Eleanor Thompson hands back her husbands wedding ring and pulls a suitcase out when she spots a chat with a colleague.
Give me your phone, now! I saw your eyes flicker the moment the message came in. You turned pale, Mark. What is it? Another report at eleven oclock?
Eleanor stands in the middle of the living room, palm raised. Her voice, usually soft and calm, trembles like a taut string about to snap.
Mark, who had been lounging on the couch a minute ago, now perches on the edge, clutching his smartphone. His face shows a mix of fear and that foolish, brash defence men put on when caught redhanded, still hoping to wriggle out.
Eleanor, why are you blowing this out of proportion? he tries to fake a careless smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Work wrote to me. We have an audit tomorrow, remember? Mrs. Clarke needs the material writeoff data. I cant just ignore her Im the department head.
Mrs. Clarke? Eleanor repeats, stepping forward. Youre sending her kissy emojis? I saw the reflection in the sideboard mirror, Mark. You were smiling at the screen like you havent smiled at me in three years. Hand over the phone. If its Mrs. Clarke and the materials, Ill apologise and go back to the kitchen to finish the cake.
Mark jumps, tucking the phone behind his back.
This is a breach of privacy! Have you gone off to become a prison guard? I have a right to privacy! Youve become unbearable with your jealousy, Len. Its paranoia, you need help.
Paranoia? Eleanor feels a cold, heavy wave rise inside her. Fine. Either you put the phone on the coffee table, unlocked, or I start packing your things. Right now.
Silence hangs. The only sound is the ticking of the wall clock a gift from Eleanors mother for their silver anniversary, due in six months. Mark watches her, measuring the seriousness of the threat. Usually Eleanor would throw a tantrum, cry, and then forgive. Today her eyes hold something new: emptiness.
Come on, grab it! Mark throws the phone onto the sofa. Read it! Find your proof! Then dont whine when you realise how foolish youve been.
Eleanor slowly picks up the phone. The screen is still lit. She knows the password their daughters birthdate. Mark, panicked, apparently forgot to change it.
She opens the messenger. The top chat isnt with Mrs. Clarke. Its labelled Lucy (Accounts). The avatar shows a young woman with a pouty mouth and a lowcut neckline.
Eleanor begins to read, and each line feels like someone is scooping the life out of her with a giant ladle.
Mark, are you coming soon? I miss you. I keep thinking about yesterdays lunch in the staff kitchen You were on fire the message is two minutes old.
Marks unsent reply hangs in the draft: Love, hold on. My cats acting weird again, looping around. Ill calm her down and write back. Love your lips.
Eleanor scrolls up.
Is your wife really as boring as you said? Poor little kitty, how do you cope? Shes probably a log in bed.
Marks reply: Logs burn, Lucy. This is a swamp. I live for our daughter, you know that. And the borschts great. My soul still reaches for you, for the celebration.
Swamp, Eleanor whispers.
She looks up at Mark. He stands by the window, drumming his fingers on the sill. He doesnt see what shes reading, but the lingering silence tells him its serious.
Borschts great, then? she asks quietly.
Mark snaps around.
What?
Youre telling her you stay with me for the borscht and that Im a swamp, and shes a celebration.
Marks face flushes.
Eleanor, its just banter! Male banter, you know? Flirting to boost my ego! Nothing serious, I swear! Shes young, naive, hanging onto me
Yesterdays lunch in the staff kitchen was also flirting? Eleanor throws the phone onto the sofa as if it were contagious. You were on fire. Was that about your quarterly report?
Mark remains silent, his throat dry with excuses.
Eleanor turns and walks to the bedroom. Her legs feel like water, but she forces herself to move straight, not to fall, not to scream, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her unravel.
She opens the wardrobe and, with a crash, pulls out the old, battered suitcase from the top shelf the one they used for their Brighton holiday five years ago, when they were still happy, or at least thought they were.
What are you doing? Mark stands in the doorway, pale and bewildered.
Im packing you a surprise. For Lucy, Eleanor says, opening his drawer and shoving socks and underwear into the suitcase haphazardly.
Eleanor, stop! This is ridiculous! Tearing the family apart over a chat? Twentyfive years, Eleanor! We have a daughter, a mortgage on a cottage, plans!
Plans? she pauses, holding his favourite sweater she knitted over two months. Your plans are lunches in the staff kitchen with an accountant. My plans are to live with a man who respects me. Apparently our plans dont match.
She tosses the sweater into the suitcase, followed by shirts, crumpling them instead of folding neatly, each motion packed with hurt and anger.
You cant kick me out! Mark shouts, shifting from defence to attack. This is my flat too! Im on the lease!
The flat came from my parents, Mark. Youre on the lease, but Im the owner. Forgot? Or did Lucys lips wipe your memory?
That hits Mark where it hurts the property issue has always been his sore spot. He feels slighted, though Eleanor has never blamed him for it before.
Im not going anywhere tonight! he says, sitting on the bed, arms crossed. Calm down, take some valerian. Well talk tomorrow. I may be at fault, but youre not an angel either. Youre always in your dressing gown, what can we discuss? The houseplants? Of course a man will look left!
Eleanor freezes. Classic shes to blame line.
She walks to the mirror, studies herself a wellkept woman in her midforties, hair cut three days ago, manicure neat, wearing a tidy house dress, not a grubby bathrobe. Shes been to the gym, the pool, reads regularly. To Mark shes become invisible furniture, a swamp.
