Youre not the wife I need, her husband announced. What Eleanor did next startled him.
Eleanor Burrows had never thought of herself as unhappy.
Lets get that clear straight away. She wasnt the sort of woman who cried herself to sleep and scribbled laments into a diary. There was no diary. No tears. She just went about her days quietly, by the clock, without asking unnecessary questions. Her daughter was grown, married. The house was always clean, dinner served, everything in its rightful spot.
From across the street, youd call it a model life.
But from within, it was something else.
If someone had asked Eleanor, Are you happy?, she might have been slightly taken aback by the question itself. Happy? What a peculiar word. There were things to do, duties to attend to. Happiness was for magazine covers, not for real life.
But that Friday, her husband said something. Completely honest, no malice intended, he just said it, as he often didSimon liked to claim his bluntness was a virtue.
Eleanor had always answered with silence.
But not this time.
Dinner on that Friday was as humdrum as ever.
The television muttered something about the pound against the euro.
El, Simon said, putting down his fork.
There was something unusual in that El. Not the tone so much as the pause after, a peculiar vacuum.
Ive been thinking, for a while now, he smoothed an invisible crease from the tablecloth. Youre simply not the wife I need.
Eleanor looked at him with steady, almost curious eyes, as though hed made a particularly silly statement which he himself wasnt yet aware was quite so silly.
Simon had expected something else. Perhaps tears. But Eleanor simply watched him.
Did you hear me? he asked.
I did, she replied.
She got up and began clearing the plates.
Simon sat still, watching her take the crockery to the sink.
Thats it? Thats all youre going to say? His voice climbed only slightly.
For now, yes, Eleanor replied.
She turned on the tap. The water rushed into the basin. The conversation, by her cues, was finished, at least from her end. Simon didnt understand; he was sure it was only beginning. He was certain shed turn around, justifying herself, apologising for not trying hard enough.
He waited.
Eleanor washed the plates in silence.
That night, she didnt sleep.
Not the wife he needed. Imagine that.
She tried to remember the last time hed said anything nice to her. Couldnt recall.
But she remembered other things. She thought of 2004Simon had been offered a post in Manchester, a decent job, with prospects. Hed blazed with enthusiasm. Eleanor, at the time, was the senior accountant at a construction firm, with her own office, her team, and her prized mugBoss Lady, a birthday gift. She loved that mug.
But you understand, Simon had said then, its for the family. For us.
She understood. She resigned. They moved. The mug, by the way, shattered in the movea careless mover dropped the box.
In Manchester, Eleanor struggled to find a job for half a year. Eventually, she didentry level, the pay far less. She adapted. Simon built his career, Eleanor kept the house. She cooked, did the laundry, attended school meetings for Olivia, drove Olivia from violin to French to home. Endlessly circling. Daily.
Three years later, they moved back to London.
Eleanor hunted for work all over again.
Then Simons mother fell ill. Diana Burrows was a tough woman, in every sensea personality as unyielding as an old upright cabinet: imposing, dark, with a key that never quite fit. Diana had disliked Eleanor from day one, called her that girl, pointedly forgetting her name though she certainly knew it.
When Diana took to bed, Simon said:
Mums all Ive got left. We have to do something.
Eleanor did. She visited three times a week. Brought food, medication, changed sheets. Diana looked at her as though shed served the wrong dish.
This soup is too salty, Diana would say.
Ill use less next time.
Next time? If were all still here
Four years ticked by. Then Diana passed away quietly, in hospital, in November. Simon wept at the funeral. Eleanor held his arm and thought about needing to pick up potatoes the next day.
It wasnt heartlessness. By then, she simply didnt have any spare feeling for anyone elses loss. Shed have liked to set her own aside, somewhere, anywhere.
But she never shared this with Simon, of course.
She kept much to herself. It was easier that way. To say it out loud meant explaining, arguing, listening to his talk of exhaustion from work and how he already tried so hard. She had neither the desire to talk nor the strength to listen.
