The Unwanted Thing
Eleanor stood before the mirror, holding up first one dress, then another, as if she might find the answer to lifes large questions in a bit of polyester blend. The blue one, bought in haste during a John Lewis sale years ago, still fit her at the waist, but Simon said it was “frumpy.” The black one, meant for more glamorous evenings, felt a bit tight, and the zip at the back would likely leave its mark. She settled on the blue one and sat down at the dressing table, brushing her hair and weaving it into a simple plait.
Simon emerged from the bathroom in a crisp white shirt, fussing over his tie. He glanced in her direction via the mirror, his brow pulling down almost imperceptiblya slow annoyance, like drizzle gathering before a proper English downpour.
“Are you going in that?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.
“In what, Simon?” Eleanor kept her gaze straight ahead, focused on her plait.
“That dress.”
“What about it?”
He wandered over to the wardrobe, fussing with his shirt cuffs, the air simmering between them.
“El, tonight is important. Its not the Friday quiz night at the local, its dinner at The Garrick on Central, you know? Partners and the London bigwigs are all there.”
“I know,” she replied evenly. “Thats why I picked it.”
“Right, normal, as you say.” He said “normal” with a smirk, as if shed suggested wearing a bin bag.
“Do you actually own anything… presentable?”
Eleanors hands dropped into her lap, plait unfinished. She turned to him. In twelve years together, shed seen him every which waytired, elated, even heartbroken. But this new look, this exasperated disgust, had become almost a regular guest since his promotion at Gadgets UK (with year-end bonus, what theyd dubbed “big money” during late-night Sainsburys runs). She longed for the days when his criticisms were less… strategic.
“Simon, I am dressed perfectly fine,” she repeated softly.
“You look like…” He trailed off, exhaling as if explaining fractions to a toddler. “Well, never mind.”
“No, go on,” she pressed, her voice surprisingly steady.
He glanced back, eyes as cold as a Harrods displayjudging, transactional.
“You look like a secondary school teachers wife. That plait, the baggy dress… those shoes…”
“Theyre new.”
He gave her the patient, exhausted sigh of a man who fancied himself misunderstood. “El, I’m moving in different circles now. The wives they bringwell, you know. They look the part, and they can talk about more than Victoria sponge and Mrs Dobbins next door.”
Beyond their window, rush hour traffic whined, a bus somewhere groaning along its route.
Eleanor carefully set down her brush.
“Youre really saying this. To me?”
“Im stating the obvious, El. Didnt you ask me to be honest?”
“Honest,” she repeated. “Alright then.”
She said nothing for a moment, then shifted back to the mirror, unfastened her blue dress, folding it neatly, and replaced it with the black one, zip straining but managing. She slipped her feet into the new shoes and grabbed the clutch bag her friend Rita had given her for her last birthday.
“Im ready,” she said.
Simon took her in. It probably suited her betterthe black onebut he didnt say. He just nodded, checking his phone.
They didnt talk in the car. The city streetlights flickered past as autumn shadows pressed in earlylate October and London already in its winter mood. Eleanor stared out the window, thinking not so much about where they were going, but about the space between them, which no Sat Nav could measure.
They had met in halls, third year. Eleanor, the art student at St Marys, him on business management at Kings College. Neighbours, sharing a kitchen, where she cooked instant mash and he scrounged for salt. It all started with borrowed mugs and impromptu cups of PG Tips, as these things do. Six months later, it simply seemed natural that neither would ever leave. Fifteen years gonetwelve married. Shed never thought of them as distant, but tonight it sat on her chest, heavy as Sunday morning toast.
The Garrick was as posh as advertised. High ceilings, soft lights, and tables set for forty. Eleanor spotted Simons colleagues wives, some familiar, most changed since last yearor so she thought. Simon melted into handshakes and grins, transforming with that infectious, professional charm he saved strictly for public consumption.
MarinaSerges wife from accountsmade a beeline for her, enveloping Eleanor in a waft of familiar Elnett.
