I welcomed Ainsley Clarke into my flat after her divorce, and over time I realized I was slipping into the role of a servant in my own house.
Some friendships outlast everythingweddings, breakups, births, funerals. Harriet Whitaker and I had known each other for more than thirty years. We crammed for exams together, swore over our first heartbreaks, and when Ainsley moved to Leeds she always drifted back, and with her I could simply be myself.
So when, one night, she called me, voice ragged, and whispered, I have nowhere to go, I didnt think twice. Come, I said. Theres always a room for you here.
The first days felt like a flashback to our youthlong talks, laughter, memories spilling like tea. After my husbands death the house seemed unbearably quiet, and his lingering presence oddly soothed me. I tried to look after her: I cooked, offered my best doublebed, bought fresh towels for £20 so she could feel at home. She promised shed stay a few weeks while she recovered.
But a month passed, then another. She didnt search for a flat, didnt send out any CVs, didnt rise at sunriseIm reclaiming the sleep I missed for years. She roamed the flat in a robe, claimed the sofa, and asked, Did you buy my fruitflavoured yoghurt? I love the strawberry one, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Gradually I felt myself evaporate. Id return from work to find her seated by the window, sipping tea and leafing through my newspaper. When I asked her to make a simple soup, she giggled, Youre better at it; Im hopeless.
I was the one washing the dishes, buying the groceries, filling the fridge with everything she liked, the bathroom with her lotions, the TV with her favourite series. One afternoon I invited my friend Maya to the kitchen for coffee; Ainsley scowled, Im not comfortable with strangers here, and even shooed away my cat Morris, claiming an allergy.
For a long while I excused her, saying the divorce had left her wounded and disoriented, that I should endure. Then she began rearranging the furniture, insisting, Its better this way, and I sensed the line had been crossed.
The hardest moment came when she asked me, after work, to collect her laundry from the drycleaner and shop for foodI have no strength to go out. I trudged back with heavy bags, and she asked, Did you get the right detergent? Dont mix them up, and something inside me snapped.
For the first time in ages I spoke firmly: We need to talk. This cant go on. This is my flat, and you have to start thinking about where youll live. She stared, then bristled, accusing me of being selfish and not understanding her pain. It was hard, but I knew that without a boundary I would lose myself.
A few days later she slammed the door and left, and guilt gnawed at me, as if Id betrayed a sister. Yet the house began to breathe again; I felt the walls belonging to me, my life, my rules.
Weeks later a brief text arrived: Sorry. I was completely lost then. Thanks for helping, even if I didnt appreciate it. I replied wishing her well and thought, sometimes the hardest thing is to say no to someone you care about, because if you dont, you risk losing the most valuable thing of allyourself.
