Blythe, Andrews old schoolmate, keeps hovering with unsolicited offers to help around the house, and I point her toward the door.
Blythe, please dont take offense, but theres a layer of grease on the extractor that could fry chips right on the grill. While the kettle is boiling, Im going to give it a quick wipe. Youre always busy with work, you have no time to look after the cosy side of things, and Andrew loves a tidy kitchen.
Blythe perches on a stool in the middle of the kitchen, armed with a sponge and a bottle of AntiGrease that Marion has stashed in the back of the cupboard because of its acrid smell. Shes wearing Marions favourite lavender apron, looking as if she were born in that very kitchen and has spent the last twenty years there.
Marion, frozen in the doorway with a laptop in her hands, feels a hot wave of irritation rise in her throat. She works as a senior accountant, and during the current quarterend crunch her head spins from numbers, spreadsheets and endless calls from HMRC. At home she craves quiet and a cup of tea, not a lecture on domestic chores from Andrews best childhood friend.
Blythe, could you step down, please? Marion says, holding back as best she can. I didnt ask you to clean the extractor. I have a cleaning rota, and the kitchen wont be tackled until Saturday.
Oh, give it a rest, those timetables! Blythe waves her elbow energetically. Her ginger curls bounce with each gesture. Dirt doesnt wait for Saturday. Andrew mentioned yesterday that his allergies were flaring up. Its all dust and grease. Ill have this place looking spickspan in a jiffy, then Ill make a proper borschtjust the way he liked it at school, bonein broth. You keep feeding him readymeals; youre only ruining his stomach.
Marion slowly closes her laptop.
Andrew never complained about allergies; he has seasonal hay fever from ragweed, she says in a frosty tone. And we ate the last readymeal a month ago. Blythe, put the sponge down. This is my home and my kitchen.
At that moment the front door slams, and Andrews upbeat voice echoes down the hallway.
Ladies, Im home! Smell that? Blythe, are you baking something?
He steps into the kitchen, shining like a freshly polished kettle. He doesnt notice the tension hanging thick in the air. Seeing Blythe on the stool, his face breaks into a grin.
Right on! Blythe, youre a proper electric broom. Marion, look at it shine! Weve barely had a chance to get our hands on anything.
My hands are busy with the job that pays the mortgage, Andrew, Marion replies quietly, meeting his eyes. He, as usual, brushes past her comment.
Come off it, Mari. Blythes just trying to help. Shes on holiday, bored as a cat, so she dropped by. Were family, arent we? Right, Blythe?
Of course! Blythe finally hops off the stool, straightens her short skirt and plants a friendly kiss on Andrews cheekloud enough to hear the smack. I remember how fastidious you are at home. Everything must be crisp. Marions swamped with her career, so I took the liberty of stepping in.
Marion turns silently and retreats to the bedroom. She wants to scream, throw dishes, but she knows that causing a scene now would paint her as a hysteric compared to the saintly Blythe. Andrew and Blythe have been mates since school; their mothers were friends, and Blythe has always been a background hum in Andrews life. In the past month that hum has become deafening.
After a string of divorces, Blythe suddenly decides her mission is to rescue poor Andy from domestic chaos. She shows up unannounced, brings containers of food, criticises the colour of the curtains and rearranges the vases in the sitting room because thats how fengshui directs the money flow. Andrew, a gentle, conflictaverse bloke, merely chuckles and devours the meatballs she brings, seeing no problem at all.
The evening drags on miserably. Marion sits in her study, trying to balance debits and credits, while from the kitchen comes loud laughter, clattering dishes and the scent of that borscht.
Remember how we went on that school camping trip in Year 9? Blythes voice drifts in. You couldnt even set up a tent; I helped you hammer the pegs!
Good times! Andrew roars, still laughing. You were always the fighter.
Marion feels like an intruder in her own flat. She only wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water.
Come sit, Marion, have a bite! Blythe gestures grandly from the stove, already changed into the housecoat she brought along. Borschthave a spoonful. I added a secret ingredient; Andys already had two bowls.
No thanks, Im not hungry, Marion says, pouring water. Andrew, I need to speak with you alone.
Come off it, love, were all family here, he waves, slathering mustard on a slice of bread. Blythe knows everything about us.
