Nothing Personal, Just Belongings
– Pack that vase as well, would you, – said Margaret Walker, without turning around.
She stood in the middle of the sitting room, examining the shelves with the same look people give shop windows when everything is already paid for. Calm. Businesslike. Eyes narrowed with an experts appraisal.
– Which vase? – asked Emily.
Her voice emerged far softer than intended, so she cleared her throat and repeated:
– Mrs Walker, which vase do you mean?
– That one. The blue one. We brought it back from Prague in ninety-eight. Its a family piece.
Emily glanced at the blue vase. She and Paul had bought it together for their third wedding anniversary in a tiny shop on Charles Street. The shopkeeper was elderly, white-bearded, and said something in Czech. Paul had laughed and pretended to understand. Afterwards they ate chimney cakes in the street. Emily burnt her tongue and they both laughed about it for half an hour.
– Its not a family piece, – Emily replied, her tone flat. – We bought it. Together. In 2009.
– Emily, – Mrs Walker finally turned, that patient, correcting tone shed learned to recognise even in her first year of marriage, the tone that explains the obvious to a child. – Lets not complicate things. You must realise all this – she gestured around the sitting room all of this was bought with our familys money.
– Our familys money, – Emily echoed. Pauls and mine.
– Paul earned it. His father and I helped. You kept house. Those are separate things.
Paul stood at the window, looking out over London from the twenty-third floor, the city shrunk to a playset; tiny cars, tiny trees, tiny people. He said nothing.
Emily stared at his back, one she knew by heart: the stoop when he was tired, the mole beneath his left shoulder blade, the way he breathed as he pretended to sleep. Ten years. She had known him for ten years, and now he stood at the window, watching the toy city below, while his mother packed their life into cardboard boxes.
***
The flat was beautiful Emily always admitted it, even when it annoyed her. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, American walnut floor that couldnt be scratched by heels. A kitchen fitted by Luxury Interiors, which Mrs Walker ordered herself and mentioned at every opportunity. The living room chandelier looked like a frozen waterfall.
Emily had lived there eight years, but never once felt it was home. Not because it was lacking, but because it was too perfect. Too expensive. Too carefully matched from catalogues Mrs Walker brought over.
When theyd first moved in, Emily put a simple clay pot with a violet in the bedroom window. She bought it at the market for a pound. Within a week, the pot was gone. Mrs Walker said shed thrown it out as it didnt fit with the design.
Emily said nothing. Nor did Paul.
That was the first time. There were many more.
***
The removal men arrived at ten. Two silent men with a trolley and rolls of tape. Mrs Walker met them in the hallway, checklist in hand. Printed, numbered, with sub-headings. Emily glimpsed the first lines: Sitting room: L-shaped sofa (grey leather), 1; marble coffee table, 1; bronze floor lamp, 2…
Emily turned away and headed to the kitchen, set the kettle boiling if only to give her hands something to do.
Paul followed, pausing in the doorway.
– Em, – he said quietly.
– What?
– How are you?
She looked at him. At his handsome face that she loved, which now wore the look she called the guilty schoolboy face. Brows drawn, eyes averted, voice low, nearly pleading.
– Im fine, – she answered. Do you want tea?
– Emily…
– Tea or not, Paul?
He hesitated.
– Yes, please.
She poured boiling water into two mugs the white ones with painted bunnies theyd picked up in Amsterdam. Silly mugs that clashed with the Luxury Interiors kitchen. Mrs Walker used to call them those cheap things. That made Emily treasure them even more.
They stood together, sipping tea, and from the sitting room issued the busy rustling of tape and Mrs Walkers quiet instructions.
– She has no right, – said Emily, barely above a whisper. We bought the sofa together. I chose the lamps. I paid for the bedroom paintings with my own money, from Florence.
– Ill talk to her.
– Youve already said that five times today.
He didnt reply, just stared at the bunny mug.
– Paul, – she said, her voice finally sounding as flat and tired as shed tried to avoid. I dont care about the sofa. I dont want the sofa. I just want you to… be here. Do you understand? Just stay beside me. Just once.
He looked at her.
– I am here.
– No, – she replied. Youre at the window.
***
Margaret Walker was sixty-four, one of those women who seemed to fill up the air so there was always less left for everyone else. Not unkind, not really just exceedingly precise. Certain what was right, what wasnt, what did, or did not fit the concept.
