The Wall on Her Side
Claire, why are you wading into this conversation again? Simon didnt even bother to look at me. He stood by the window, glass of red in hand, broad-shouldered and composed as ever, his voice soft, almost affectionatewhich, frankly, was the worst of all. It was me Darren was asking. Me. He doesnt need your take on everything.
Darren Thomas, our guestSimons business partner for some new logistics schemestared down at his plate, obviously uncomfortable. I could tell by the way he nudged his fork, even though he clearly wasnt about to touch his food.
I just mentioned that there are huge sites sitting empty right in the city centre, I replied evenly.
Claire. Simon finally turned around, and I recognised that look after twenty-seven years. Not angerworse. Pity. Youve set a lovely table, the foods smashing, everyones pleased. Why dont you just bring out dessert, alright?
There were four others at the table. Darrens wife, Julia, shot me a quick glance with a flicker of sympathyor perhaps I imagined it. I stood, gathered a few plates, and made my way to the kitchen.
I spent a minute at the sink, looking out at the darkness beyond. The rain was steady and autumnal, turning the streetlights outside into blurred yellow clouds. I was fifty-two. Behind me there was laughter, glasses clinking, Simons smooth voice. I pulled the cake Id baked that morning from the fridge and carried it back in.
That was my life.
Our home was in one of the better parts of Manchestera city wed lived in together all our married life. Simon built it himself when the business finally took off, some fifteen years ago. A big, two-storey house, garage and garden, the latter all my doing. Simon was always too busy, and when we did try a gardener, he always planted everything in the wrong places. Guests always commented, What a house you have, Mrs. Brooks, such wonderful taste. And I always said thank you, because it really was my taste. Every curtain, every shelf, every single currant bush by the fence.
Except, technically, it was Simons house.
I never worked in the way Simon worked. After university, where we met, I taught design for a few years at a college. Then Oliver was born, then Simons business started growing, and the endless relocating, hosting, networking began. I left work. Simon said, You dont need that paltry salary, Ill provide. And he did. Never mean, always generousbut every time I needed money for something just mine, Id either have to ask, or squirrel it away from the household budget.
Making jewellery happened by accidentabout ten years back, stuck at our cottage during a rainy week, I found a box of old beads Id long forgotten. By evening Id put together a necklace. It came out surprisingly well. Then I made another. Then more. My friends began asking for pieces, and then wanted to buy them. I bought some proper tools, started using stones, silver findings. It became my thing. My space.
Simon treated it the way he did my tomatoesnice hobby, keeps you busy.
These little trinkets of yours, hed say when I showed him my latest work. Come on, Clairewhere are you going to flog them, the market?
Never bothered answering. What could I say?
Oliver grew up, left for London, got married there, stayed down south. We saw each other at Christmas and birthdays. Hed call on Sundays, ask about my health; Id ask about work. We loved each other, just lived separate lives.
Except I didnt really have a life of my own.
I had a big, lovely house, a husband, regular guests, fundraiser luncheons Simon attended for networking. I stood beside him in the right dress, with the right smilehis calling card with a welcoming face. Upstanding chap, good family, attractive wife. I know its a job, in a way. Only, this job isnt paidor even acknowledged.
The letter arrived in Februarya plain envelope from a solicitor on King Street, someone I didnt know. I opened it at the kitchen table while Simon was still asleep.
My mothers cousin, Margaret Whitmore, whom Id met maybe three timeslast at a family funeral nearly twenty years agohad passed away in December. Shed had no children and had left me a building. Not a flat, not a plota building: a former warehouse, two storeys, built in the 1950s, about three thousand and some square feet. Long abandoned.
I read the letter three times.
Then I called the solicitor.
Yes, Mrs. Brooks, all correct. Margaret Whitmore specifically named you as sole heir. Also, the land beneath the building is included. She arranged that in the Nineties. Everythings straightforward.
Land in the city centre? I repeated.
Yes, though its not a huge plot, but the location is excellent.
I thanked him, hung up, and sat there a long time with the letter.
I didnt tell Simon. Couldnt even say why. Well, actually, I could. I knew what would happen: hed go down, take one look, tell me it should be demolished or sold, claim he knew just the chap from a building firm, and just like that, Id be standing by while the decisions happened above my head.
So I went to see it alone, saying I was off to see a friend.
The building stood in a little lane just behind the old theatrein that bit of the city where Victorian townhouses rubbed elbows with post-war flats and gleaming new offices. The lane was quiet, cobbled, with trees just beginning to bud.