No, Andrew. Alone.
Sensing the steel in his wifes voice, Andrew sighs, wipes his mouth with a napkin and follows her to the bedroom. Blythe watches them go, her expression soft as a doctors glance at a patients family.
In the bedroom, Marion shuts the door and turns to Andrew.
Andrew, this has to stop.
What exactly? he asks, genuinely puzzled, blinking.
Blythe. Shes here too often, she moves my things, she cooks in my kitchen. I feel like a guest in my own house.
Marion, youre exaggerating. She just wants to help. Shes lonely, thats all. And look, the borscht is brilliant. You havent cooked much this week, have you?
I havent cooked because Im closing the financial year! Marion raises her voice. I earn the money, Andrew. I didnt hire Blythe as a housekeeper. If I need help, Ill call a cleaning servicea stranger will come, tidy up, and leave. Blythe is marking territory.
What territory? Nonsense. Shes like a sister to me!
Sisters dont behave like that. She critiques megrease layer, ready meals, building a career. Cant you hear how she paints me as a bad wife and herself as perfect?
Marion, youre just stressed from work, Andrew says, trying to hug her. You see enemies everywhere. Blythes a simple sortshe says what she thinks. Dont read too much into it. Shell calm down and find a new boyfriend.
Marion steps back. The conversation goes nowhere. Andrew remains blind to the problem as long as his friend is involved.
The next three days pass in a relative lull. Marion deliberately stays late at work to avoid Blythe, but on Friday she has to leave earlymigraine hits, the world spins.
She turns the key in her front door, dreaming only of collapsing into a cool bed, pulling the curtains and lying in silence.
The flat is oddly quiet. She slips off her shoes, tiptoes to the living room. Its empty, but a heavy, sweet perfume lingersBlythes fragrance.
She heads to the bedroom. The door is ajar. She pushes it open and freezes on the threshold, unable to believe her eyes.
Blythe stands in front of the open builtin wardrobe, a pile of Andrews clothesshirts, jumpers, even underwearspilling onto the bed. She hums to herself, arranging the stacks.
Whats happening here? Marions voice cracks, loud enough to echo.
Blythe startles, a shirt tumbling from her hands. She turns, a flash of fear crossing her face before a look of offended dignity settles in.
Oh, Marion! Youre creeping about like a mouse! You scared me half to death!
I asked: what are you doing in my wardrobe? Marion steps further in, feeling the migraine melt into icy fury.
Im putting things in order, what else! I saw Andrews shirt was wrinkled, so I ironed ithes a mess, dear! Everythings mixedsocks with knickers, winter with summer. I thought Id sort by colour and season. By the way, I tossed a couple of your jumpers into the bin. Theyre worn out, pilled. Andrew would be embarrassed to be seen with a wife who looks like that. A woman should feel like a queen even at home.
Marions eyes drop to the floor. There is a black garbage bag, its mouth yawning, and sticking out of it is the sleeve of her favourite cardigansoft, cosy, the one she loves to swaddle herself in at night.
It feels like the end. She pulls the cardigan from the bag, presses it to her chest, then looks up at Blythe.
Out, she says softly.
What? Blythe widens her eyes.
Out of my house. Right now.
Youve lost it? Blythe snorts, trying to keep her composure. Im just tidying up, and youre kicking me out? Ill tell Andrew youre an ungrateful hysteric! Hell
Hell come back to an empty flat if you dont leave this minute, Marion cuts in. Youve crossed every line. You entered my bedroom, you touched my husbands underwear, you threw away my clothes. This isnt help; its invasion.
Im doing it for Andrew! He needs comfort!
He needs a wife, not a pestering fly! Marion steps forward, and Blythe flinches. Do you think I dont see what youre doing? Youre trying to take my place, one tiny step at a time. First the kitchen, then the living room, now the bedroom. Youre marking the territory with your borscht and your rules. But I am the owner here.
What owner? Youre a stickinthemud! All you think about are numbers! Andrew gets bored, he needs affection! Ive known him since we were in nappies, I know what he needs!
If you truly knew what he needs, youd be his wife, not his friend lugging plates around, Marion retorts sharply. He chose me, he lives with me. Youre the extra.
Blythe chokes on her outrage.