She loved her son of that Emily never doubted. It was just that Mrs Walkers love was so solid, so encompassing, there was no space inside it for Emily. Not because Mrs Walker was cruel. She simply couldnt imagine anyone else loving her son as much as she did. Or more.
In their first married year, Emily tried to be friends. Invited her for Sunday lunches. Asked for recipes. Once she gave her a beautiful scarf, chosen with care. Mrs Walker thanked her, put it aside, and commented that her skin was very sensitive.
Second year, Emily stopped trying for friendship. She just kept her distance. Politely. Without conflict.
In the third year, she realised even distance didnt work Mrs Walker couldnt acknowledge boundaries unless she drew them herself.
Fourth, fifth, sixth… Emily stopped counting.
***
– Paul Nicholas, – Mrs Walker called from the sitting room. Come settle the matter with the paintings.
He set down his mug. Emily watched him walk towards his mothers voice. She recognised the movements; the quickened step, the tensed shoulders, the readiness.
How many times, in these ten years, had he gone like that? When called. When messaged. Whenever demanded.
She no longer felt angry. She was too exhausted for anger it needed energy she hadnt felt in ages.
She could hear them discussing paintings. Mrs Walkers voice: Definitely keeping this one; came from Fort Gallery, good investment… Pauls voice, vague and agreeing.
Emily finished her tea, washed the mug, left it to dry.
Then she went to the bedroom. Not because she needed to; she just couldnt bear to stand in the kitchen listening as her life was divided by points on a printed list.
The bedroom was silent. Sunlight fell in angled stripes over the made bed. They hadnt decided whod keep the bed. Mrs Walker probably already knew.
Emily perched on the edge, running her palm across the coverlet.
She remembered choosing it. Two options in the shop: one practical, dark, easy-clean as Mrs Walker would say. The other a fragile, powder-blue, almost like the sky, wholly impractical. She bought the blue. Paul was surprised but didnt object.
That blue coverlet was her boldest act in eight years of living here.
***
Emily opened the bedrooms top cupboard on a whim, looking for her old handbag. There it was, in the back and beside it, a shoebox.
Plain, battered, cardboard. On the lid, in her own hand, felt-tipped the words: Misc. Ours.
She didnt at first recall what was inside.
Took the box out, placed it next to her on the bed.
Opened it.
On top: two faded cinema tickets, corners torn. She struggled to recall which film, then remembered: *Amélie*. Their third date. Paul had claimed he didnt like it, but admitted years later that he lied he loved it, just embarrassed to say so.
Beneath, a postcard from Barcelona, their honeymoon spot, Sagrada Família on the front. On the back Paul had written: I love you more than Gaudí loved this church and he loved it for seventy-three years. Emily laughed then, asked, Will you love me for seventy-three years? He answered, Ill try.
He was forty now; she, thirty-eight. They had spent ten together. Sixty-three remained.
She turned the card over in her hands, pondering this.
Under the card: a little Eiffel Tower fridge magnet from a Parisian flea market instantly banished from the fridge by Mrs Walker, declaring it tacky. A plastic Participant wristband from a work do, where they danced until 1 a.m, both tipsy. A dried flower, now disintegrating; she couldnt remember where it came from, but vaguely recalled a meadow, an early morning, stopping for no reason except that it was beautiful. Three shells from a Cornish beach. A paper napkin on which theyd once played noughts and crosses while waiting for a meal at some café.
All of it cheap. All of it insignificant. None of it itemised in Mrs Walkers spreadsheet.
Emily sat on the pale blue coverlet, napkin in hand, and something inside her, long kept tight and careful, began to slowly release.
She didnt cry. She wasnt good at crying. She just sat, breathing, while the tape rustled outside and Mrs Walker chattered about the crystal wine glasses.
***
Paul came into the bedroom by mistake, likely looking for something of his. He saw her and the open box, paused.
– Whats this?
– See for yourself.
He walked over, picked up the cinema tickets. The postcard.
Emily watched him as his face changed subtly, the way the light alters as a cloud moves aside.
– *Amélie*, – he murmured. I said I didnt like it.
– I know.
– I lied.
– I know.
He sat down beside her. Picked up the Participant band.
– That was Serenas work do, 2015.
– Fifteen, yes.
– You lost your shoe on the dance floor.
– You found it by the bar.
– And called you Cinderella.
– And I said you didnt look much like a prince.
