28April
Ive been staring at the pot of stew on the kitchen hob, the aroma curling up like a promise that never quite materialises. Its the third time this week Oliver has compared me to his exwife, Laura, and I can feel the old weight settling back into the corner of our twobed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Im polishing the last spot of the plate with a damp cloth, the spring in my cheststill taut after two years of marriagecompressing a little more with each reminder of she used to do it better.
Oliver pushes the steaming bowl away with a lazy flick of his wrist and reaches for the crusty loaf, as if the bread alone could fill the whole house. He gives me that look, the one that says this is as good as it gets here. I stand by the sink, towel in hand, and for a moment the world feels like a kitchen timer ticking down to a verdict Im not sure I want.
At first the comparisons were odd, almost accidental. Your shirt isnt ironed properlyLaura would have starched the collar, hed say. Those curtains are the wrong shadeLaura preferred bright yellows. Then the jokes turned into a ghost that now haunts the space between the TV and the sofa, commenting on every move I make with Lauras voice, as if she were still living under my roof.
Oliver, I try to keep my voice even, though it trembles, if you dont like it, you could make it yourself or go to the canteen. Ive been at this stew for two hours, just like my grandma taught me.
He rolls his eyes. Oh, here we go again. Im only giving you constructive criticism so you can improve. Laura never complained; she learned. She was a goddess in the kitchen, really. Her temperament was fireunlike you, a quiet amoebabut everything in the house gleamed under her hand.
A quiet amoeba, he repeats, chuckling. I hang the towel on the rack, feeling the label fit me all too well. I am a calm person, patient, a librarian who loves the hush of a good book. Oliver once told me he wanted a haven after a decade of a marriage that he called a volcano of passion and tantrums. Now that haven feels more like a swamp than a harbor.
If she was such an ideal housewife, why did you two split? I ask quietly, sitting opposite him.
He stops chewing his bread, his brow furrowing. We just didnt match. She was fiery, demandingalways wanting something new. A coat, a holiday, a renovation. I grew tired of that pressure. With her I felt energised, like a man who could move mountains. With you its all flat, like a bog, and the stew is dry.
He rises, abandons his plate, and heads for the living room, shouting, Make me a cup of tea, and dont skimp on the sugarlifes already bland enough.
I stay put, watching the stew cool, and a different feeling rises: not anger, but a clear, icy calm. Im exhausteddeadtired of competing with a spectre. Im weary of proving I deserve love, not because my cooking is better than Lauras, but simply because I exist.
Oliver misses his former wife. He romanticises the past, forgetting the broken dishes and arguments, remembering only the rich stew and starchkissed collars. If a man suffers like that, perhaps a loving woman should help.
The next day I took a halfday off, not to lounge, but to investigate. Our town isnt a metropolis, so tracking Laura down was easyshe was active on social media.
Her profile was a collage of pictures: her in a bright sundress at a country cottage, belting out karaoke with friends, lamenting a drippy tap while lamenting that real men are gone. Her status read: On the hunt for happiness.
I smiled; the puzzle was falling into place.
That evening Oliver came home, still irked about the bus crush and the fact wed never bought a carLaura had always been good at saving. I welcomed him with a grin. Love, dinners ready. I need to talk.
What about? he asked, fork poised. More of the same?
No, I said, Ive been thinking about what you said. Maybe Im not as perfect a housewife as Laura was. I could learn a thing or two.
He choked on his bite. Youre serious?
Absolutely. I found her old phone number tucked away in some paperwork you apparently forgot. Perhaps she could share her famous stew recipe? Or that cabbage pie you always rave about?
His eyes lit up, a mix of curiosity and mistrust. I dont know Shes proud, might not want to help.
I think shes struggling now. I saw her profileshe says shes lonely and could use a mans help.
He sat up straighter. Shed crumble without a bloke. Shes great at cooking but cant even hammer a nail. Ive always handled the repairs. She admired that.