The building itself was daunting. The plaster was peeling, ground floor windows boarded up, rusty gates. But the walls were solid. I walked round twice, ran my hand along the bricks, eyed the roofstill holding up. Slipped inside through the side door, left unlocked.
The ceilings were high. Large windows, some shards of glass left. Timber beams upstairs, some rotten, most still intact. The floor was original tiles under layers of grime. The place smelt of damp and something old and woody.
I stood in the middle, staring through a broken bit in the ceiling, with daylight shining through.
And suddenly I felt something very strange. Not fear, nor sadness. Something more like that feeling you get when you arrive somewhere new and just know: this is it. This is mine.
The solicitor was a pleasant enough chap, maybe mid-forties. We sorted everything within a couple of weeks, and I picked up the deeds myselffiled them away in a folder in my beadroom. Simon never went in there.
My old school friend, Rachelnow an estate agentwas the first person I called.
Youre serious? Rachel said after a long pause.
I am.
Claire, thats a fortune. City centre, landdo you realise?
I do. I dont want to sell.
What do you want, then?
I hesitated. Then said, Remember how we used to go to exhibitions together, when we were young? At that old Artists House near Portland Street?
Course.
Well, something like that. A place for people. For exhibitions, workshops, to learn something. An art space, like they say nowadays.
Rachel paused an age.
Claire, its a massive investment. Refurb, electrics, all sorts.
I know.
Got the money?
Not yet. But I will.
She didnt press. That was Rachelshe listened, she kept quiet, and thats why Ive kept her close.
So I began how I knew bestselling my jewellery. Over the years, Id built up quite a stash. Pieces I never sold because I loved them; things I thought were my finest work. Silver pendants with Derbyshire stones, hand-wrought bracelets, a few sets that took me weeks to finish.
Rachel helped. She knew a woman who owned a small gallery-giftshop. The plan was: Rachel brought my pieces, called them exclusive designs by a mysterious local silversmith, and the shop took a small commission. First batch sold in three weeks.
Claire, you wouldnt believe it, Rachel told me over the phone, Theyre already asking for more. That labradorite ring you did two years back? The one you swore youd never part withit was gone in two hours.
For how much?
She named the price.
I had to go stand on the balcony, I felt so odd.
Within three months Id sold enough to raise a sum I once thought impossible. I stashed the money in a savings account under just my name at a small bank near the solicitors office. Simon had no clue.
Meanwhile, I found buildersnot through any of Simons contacts, but on my own, through the internet, after a few café meetings when Simon was at work. The team I chose was small, four men led by an older fellow named Martina quiet bloke about fifty, who looked at the building the same way I did: without disdain.
Brickworks sound, Martin said, knocking on the walls. Roofll need redoing. Replace part of the ground floor. New windows everywhere. New wiring, obviously. Four months, if we dont have hold-ups.
We wont.
Martin looked at me; no judgment, just attention.
Fair enough, he said.
Back home, life continued as evercooking for guests, attending Simons functions, listening to talk of logistics and investments. Sometimes hed say something and Id nod, but all Id be thinking about were window frames, the storage mezzanines I wanted upstairs, the right lights for the gallery room.
Simon never noticed. I was just part of the backdrop, and the backdrop stayed where it was.
One close callhe found a receipt from B&Q in my bag, from when Id stopped by for paint samples.
Whats this? he asked over dinner.
Just bought a few bits for the house, I replied calmly.
Some kind of primer?
I want to sort the damp in the basement.
He shrugged, back to his phone, and the entire exchange lasted thirty seconds.
Martin turned out to be a real craftsman. He worked carefully where it mattered, picked up the pace when needed. We stuck to practical discussionsno small talk. Sometimes Id come round and just stand quietly in the middle as drills whined and saws sang, and Id feel lighter. It was a physical thing, in my body, in my mindlike the air had changed.
Rachel came to have a look in June, once the windows were fitted and the walls had been smoothed out.
Claire, this is going to be something else, she said, looking around.
It is.
So, have you thoughtwhat sort of events, exactly? You do need a vision, as they say.
I have. Exhibitions to start with. We have plenty of local artists with nowhere to show. Workshops. The studios upstairs could be rented out to people needing workspace. Little café on the ground floor. Reading nook.
Youve planned it all out, Rachel grinned.
Ive been dreaming about this for three years. I just didnt know it could happen.