Get up, she says softly.
What?
Get out of bed. Now.
Her voice carries steel, and Mark complies.
She pulls the duvet off him, folds it, and tosses it into the suitcase.
Take it. You might need it. Lucy could need fresh linens.
She continues packing: jeans, trousers, a razor from the bathroom, cologne. Everything flies into the bottomless maw of the suitcase. Mark tries to speak, reach for her, but she shakes him off like an itchy insect.
Eleanor, lets talk! Come on! Everyone slips up! Vasily on the third floor lives with two families and gets away with it, and Svetlana tolerates! Because shes wise! And youre just hysterical!
Go to Vasily then. Or Svetlana. Share your wisdom. I dont need that wisdom. Im disgusted, Mark. I wont eat leftovers from other peoples lunches.
The suitcase is full. Eleanor struggles to zip it, rolls it to the hall and says, Put on your shoes.
Eleanor Mark collapses, turning from aggressor to a beaten dog. Where will I go? Its midnight. My bank account is empty, payday is a week away.
Ask Lucy. Youre on fire for her. Let her keep you warm. Or go to your mum. She always says I dont feed you well. Thatll be your chance.
Mark shifts from foot to foot, still in disbelief. He thinks this is a theatrical act, that shell burst into tears, that hell kneel, promise riches, and everything will return to normal.
Eleanor steps close, looks at her right hand. On the ringless finger glints a gold band a sturdy Sovietera wedding ring shes worn for twentyfour years, almost never taken off. Its part of her skin.
She slides it off. The metal feels heavy, as if it carries a ton of patience, care and love.
Here, she hands the ring to Mark. Take it.
Why? he whispers, eyeing the gold like a poisonous snake.
Pawn it. Itll cover the first nights hotel or a bouquet for the accountant. I dont need it any more. It burns my finger.
Mark doesnt take it, hides his hands behind his back.
I wont take it. Youre my wife.
I was your wife until you called me a swamp to some other woman. Take it, I said!
She grips his hand and forces the ring into his palm, squeezing his fingers.
Leave.
Mark looks at the closed bedroom door, at the kitchen still smelling of vanilla from the cherrypie she baked, at the suitcase.
Youll regret this, Eleanor, he snarls, pulling on his boots. Youll crawl back. Who needs a fortyfiveyearold woman? Old, irrelevant. Im a catch for any woman.
Enjoy that, she replies. Let them all chase you. Id rather be alone than with a traitor.
He grabs his coat, the suitcase handle, and she reminds him, Keys.
He flings the keyring onto the floor. The clink of metal on tile sounds like the final chord of their marriage.
Bitch, he spits and storms out, slamming the door.
Eleanor immediately turns the lock twice, then slides a chain over the bolt, backs up to the door and collapses onto the floor.
The flat is drowned in deafening silence. No TV, no thudding footsteps, no familiar grumbling. Only the refrigerators hum.
No tears fall. Instead theres a hollow feeling, like after a deep clean when all the junk is gone but the room feels too empty and echoey.
She looks at the imprint on her finger where the ring had been a pale line on sunkissed skin.
She rises, legs still shaky but steadier, and walks to the kitchen. On the table sits a cooling cherry pie, still beautiful and pink. She had baked it for their family tea.
She cuts herself a generous slice, pours tea, and sits down.
So a swamp, then? she asks the empty room. Fine.
She bites the pastry. The cherries give a pleasant tartness.
The phone on the sofa rings. Its her daughter, Katie, studying away in Manchester.
Mom, hi! How are you? Dad isnt answering.
Eleanor hesitates, fingers hovering over the keypad. Truth or a lie?
She texts, Dads on an urgent work trip. Itll be a while. Were fine, love. Im having tea with a slice of pie.
Outside, a taxi pulls away. Mark has left, probably heading to his mothers house, since Lucy wont be thrilled about a midnight suitcase full of dirty laundry.
Eleanor finishes her tea, heads to the bathroom, and spends a long time under the shower, washing away the night, the words, the grime. She feels the water carry his lies off her skin, scrubbing until her skin turns pink.
After the shower she slathers an expensive night cream shed saved for a special occasion, wraps herself in a soft blanket, and settles into an armchair with a book.
Fear gnaws at her fear of starting over, of sleeping alone, of sorting the assets and explaining everything to friends.
But staying would be worse lying in the same bed knowing hed been writing to another, being called a boring burden, waiting for the next meeting that never ends.
She made the right choice.
A week passes. Mark calls repeatedly first drunk, angry, then sober, apologetic. He swears hes cut ties with Lucy (who, in fact, quickly disappeared when the mess got messy). He begs to come back, claims hes staying with a friend on a sofa, that his mothers blood pressure is high.
Eleanor doesnt answer. She blocks him on all apps. Communication now only flows through Katie and only about practical matters.
On Saturday she visits a jeweller. Shes wanted a topaz ring her favourite stone for ages, but Mark always called it a waste. She picks a deepblue sapphire ring, slips it onto the finger where the old band sat. The old imprint almost disappears.
Leaving the shop she breathes in the crisp autumn air. Life hasnt ended; its just begun. In this new chapter theres no room for lies, betrayal, or people who cant appreciate honest, homemade happiness.
The suitcase? Shell buy a new, bright one and take it on a holiday. Alone, or maybe not. Thats for fate to decide. The important thing is shell never again be anyones convenient swamp.
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