pain through my bruised knee. Cold chewed through my jacket, hooked its icy claws into my flesh. My toes went numb after five minutes. Tenmy face did too. Breath came out in clouds, clinging to my lashes and hair.
The only clear thought beating through my mind: Hes gone to celebrate. With his mates. Toasting his little victory.
And he had. Ben swaggered into an upmarket spa on the outskirts, where his mates Rob and Danthick-set, brash, basking in lifewere already waiting.
Nice one, mate! Did you get the flat sorted? Rob clapped him on the back, shoving over a shot glass.
Had her out of my place faster than you can say suitcase. Sent her into the cold to clear her head, Ben sniggered, knocking back a vodka. The burn gave him more bravado. He recounted all of it: the solicitor’s call, her face, the frosty roadside. He told it with a laugh, complete with crude embellishments.
The lads roared in approval. Well done, mate! These women need to know their place, thinking they can just waltz off with half. They sweated it out in the steam room, poured themselves expensive brandy, ordered rare steaks, and mocked the daft feminists. Ben was on top of the world. Hed calculated everything. Hed won. Lifesorted.
But deep down, below the numbing haze of booze, something slimy shifted. Her stare, right before he hit her. Not fear. No. Something else. An emptiness. As if shed already left before he even pushed her out. He drowned the thought with another shot. The night was his.
It was gone three by the time they finished. Ben, bladdered and smug, took a taxi back to his flathis flat, forevermore. He fumbled with the keys, staggered into the hallway, and flicked on the light.
He could hardly breathe for a moment.
The flat was pristine. Clinically so. The sort of order you find in a grave or a museum. Everything of Olivias was gone. The cushions shed embroidered. Her books and silly African violets. All the photos. Shed left nothing but the bare furniture.
But what hit him hardest? Shed taken only her thingsswept away without trace all shed contributed. Every mug, every bowl, the paper towel holder she bought. The curtainsgone. Those rare wilted rose ones she’d spent months findingripped off, leaving gaping black windows. Off the walls, no pictures, no prints. Just holes and squares of cleaner paint. In the kitchen, her herbs, sharp knives, and the nice crockeryvanished. Even the odd cheese grater and tin opener shed picked out disappeared.
He wandered through the flat in a daze. The bedside table bare, half the wardrobe empty. Shed even taken half of his pillowsthe ones shed insisted on choosing. Bathroomno shampoos, no scrunchies on the taps, no fluffy blue dressing gown on the hook. Shed even nicked the bathmat.
He slumped on the cold lounge floor, staring at the blank wall. The flat was silent. Not physically emptythe furniture was his. But the comfort, the sense of homethe soulwas all scraped out. Seven years simply erased. His stronghold was a concrete shell with empty eyes.
He remembered her last look. No pain, no plea. Cold calculation. Like him, in the end. She never meant to shiver on the roadside. She gave him what he expecteda show of helplessness. Then, while he drowned himself in brandy with his lot, she must have come back. Probably in the same cab that dropped him off. Had the gall to return! And methodically, not even shedding a tear, she erased herself from his life.
A wave of anger seized him. He leapt up, pounded the wall. Bitch! he yelled into the empty flat. But the quiet gobbled his shout. He lunged for his phone, wanting to ring, to threaten her, but realisedher number was already blocked, no way to reach her. And what would he say anyway? Give me my curtains back?
He paced to the window. The city stretched out below, glittering with streetlights. Somewhere out there she was now. Maybe at her friends. Maybe already renting a room, paying with her meagre teaching wages. And in her new little space, no doubt it would feel warm. With those daft curtains and violets. Here Here there was coldnot the icy kind outside, but something that seeped into the bones.
Hed been methodical. Saw it all coming. But he hadnt expected her departure to be a champions retreat, packing away all the spoils, leaving him nothing but scorched earth. Now he had his precious flat, every inch. And now, each empty metre pressed on him with the weight of purest silence.
Ben stood by the window, gazing at his own dark, empty reflection. Then he turned and trudged into the kitchen, meaning to pour another drink. But even the glasses were goneexcept his old mug, the one reading Best Dad, pinched from the office years ago. He drank straight from the bottle, sitting on the bare kitchen floor, alone in his cold, silent flat, which, now and forever, belonged to him alone.
Outside, the snow kept falling, steadily, and without mercy.