I nodded. Our tap is leaking, youre tired, I get that. But maybe shes dealing with a flood. Call her, just as a courtesy. We lived ten years together, after all.
He hesitated. On one hand, calling an ex felt awkward; on the other, I was openly praising Lauras superiority, which stroked his ego. Finally he said, Alright, just to check how shes doing, as a friend.
Half an hour later I heard him on the balcony, his voice shifting from tentative to oddly cheerful. He rushed back, eyes bright. Shes had a curtain rail snap in the bedroom, shes sleeping with a streetlamp shining in her eyes. She needs help. Ill go.
Dont you mind? I asked.
Not at all. Its noble, isnt it? Maybe shell teach me how to make borscht the way you like.
Saturday arrived. Oliver dressed his best shirt, spritzed on a bit of aftershave (something I havent seen him use in a year), grabbed a toolbox, and left.
He returned late, weary but smiling like a cat with a fresh bowl of cream. Fixed the rail, the socket, even the cupboard door. She ran the house without mesad, reallybut she fed me meat pies and jelly, and she sent her regards, saying Im a saint for letting her out.
I smiled mysteriously. Thus began the odd threeway arrangement. Oliver started visiting Laura more often: tweaking a TV, moving heavy boxes, hauling potatoes because shes a frail lady. He always came back satiated, smelling of someone elses perfume, recounting Lauras flamboyant personality.
She wore a tight scarlet dress today, saying it was for herself, but I think it was for a guest. And she laughsfullthroated. You just smile with your lips, but theres a fountain of emotion behind it, hed say.
I listened, nodded, and stopped cooking dinner.
Olly, youll be at Lauras again after work to hang a shelf, right? Ill just have kefir, thats healthy enough, I replied.
At first he protested weakly, then fell into habit. He liked the excitement; at home was peace, clean shirts (I still did the laundry, though now without zeal). At Lauras was a feast for his golden hands and that spark hed always chased.
A month passed. Oliver grew increasingly irritable at home, bored. He only came to sleep.
One night, lying on the sofa, he said, Laura says she regrets not appreciating me. She cried today.
I set my book down. And what does that make you?
Ive got a family, Im a decent man, but my heart aches. Shes my…my sister now, after all those years together. Shes softened, become more placid.
Softened because she wants free labour, I thought, but said, Oliver, youre torturing yourself, her, and me, honestly.
He lifted his elbow, confused. What do you mean?
I looked at the flat we shared, two neighbours under the same roof. We live like neighbours. Youre bored with me; you call it a bog. With her its a volcano, passion, pies. Maybe you should go back?
He stared, stunned. Youre pushing me out?
No, Im letting you go. You always compare me to her, and the score is never in my favour. Why keep hurting anyone? Stay a week or two wherever you think youll be happy. Figure it out.
He stared at the ceiling, his breath shallow. And if I find its better there?
Then thats that. I want you to be happy, Oliver. It was a bluff, the highest sort of bluff. I knew if I started a jealousy fight, hed stay out of guilt, but forever resent me. If I released him
He paced the flat for two days, eyes pleading for me to fall at his feet. I calmly fetched his suitcase, folded in shirts, socks, his favourite sweater, and even a jar of his beloved coffee.
Is this really happening? he asked at the door, shuffling on the spot. Its only temporary, Len, just to think.
Exactly, temporary, I said. Go. Lauras waiting. Dont keep a lady waiting.
He left, the door clicking shut. I turned the lock twice, then slipped down onto the floor, laughinga nervous, relieved laugh. Finally alone, in my quiet flat, surrounded by books, no one nagging about dry stew or perfect collars.
The first three days he didnt call. I think he was enjoying his honeymoon. I didnt either. I bought new navy curtains (the ones I actually like), rearranged the lounge, went to the theatre with a friend.
On the fourth day his voice rang through the line, hollow. Hey, Len. How are you?
Fine, reading. You?