Fine but Andrew will find out
He will. Ill tell him myself. Now pack your things and get out. You have one minute.
Marion darts to the front door, flings it wide open. Blythe snatches her bag, hurriedly pulls on her shoes and darts down the hallway.
Youll regret this! she hisses, passing Marion. Youll be alone with your pride!
Better alone than with a friend in the house, Marion replies, slamming the door shut.
She leans against the cold metal, closes her eyes. Her head thunders again, but inside a strange relief spreads, as if shes finally taken out the trash thats been piling up for years.
An hour later Andrew returns, whistling a jaunty tune. He stops short when he sees Marions solemn face and the silence that fills the flat.
Marion? You home? Wheres Blythe? She said shed surprise us, tidy up.
Marion sits on the sofa, the black bag of her discarded clothes still on the coffee table.
Blythe isnt here, Andrew. She wont be.
Andrew furrows his brow, removing his blazer.
What do you mean wont be? Did you two have a row? Over something trivial? Marion, youre an adult
Its not trivial, Marion points to the bag. She went into our bedroom, rummaged through your underwear, threw away my things, called me a stickinthemud. Thats not help, thats intrusion.
Andrew kneels, peers into the bag, pulls out his favourite cardigan, a few shirts. His expression tightens.
She threw your things away? By herself?
Yes. She decided she could dictate what I wear, how I live. Ive put up with her comments, her cooking, her constant presence for far too long. Today she crossed the line into our most private spacethe wardrobe, the bed, essentially.
Andrew rubs his face, looking stunned.
I didnt realise, he says quietly. I thought she just wanted to iron a shirt
It was a power play, Marion says. She wants to be the one who runs the house. Choose, Andreweither we live as a family without outsiders, or you keep living with Blythe and her borscht, but not with me. I wont let her treat me like a fool in my own home.
Andrew sits, his hands covering his face.
After a long pause he looks at the cardigan, then at Marions tired yet determined eyes. He remembers a text Blythe sent that morning: Your wifes off to work again, didnt even make breakfast. Ill swing by tonight, give the flat a spruceup. He had taken it as care. Now it feels like betrayal.
Im sorry, he finally says. Ive been blind. Im used to her being around, always active. I didnt see how far its gone.
He grabs his phone, puts it on speaker.
Hello, Andy? Blythes voice bursts through the line, angry. Can you believe she threw me out? I was just tidying up, and she
Blythe, enough, Andrew cuts in, his tone firm. I know what happened. Why did you go into the wardrobe? Why did you discard Marions clothes?
It was old rag, I thought itd be better! She doesnt appreciate me!
This is my house, Blythe. Marion is my wife. Im putting an end to you coming over without an invitation. I think we need a break in communication.
What? Youre ditching me because of her?
Friends respect each others families, Blythe. You tried to sabotage mine. Dont call me again for a while.
He hangs up. The room falls into a calm that feels light rather than heavy.
Marion exhales, shoulders sinking.
Thank you, she says.
Andrew moves to sit beside her and pulls her into his arms.
Its my fault. I thought the more people around, the merrier. Turns out a crowded bedroom isnt what we need.
Especially in the bedroom, Marion jokes.
Ill sort that bag myself, Andrew says. Ill put your things back. And this cardigan I love it. You look cosy in it.
Speaking of borscht, Marion teases, you do love a proper one, with bone.
Andrew kisses her temple. Ill bear with it. Well have dumplings in peace, no one lecturing me about life.
From that day Blythe disappears from their lives. She tries a few times to message Andrew about feeling lonely, but he replies curtly. Rumour has it shes found a new project to tend to.
Marion hires a housekeepera quiet, pleasant lady who comes once a week, leaves the flat smelling of fresh linen and never oversteps.
One evening, while theyre eating the lasagne Marion spent half an hour preparing, Andrew suddenly says:
You know, our extractor is filthy.
Marion tenses.
And?
Nothing, he grins, standing and grabbing a sponge. Ill clean it. Im feeling handy today. No Blythe needed.
Marion watches him, smiling. She realises that sometimes, to keep a family strong, you just have to shut the door on anyone trying to waltz in with their agenda, and not be afraid to be the bad one for the sake of your own happiness.