Eleanor rolled onto her back.
She thought of Nina. Not her mother-in-law, but Nina Chapman, a friend shed made at a training course five years ago. Nina was divorced, lived alone in a small flat in Lewisham, kept a cat and went to watercolour workshops on Thursdays. She always looked as if shed just come back from somewhere sunny.
I dont get it, Eleanor had once said. It must be tough, being alone.
Alones easy, Nina replied. Its being with someone and feeling alonethats hard.
At the time, Eleanor hadnt really understood. Or chose not to. She shrugged, changed the subject.
Now, lying here in the dark, it made perfect sense.
Exactly that. It was hard, being with someone, yet still alone.
Shed seen Nina in September, by chance, at a café near the tube. Theyd chatted for an hour over coffee. Nina talked about her watercolours, her cat whod knocked over a flowerpot and pretended nothing had happened. Shed laughed. Then, quite suddenly, shed said:
El, you know, sometimes women spend their whole lives trying to be good wives, but forget how to be happy people. As if happiness was handed out somewhere else, and they just missed their place in the queue.
Theyd said goodbye and headed off on different trains.
But that phrase stuck around, growing louder or quieter in her head, especially on nights like this, when Simon slept and Eleanor lay awake, staring into the ceilings blank sky.
She wasnt the wife he needed.
She thought: so, what kind did he need? The kind who never asked questions? Never grew tired? The kind who moved house without a murmur, cared for his mother unappreciated, gave up her career for hisand smiled throughout?
That must be the one.
In the morning, Simon came into the kitchen at six forty. As always. Eleanor was already at the hobeggs, toast, coffee. The same endless circuit.
Morning, he said.
Morning, she replied.
He sat. Scrolled through his phone. Ate his egg, drank his coffee, stood up.
Ill be home late, he called from the hallway. Meeting.
All right, Eleanor answered.
The door clicked behind him.
Eleanor went over to the window. Outside, October was grey and dripping. The old bench in the courtyard was damp, and an elderly ginger dog, shaggy and wise, sat on it, gazing into nothingness with an air of unfazed understanding.
At length, the dog, as if recalling some secret appointment, shook itself and ambled away behind the bins.
Eleanor remembered where shed put her documents three weeks ago: neatly on the top shelf, under a pile of old magazines. Hidden carefully, out of sight.
She retrieved them from the cupboard.
Everything was in order: the new flats tenancy agreement, a letter from her new job, a bank statement. Three piles, clipped and sorted. It had taken her five months to collect them all.
She placed the papers on the kitchen table. Simon arrived home at half seven. Took off his shoes, hung up his coat, peered into the kitchen.
Dinner ready?
No, said Eleanor.
He looked at her, then at the stack of papers on the table.
Whats this?
Sit down, Simon.
He sat. Slowly, warily, like someone with a premonition of disaster but no idea of its shape.
I have something to say, Eleanor began. Her voice surprised her with its composure. Yesterday, you said I wasnt the wife you needed.
Eleanor, thats not exactly
Youre right, she interrupted. Im not. The wife you need would have endured it allin silence, endlessly. I really tried to be her. But apparently that still wasnt enough.
Simon looked at her, a muddle of confusion in his eyes.
What are these? he gestured to the documents.
Eleanor slid the tenancy agreement over.
Ive rented a flat, she said. In Surbiton. Its small, one bedroom. I move in from the first of November.
Simon took the page, read it. Put it down.
Next was the job referenceshed found a post in April, head accountant at a small construction firm. Less money than before, but enough. There was even an officehers.
Youre leaving, Simon stated, as if to confirm whether hed heard correctly.
I am.
Because of what I said yesterday?
Eleanor met his eyes.
No, she said. Not because of yesterday. Yesterday, you just said aloud what Id known for ages. In a way, it was convenient.
Simon said nothing. That was unusualhe always had something to say, some clever spin, a diversion. Now, silence.