Then, in September, I met Emma. She had a stall at a local craft fair, selling handmade dolls, absorbed in a book as passersby drifted past. The dolls were extraordinary. I stopped, picked one up.
These yours? I asked.
Yes, made them myself.
How long?
About seven years. She looked up at me. You like them?
I do. Im Claire. Im opening a small art space soon, looking for people who might be interested in joining in.
Emma put her book down.
And thats how it all began. Emma knew two artists. One of them introduced a sculptor. The sculptor brought along a potter whod been searching for a decent workspace for ages. By October, I had a list of a dozen people keen to get started as soon as I opened.
But the money was nearly gone. Only a handful of pieces leftmy best work. I still owed Martin for the final stretch, needed to buy lights, signage, the rest.
I sold the set Id hoped to keeptwo years work, amethyst and silver. Rachel rang the very next day.
Claire, it sold within the hour. The customer said shes never seen anything like it. Asked if youd more.
There isnt any more, I said.
Are you sad?
No, I said. And meant it.
We opened in early Novemberno grand fanfare. I posted in local groups online, invited artists and anyone interested. About sixty people turned up for the first evening.
Simon was away on business that day. I told him I was with Rachel. He just said, Alright, Ill manage supper.
I stood in the hall, watching people move through, taking in the artwork, chatting, holding Emmas dolls. My hands tremblednot with nerves, but because sometimes, when youve wanted something for so long and it finally happens, your body just reacts.
Martin came too, leaning against the wall, looking around.
Turned out nice, he said.
Thank you so much, I replied.
Thank you, he said, plain and simple.
After that, everything happened faster than Id expected. The studios filled up, pottery courses were fully booked. The café, run by a lively girl called Sophie, opened in December and quickly became a favourite, even for those not directly involved. Local journalists published a little write-upor two.
One day I bumped into an elderly neighbour from across the lane.
Youre the one who opened that up? he asked, nodding at the building.
I am.
Ive lived here for years, and this is the first time theres a reason to stroll down here. Good job, love.
I thanked him, beaming all the way to the car.
Simon found out in Januarynot from me, but through a partner whod spotted a piece in the local paper, with a photo of our exhibition and my name. He brought it up at dinner.
Claire, Simon said, after everyone else had left, You have something to tell me?
I was stacking plates, taking my time.
I do, I agreed. Sit down, Ill put the kettle on.
I told him everythingthe inheritance, the building, my jewellery, the work. He listened quietly. His face betrayed nothing; that business mask.
When I finished, he was silent for a long time before saying, You kept all this from me.
I did.
Why?
I looked at him, properly. He really wanted to knowor thought he did.
Because if Id told you straight away, Simon, youd have decided everything for me. Made it yours.
Thats not fair.
Its not, I agreed. Any more than its fair that in all these years, youve never really asked me what I wanted.
He stood, cup in hand, looking through the window.
You expect me to say Im proud of you?
No, I replied. You dont need to say anything.
And he didnt.
We lived in the same house a few more months. Nothing dramatic, no fireworks. Like the slow thaw of winterjust something shifting out of sight.
And then there was the ball.
The annual city charity ball every February, a big do hosted by the council and local businesses. Simon always attended. This time, a formal envelope came addressed to me. Not as part of the usual family invitea solo one. A woman from the organising committee phoned: this year, thered be a special award for New Urban Spaces, and my placeThe Whitmore (named after my great-aunt)had made the shortlist.
Will you be able to attend in person? she asked.
I will, I said.
Simon learnt about the award that very day. I told him myself. He gave me a searching look, as though he were seeing someone long familiar in a new, uncertain light.
Congratulations, he said.
Thanks.
I bought my own dress. Navy blue, well-cut, understated. Wore my own jewellerya new labradorite ring to replace the one sold, and little garnet earrings Id made.
At the event, we sat at different tablesSimon up front as a regular charity patron. I, as a nominee, was seated with the others further back. When I came in, I caught his eye. He nodded. I nodded back.
The room was eleganta beautiful old city hall with plaster ceilings and a grand chandelier. The crowd was well-heeled, the air rich with cologne and hyacinths. I sat straight, remembering that a year ago Id have been at the kitchen sink, listening to strangers laughter through a wall.
When our category was called, I went upwalking slowly, legs a bit wobbly, but steady enough.
The committee chairdistinguished, silver-voicedsaid a few words about the value of art to the city, then read out my name and handed me a crystal sculpture and a slim envelope.
A few words? he asked.