The pies were good. By the way, where are my winter boots? I cant find them in the suitcase.
Theyre on the mezzanine shelf. You said you werent staying long, why would you need them? Its autumn now.
Right, right could you
No, Oliver. Im busy. Let Laura sort you a new pairshes caring, after all.
The call ended. A week later his calls turned regular.
Len, my backs killed me. Lauras sofa is a death trap, springs poking me. We had an orthopedic one back home.
Fix her sofa then, youve got golden hands. She makes good money, right?
She quit a month ago, saying shes finding herself. Im doing double shifts, hauling groceries. She expects cheese and red fish. No money. Yesterday she yelled I didnt bring enough.
Thats the volcano of passion you dreamed of, I replied calmly. You wanted the buzz, right? Have it.
Are you mocking me?
Im stating facts. Ive got yoga now, I must go.
Three days later Oliver called, slurred. Len shes gone mad. She made me redo the hallway wallpaper at night because she didnt like the colour under the lamp. I havent slept two nights. I want to come home. Yours. Your stew even if its dry, at least its quiet.
Go to sleep, Oliver, I said sharply. You made your choice. You wanted fireworksyou got them. Im a quiet amoeba, those passions arent my cup of tea.
Two and a half weeks after my departure came Friday evening. I was curled in an armchair with a mug of hot cocoa, watching a drama on the telly. A firm knock sounded at the door, followed by the scrape of a key.
I wasnt surprised. I rose, approached, but only lifted the main lock, leaving the chain in place. The door opened a sliver. Olivers ragged face peered out, unshaven, eyes red. The suitcase hed carried lay at his feet.
Len, open up, he croaked. Im back. Ive had enough of Laura. You were right, the swamp was decaying. She used me as a sponsor, a labourer. She didnt even cook last weekstorebought dumplings! She pretended she made them. I found the packet in the bin.
Quite a tragic tale, Oliver, I said, voice steady. But I cant let you in.
What? This is my flat! Im on the lease!
The flat is councilowned, passed down from my parents. Youre not on the register; youre still on your mothers. We only lived here together. Ill be changing the locks tomorrow; the locksmith couldnt come today.
Youre joking. Ill come back, Ill Ill love you, Ill wash my feet, Ill drink your water!
I dont need you drinking water from my floor. I need you to respect me when you lived here, not compare me to a phantom.
Please, Len, open up! Its freezing out here!
Go back to Laura. Theres fire there, youll warm up.
She threw me out! When I said I couldnt afford a coat, she called me a failure, said my previous husband the one before mewas better!
I laughed, loudly, genuinely. What a twist of fate. They compared you to the ex too. How does that feel, Oliver? Energised?
He sputtered, Enough! Let me in!
No, you have no home here. Your home is wherever youre valued. Ive realised Im far happier on my own. Im done with starchkissed collars. I want untucked tees and food I enjoy.
I slammed the door. He hammered, shouted, threatened, then wept. Neighbours peeked out, and I threatened to call the police if he didnt leave.
He eventually went back to his mother, sent flowers to my workplace, called from unknown numbers, but I stayed firm. Something finally gave way that night when he left with his suitcase for the better life.
Six months later we were legally divorced. In court Oliver looked pitiful, trying to tug at the judges sympathy, recounting how his wife had deceived him and kicked him out. I merely smiled.
A year later I met someone ordinary, not perfect. The first time I served him my own stew, he ate two bowls, wiped the sauce with a slice of bread and said, Thanks, Len. Its brilliant. Youre tired, arent you? Rest, Ill wash up. No mention of Laura, no lectures about frying onions.
Oliver? Rumour has it he reunited with Laura again, split, reunited againseems some men need that volcano of passion to feel alive. I watch it from my quiet, cosy harbour, where strangers are barred entry.
Sometimes you just have to let someone make a mistake so they see what theyve lost, and you learn you deserve more than being a pale echo of someone elses past.
Emily.