He smiled not his tired, apologetic smile of the last two years, but his old one, true, the left corner of his mouth slightly raised.
– Not much of a prince, no.
They lapsed into silence. From beyond the door came a loud bump and Mrs Walkers displeased, Careful! One of the movers muttered, Sorry.
– Paul, – Emily said.
– Yes.
– How did we get here? Not just this room, but here, in this moment?
He took his time, rolling one of the shells between his fingers.
– I dont know, – he said at last.
– You do, – she said, without anger.
He put the shell back.
– Im a coward, – he confessed.
Emily looked at his profile: the familiar line from forehead to nose.
– I know.
– It was meant to be different.
– Yes.
– I should have… so many times.
– Yes, Paul.
He finally turned to her. For the first time that endless, awful day, looked at her properly.
– I want you to know, – he said, that I remember all of this. Every bit. – He nodded at the box. I remember buying the tickets. I remember you burning your tongue on that chimney cake. I remember the meadow. The shells, Emily, you said youd frame them, I said it was tacky, you sulked, and then we went swimming at three in the morning
– Enough, – she said.
– Why?
– Because it hurts.
He fell silent.
– It hurts me too, – he whispered.
***
Mrs Walker appeared in the bedroom doorway.
– Paul, you need to sign
She noticed the box, saw the two of them side by side. Something shifted in her face, hard to define.
– Whats that?
– Our things, – said Paul.
– What things? You should throw that out, its rubbish.
– Mum.
– Its just scrapstickets, bits of paper…
– Mum, – he repeated. And this time, there was something new in his voice. Not a plea. Something else.
She regarded him.
– What?
– Please leave.
A long, loaded pause.
– Paul, the movers are waiting, time is
– Mum. Please, leave the room.
Emily didnt look at her mother-in-law, stared down at her own hands instead. She listened to the sudden, ringing silence.
– Fine, – said Mrs Walker at last, voice level but altered somehow. When youre finished, let me know.
Footsteps receded. No door closed, just the sound of her walking away.
Emily exhaled, slowly.
– Youve never done that before, – she said.
– What?
– Asked her to leave. Not in ten years.
– I know.
– So why now?
– Im not sure. Maybe… he paused, searching for words maybe because when I saw that box, I realised everything were divvying up out there is just stuff. A sofa is a sofa. A vase is a vase. But this this is us. Its the only thing thats really ours.
Emily regarded him steadily.
– Paul, – she said at last, those are nice words.
– I dont want nice words. I
– Hang on, let me finish. What you just saidits pretty, but Im tired of pretty words. You always were good at them. Explaining how things turned out, promising next time would be different, that you understood. But understanding and action are not the same.
– I know.
– No, Paul, you *think* you know, but you dont. If you did, your mother wouldnt be out there packaging up our life by her checklist. She made a list, do you get it? A list of whats ours. She came and made a list.
– Ill stop this.
– Right now?
– Yes.
– Its too late, – Emily said gently. It needed to happen seven years ago, when she chucked my flowerpot from the sill. Or six, when she rearranged our bedroom furniture while we were on holiday. Or five, when she told me I cooked stew wrong. Or four, when
– Em.
– Or three years ago when she said you shouldnt have children yet, needed to settle first, and you agreed, and I was thirty-five, and I…
She trailed off.
The room was terribly quiet.
– That was the worst, – she admitted, voice almost gone. That hurt more than all the rest.
Paul sat frozen. The look on his face was new; not guilty, not defensive. Just open. Defenceless.
– I know, – he said. I
– Dont explain.
– I want to.
– Not now.
She closed the box, pressing the lid straight.
– This is what Im taking, – she said. This is what I want.
– Right.
– I need nothing else from this flat.
He looked at her.
– Where will you go?
– To Sarahs, for now. Then Ill find a place.
– Emily.
– What?
– Dont leave.
She stood, tucking the box under her arm. It was light, unexpectedly light considering all it contained.
– Paul, Im leaving this flat, not you. I cant stay here, I never wanted to, I… just got used to pretending I did.
– We could leave together.
She halted. Turned.
– What did you say?
He stood up, hands by his sides, facing her.
– I said, we can leave this flat together. I dont want the sofa. I dont want the crystal glasses or the Fort Gallery paintings. I want you, and this box, and thats all.
She stared at him.
Inside, something complicated was uncoilingsomething with hope and fear and tiredness, and a feeling she couldnt name.