I took the mic. The room was silent. I found Rachel, smiling at me from across the tables. And then Simon. His expressionI couldnt really decipher it. Not pride, not spite. Something in between.
I want to thank those who believed in this space before it existed, I said. The artists, craftspeople, everyone who stepped through our doors and stayed. And to my aunt Margaret, who left me much more than a building.
I spoke for three minutes, if that. There were cheers. I left the stage, holding the crystal, and returned to my seat.
Rachel rushed over during the break, squeezed me tight.
Claire, did you see his face? she whispered.
I saw.
And?
Nothing, I replied. Nothing much.
Simon spoke to me after the speeches, as the music started and couples drifted onto the floor.
Lovely speech, he said.
Thank you.
Youre looking well.
Simon, I sighed, dont.
He was quiet.
We need a proper talk.
I know, I said. At home.
It was a long, quiet conversation. Not a rowwe were past shouting. It was more draining than that, two tired, middle-aged people seeing each other properly, maybe for the first time in years.
I told him I wanted a divorce.
He was silent for ages. Then asked, Is there someone else?
No. I just want my own life.
You are living your own life now.
I am. And I want to keep doing soalone.
He got up, paced the room.
The house, he said, Are we splitting it?
The house is in your name, I said. But the land it sits onits mine.
He stopped.
Sorry?
I explained calmly. Years ago, the land beneath our home ended up in my aunt Margarets name for legal reasons. Id only found out when sorting the inheritance. My solicitor had double-checked everything: it was all above board. The land was mine.
Simon looked at me like hed never truly seen me before.
Youve known all this time? he asked softly.
Since I sorted the inheritance.
And said nothing.
Yes. Just as you kept a lot to yourself, too.
He sat.
We talked and talked. No tears, no rage. Just two weary people realising whatever theyd been to each other, it had faded, changedor maybe just got lost along the way.
It took three months for the solicitors to sort everything. The split was amicable. I left the house to Simon, on terms my lawyer made very clear. The settlement went straight into the Whitmore. We expanded the café and opened a small upstairs gallery.
I rented a flat. Small, but not far from the gallery. Top floor, view of slate rooftops and an old linden tree that blossoms every spring, scent flooding in even through closed windows.
That first night, I woke at three, lay in the dark, listening to the silenceno voices, no footsteps, nobody else’s breathing. Just an occasional car below and the soft tap of rain.
I was fifty-three. Alone, and, for the first time, not afraid. That seemed, to me, the most important thing.
A year passed.
The Whitmore was humming by the following winter. Three artists rented studios, pottery courses ran full three nights a week, booked out a month ahead. Sophies café downstairs had become the cosiest spot in the neighbourhoodwooden tables, old city photos on the walls, Friday evenings with a little live jazz.
Emmas dolls all sold out, and she started making commissions. We grew close, the sort of friendship that only happens at exactly the right time.
Rachel would say to me, Claire, you look ten, fifteen years younger.
I just sleep better now, Id tell her.
I kept making jewellery. Not for moneyjust because I loved it. Evenings at home, lamp on, laying out stones and silver, working quietly. That time was mine. Nobody elses.
I ran into Simon by chance, early December, outside a café near the Whitmore. We spotted each other instantly.
Hed aged a littleor maybe I was just seeing him with fresh eyes.
Claire, he said.
Simon. Hello.
We stopped. Not awkward. Just the pause of two people with a long, shared history but not much left to say.
Hows things? he asked.
Good. You?
Fine. He hesitated. Heard youve just opened the second gallery space.
Yes, November.
Well done, he said. And he meant it. No trace of the old condescension.
Thank you.
Another pause. He shuffled his feet.
Lookquick question, if you dont mind. Im thinking of taking on a unit for a small showroom, centre of town. Any idea whos managing the refurb projects round there? Anyone reliable?
I looked at him. I felt an old reflex stirthat urge to help, fix, be useful, as Id done for him for twenty-seven years. It was ingrained.
I smiled.
No, Simon, I said softly. I dont know.
He seemed surprisedbut not hurt. Just surprised.
Alright, he said. Fair enough.
Good luck, I said.
And you.
We went our separate ways. I walked to the corner, pulled my scarf up against the cold. The frost was light, the air brisk and pleasant, and from the next street came the sweet scent of Christmas pine.
I thought, tonight Ill go by the WhitmoreEmmas hanging her new series, and people will gather. Sophiell have baked something lovely, as always. Therell be jazz, laughter, light streaming from the big windows.
And I walked on.
