Will I be late? Victorias voice crackled over the phone, the whine of an angle grinder humming in the background. Can you hear me at all?
Yes, I said, flipping the handset to my other ear. Will you be home for dinner?
Dont wait for me. I might not even make it backdeadlines are breathing down my neck.
Alright.
A short, sharp beep. Thats how it always ends.
I set the phone down on the kitchen table and stared at the pot of cooling beef stew. Id made it for two out of habit, even though I should have stopped long ago. Victoria worked as a tiler, and her schedule looked like a heartmonitor trace: wild spikes of activity followed by long, flat stretches. For six months she hopped from site to site, laying pricey porcelain tiles in strangers flats, earning enough to make me silently jealous. Then came a halfyear lull, no jobs, just her stuck at home.
Both extremes were unbearable in their own ways. When she was on a job she disappearedphysically, emotionally, mentallycompletely. Shed leave at seven in the morning and be back after midnight, if she ever came back at all. Sometimes she slept on the site because, Whats the point of going back and forth, Ill be back at six anyway? I ate dinner alone, bingewatched series, and crawled into a cold, empty bed. The only reminder that I was still married was the marriage certificate shoved somewhere in a drawer of paperwork.
I tried to count how many meals wed shared in the last three months. Four. Four meals.
The real nightmare began when the workday ended. Victoria would stroll back home. Youd think itd be a reliefwifes back, we could finally be together. Not so. After months of hopping between other peoples kitchens, shed become obsessed with the minutiae of design, and our own home started to drive her mad. Shed stare at the bathroom tiles shed laid two years ago, and her eyes would twitch.
This is a disaster, she muttered, running a finger over a grout line. How could I have let this happen? Oneandahalf millimetre off. Oneandahalf millimetre, James!
I, who couldnt tell a oneandahalf millimetre shift from a fifteenmillimetre one, nodded politely.
Then the spiral started.
First shed say, Let me just see if I can fix it. Then, Ill chip out one tile, replace it, and thatll be it. Then, If were doing this, we might as well redo the whole wall. Finally, Id come home to find the bathroom gonebare walls, piles of rubble, Victoria in a respirator, happily mixing tile adhesive.
In three years of marriage we survived four bathroom remodels, three kitchens, and one hallway.
The job was finally finished on time, and the work lull returned. But not for me.
Can you bring me some tile spacers? Victoria called while I was at the office. And some grey groutIll text you the brand.
Im at work.
Drop by at lunch. I need to finish that corner before evening.
Fine.
Bring, pick up, order, helpI became partcourier, partloader, parthandyman. Victoria never left the house except for trips to the building supply store, sometimes three times a day, because, I didnt know that grout would run out, how was I supposed to know?
She was constantly exhaustedfrom the renovations she herself had started. In the evenings Id find her in the kitchen, covered in dust, hair speckled with tile grit, eyes vacant.
Are you up for dinner? Id ask.
Later, shed sigh. No energy.
She had no energy for anythingconversation, a film, intimacy. I was only useful for fetching rollers when she was too lazy to dress, hauling a sack of cement from the van, or holding a spirit level while she aligned a row of tiles.
Were married, shed say whenever I protested. Married people help each other.
Married. A laughable word for a partnership where one person exists solely as support staff for the others professional ambitions.
Saturday night found Victoria fiddling with a backsplash tile she didnt like the shade of. I was perched on a stool in the chaotic kitchen, trying to sip tea. The kettle sat on a stepladder because the countertop was buried under tiles. I grabbed sugar from the bathroom and couldnt find a spoon anywhere.
Poppy, I began carefully, using the nickname shed taken to, dont you think this is enough?
Whats enough? she didnt look up, pressing another tile to the wall.
All of this. The constant redoing. You keep changing things in the flat.
And what? I like it. This is my home; I want it perfect.
Itll never be perfect for you. Youll finish one job, see something newer, and start over again.
She set the tile down, turned slowly, and a sharp look flashed in her eyes.
So what are you suggesting? Living like this, with everything driving me mad?
Im suggesting a normal life. Going to the cinema. Eating dinner together. Talking about anything but grout lines. Do you even remember the last time we went out just the two of us?
I have work.
You dont have work! You made it up yourself!
Thats not a madeup job, James. Its called improving living conditions. Some people specialise in that.
Some people just want to live. Not in a construction zone, not covered in dust, not on commandfetchandcarry duty. Live with a wife who remembers shes got a husband.
She crossed her arms, as if shielding herself.
You just dont get it. Youre a programmer, glued to your comfy office, tapping keys. I create something tangible with my hands. When I see a chance to do better, I do it.
At the expense of everything else!
If youre not happyno ones holding you back.
She said it almost offhand, like it was about a wobbly chair you could replace. I fell silent. Those seven words summed up the whole problemour entire dispute compressed into a phrase. To Victoria, I was an option, not a necessity, not a husband, not a loved onejust something you could switch off if it got in the way.
You know, I said, brushing dust from my jeans, maybe youre right.
In what?
That nothing is really keeping me here.
She stared at the heap of tiles, glue buckets, and the remnants of what used to be a kitchen. Both of us understood that the fight wasnt about the renovation. It was about two rhythms that had drifted apart long ago and no longer intersected anywhere but the postcode.
We filed for divorce within three months. Surprisingly civil. There was nothing left to split.
I walked around my new flatsmall, spotless, no sack of cement in sightand was stunned by the silence. No drilling. No pounding. No urgent text to bring a sealant because the old one ran out.
For the first time in three years I could actually plan an evening. Yet a hollow space lingered in my chest, an emptiness that no schedule could fill.
Almost two years slipped by.
Did you hear the news? my old mate Dave called on a Friday night. About your ex?
I tensed. Since the split Id avoided any gossip about Victoria.
What news?
Shes married now. Got hitched just recently.
Quick, huh?
Yeah. And guess who she married?
Dave paused for effect. A tiler. Can you imagine?
I snorted.
Hows it going for them?
They say theyre brilliant together. Both on site, a twoperson crew. Perfect match.
I thought about Victoria finding someone who speaks her languagea fellow who treats a oneandahalf millimetre misalignment as a catastrophe, who knows the difference between epoxy and cement grout without anyone having to explain it. The things that used to grind my teeth now formed the foundation of someone elses relationship. I found it oddly amusing.
Three months later I ran into them in a supermarket. Id just finished work, grabbed a basket, headed for the dairy aisle and froze.
Victoria was standing by the yoghurts, a broadshouldered man of similar age beside her, his hands clearly used to hard labour. They were debating a brand, laughing softly, nudging each other playfully. He tapped her shoulder, she squealed and jumped back, both looking like teenagers in love, oblivious to the world.
She looked differentno longer the exhausted, holloweyed woman whod spent eight hours smashing walls. She seemed alive, exactly as I remembered her when we first met.
I hesitated, set my basket down, and left the store emptyhanded.
In the car I smiled to myself. We just werent right for each other. Our divorce had been inevitable.
I turned the ignition.
If shes found her person, I can find mine too.
The thick fog that had settled over my life after the split finally lifted.