– Paul, – she said slowly, youre forty years old. If you leave with me, your mother…
– I know.
– …will be furious.
– I know, Emily.
– Are you really ready for that?
– I dont know if Im ready. But I know if I dont do it now, Ill never have any reason to respect myself.
Pause.
– Thats a different conversation, – she said.
– Yes?
– Yes. This isnt I want you back. Its I want to respect myself. Thats different.
– Maybe, – he said. But maybe, deep down, you cant have one without the other.
***
In the sitting room, Mrs Walker was talking to the movers. When Paul and Emily entered, she turned. Noted the box in Emilys hands, scanned Pauls face.
– Finished talking, have we?
– Mum, – Paul said. Stop.
– Stop what?
– All this he gestured at the room, at the displaced furniture, a lamp swaddled in bubble wrap centre-stage take it. Have it all. I dont want any of it.
Mrs Walker stared at him.
– What are you saying?
– Sofa, vases, glasses, paintings, your Luxury Interiors kitchen. Yours. Do as you please.
– Paul, these are expensive, theyre assets, they
– Mum. Emily and I will leave, with just this box. Thats all we need.
Silence.
Mrs Walkers gaze flicked between her son and daughter-in-law. Her face wore an unfamiliar expression not anger, not hurt. More confusion. Like a chess player suddenly at the wrong board.
– Youre mad, – she whispered.
– Maybe.
– This is reckless. Its
– Mum. He stepped to her, stopping close. Emily saw in his face no malice, no accusation, only resolve. I love you. But I cant live like this any more. This isnt life. Its project management. And Im not a project.
Mrs Walker was silent a long moment. Then:
– Youll regret this.
– Maybe, – he replied. But Id rather regret my own choices than yours.
***
They left the flat just after one. Emily carried the box; Paul his suitcase and work laptop.
They didnt speak in the lift. The mirrored wall reflected two not-so-young people, tired faces, one with a cardboard box, one with a bag holding three days of clothes.
On the ground floor, they passed the porter; he nodded. The doors parted. Outside, a typical April day: chilly and grey, the air smelling of damp leaves and distant rain.
They paused on the steps.
– Where to? – Paul asked.
– I told you. Sarahs.
– I cant go to Sarahs.
– You dont have to.
– I dont want not to. I want to go wherever you go.
Emily gazed at the street. The people below, who from up high looked so tiny, now seemed perfectly normal real, with real faces and places they meant to be.
– Paul, – she said. We have nowhere.
– I know.
– Nearly no moneyeverythings frozen until the settlement.
– Ive got a little saved. Mum never knew.
– Fine, but its only enough for now. Well have to rent somewhere. Something small and likely ugly.
– Fine by me.
– No Luxury Interiors kitchen.
– Thank goodness.
She looked up at him. He looked at her. His face wore something like relief, though relief didnt quite express the gravity it bore.
– This isnt the end, – she said. Its just the start. Therell be solicitors, your mum, all the rest…
– I know.
– Im not sure well manage.
– Nor am I.
– And still?
He was silent, then said:
– And still.
Emily adjusted the box under her arm. It was light. Just a handful of tickets, a postcard, a magnet, a wristband, dried flower, shells, and a paper napkin marked with noughts and crosses.
All that was left of a decade. Yet all that had really been theirs from that decade.
– Then lets go, – she said.
And they did. Out into a normal April street, in ordinary English grey, with no plan and no certainty, carrying just a suitcase and a cardboard box between them. Behind, far above, remained the flat on the twenty-third floor, all American walnut floors and the waterfall chandelier, and Mrs Walker, probably already giving more instructions to the movers.
And they walked. Emily had no answer as to whether it was the right thing. Right now, she really knew only one thing for sure: the box under her arm; Paul walking right beside her; April. The scent that only comes when its still cold, but you can tell the cold wont last forever.
– Paul, – she said as they walked.
– Yes?
– Remember the shells?
– Cornwall. You wanted a frame.
– You said itd be tacky.
– It is tacky.
– Im making a frame anyway.
– Good, – he said.
– Nowhere to hang it yet.
– Well find somewhere, – he said.
Emily didnt answer. She just walked on, cradling her box, thinking that well find wasnt really a promise, just a phrase. But sometimes a phrase is all you have. And sometimes, its enough to take one more step. And then another. And another.