Im not angry, Eleanor told him. And it was true. Im just tired. Ive been tired for a long time.
Of me?
Of myself. Of always bending to fit. Its exhausting, being adjustable all your life.
Simon stood, walked to the window, stared out. After a while, he turned.
But weve spent all these years together, he said, hands spreading helplessly. Thats not nothing. Thats life.
Yes, she agreed. My life. And Id like to live the restdifferently.
Youve found someone?
No.
Then whats the point?
Because, said Eleanor, in less than two years Ill be fifty. I want to see those years in a flat where everything is exactly as I leave it. Where I can go to bed at eleven or twoweirdly late or early, if I likeand no one minds. Where the fridge holds only the food I want to eat, not what you expect to see.
That sounds odd.
Maybe it is.
Simon came back to the table. Picked up her bank statement and regarded it.
When did you put all this together he trailed off.
I started in March. Slowly.
Five months. He shook his head, in disbelief. This has all been happening for five months.
You too, said Eleanor. Five months and nothing.
I thought things were fine, he said quietly.
I know. Eleanor stacked the papers again. Thats the problem, maybe.
Simon stared.
Eleanor, he said. There was something unfamiliar in his voice. I dont want you to go.
She looked at him.
I know. But you never really noticed I was here, she said, standing up. Those are different things, Simon.
He stayed seated, watched as she walked out to the hall and took her coat off the peg.
Where are you going?
To Olivias. I rang earlier, she knows. Ill move into the flat on the first. Until then, I can stay here, if you dont mind.
Stay, he said softly.
All right.
She took her keys, and at the door pausednot from doubt, but recollection.
Simon. There are fishcakes in the fridge. Warm them up.
She closed the door.
Simon sat in the kitchen for a long while. At last, he got up, opened the fridge.
The fishcakes were on the middle shelf, covered with a plate.
He didnt heat them. Just put the plate on the table, sat, picked up a fork.
Ate them cold.
Night had fallen properly now. Next door, a TV hummed distantly, too muffled for words, merely a low, persistent drone.
The fishcakes finished, Simon pushed the plate away. He sat a little longer in the hush, broken only by another familys TV and his own breathing.
At length, he placed the plate in the sink.
He headed for the living room. Switched on the TVnews of the pound, the euro. Watched for a few minutes. Turned it off.
The flat was very quiet. The sort of silence Simon realised hed never truly heard before. Not that it hadnt been therehed just never listened.
On November first, Eleanor moved her things.
Very few things, honestly. Just her clothes, some books, kitchen bits, the coffee grinder Simon never used. Two boxes and a bag. The cab driver helped her carry them.
The new flat was small, bright. Fourth floor, window over the courtyard, a rowan tree outsideits berries red, mostly scattered, the stalks like tiny hands. Eleanor set the boxes down in the centre of the room and looked around.
Olivia rang in the evening.
Hows it going, Mum?
All right, Eleanor replied, then, after a moment, Actually its good, Liv. Really good.
Dad called. Briefly. Asked how you were.
What did you tell him?
Said I didnt know. He was quiet a bit, then hung up.
Eleanor nodded at herself, to the empty room.
Thats fine.
Simon rang a week later. His voice sounded strangesoft, missing the usual confidence, as if uncertain how to arrange itself.
Can we talk? he said.
All right, said Eleanor.
They met at a little café by the tube. Spent an hour. Simon talked about twenty-five years, about not noticing, about being ready to try differently. Eleanor listened. Drank her coffee. Didnt interrupt.
When he finished, she told him:
I hear you, Simon, truly. But I dont want to go back.
Why not?
Because Im really all right here.
He watched her a long time, as though really seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was.
He nodded. Paid for the coffee. They stepped outside.
And went off in different directions.
Twenty-five years isnt a reason to stayits just a stretch of time well suited for keeping silent. But silence eventually runs out, and then you discover that living for yourself isnt so frightening. The truly frightening part was pretending all that time that this was how it had to be.