“El! Havent seen you in ages!” she squealed. “You look lovely.”
“You too, Marina,” Eleanor managed.
Marina groaned about being on her feet all day, Eleanor smiled and listened. Across the room Simon checked on her, assessing her performance as one might a dog at Crufts: is it house-trained? Will it embarrass me? Eleanor returned her gaze to her wine.
The evening stretched on: speeches, laughter, small talk. Simon at the far end, all booming confidence, a master of networking. Shed always admired (envied?) his ease. Once, it filled her with pride.
The silent drive home was familiar ground. Eleanor slipped off her shoes in the hallway before filling a glass with tap water in the kitchen, the air thick with silence. Simon hung up his jacket.
“So, how was it?” he called.
“What, the party?”
“Yes.”
“It was fine.”
He stood behind her for a beat. “Clare from Marketing wore a new dress, did you notice? And Rachel Armitage. They really look after themselves.”
Eleanor set her glass down.
“No, Simon, I wasnt checking the dress code.”
“Well, they do. Its obvious.” He sounded as if he were offering investment advice, not fashion tips.
She turned and stared at him, cool and tireda look that said, Ive seen this mess before and tidied it more times than I can count.
“I heard your little speech at dinner. About fixing up the flat all by yourself. Who sanded the skirting boards? Who spent three weekends on their knees, grouting tiles?”
Simon frowned. “Youre being dramatic.”
“No, just factual.”
“El…”
“Goodnight, Simon.”
Eleanor retreated to the bedroom, closingnot slammingthe door. She lay in the darkness, rain tapping gently at the window, wondering when Simon last asked about her day, unprompted. She tried to remember and drew a blank.
The following days drifted. Simon left early, came home late. Eleanor cooked, cleaned, ironed shirts a week aheadold habits from her redundancy at the print works. Three years back, Simon declared the job pointless, her salary barely worth the hassle. It would be just for a bit, shed reassured herself. Weeks turned to years.
Her routine revolved around his: breakfast for seven, dinner by eight (hed never be early), laundry on Tuesdays and Fridays, shop on Thursdayshis favourites only: barley, chicken, a good yoghurt. She filled his pill box, watched his blood pressure meds, called his GP. Not because she had to. Because it felt like love, or at least, it had been oncethe distinction growing fuzzy as time wore on.
Another Friday, another work do. Then the following Friday, something new.
Simons key in the door, early for once. The slap of shoes, not quite hitting the doormat, a ritual now. He found her over a pan of stew.
“El, were off to the Ashworths place on Saturday.
Ashworth: his new mate, picked up at some seminar. Eleanor nodded.
“Right,” Simon continued, leaning in the doorway, “could you maybe do something with your hair? Lose the plait? Maddy Ashworth is quite young, the other women make a real effort. Maybe get it done properly?”
“I was at the salon three weeks ago.”
“Well, once more wouldnt hurt.”
Stirring the stew, Eleanor paused. “Simon, do you remember when we used to take the train home from halls? Me in old jeans, my hair in this very plait. You held my hand the whole ride.”
He fell silent.
“You want me to be someone else.”
“I want you to, you know, keep up with the times. Lifes changed.”
“Lifes changed,” she echoed.
Eleanor switched off the hob, dried her hands, faced him fully. He fiddled impatiently, expecting a “fine” or “alright”the standard reply.
Instead: “Im not right for you, Simon. I know that now. Ive thought about it plenty.”
“Oh for goodness sake, Eleanor, not this again”
“Im not starting. Im endingending the pretending.”
Simon huffed, opened the fridge, and glugged from the milk bottleanother modern innovation.
“Youre just airing out the cupboards, El. Too long at home, not enough outside, youre overthinking things.”
“I get out. I see Rita. I shop”
“Youre a good wife. Good at keeping house. But you cant keep up. I cant… I need someone Im proud to be seen with.”
“Proud.” It hit the tile floor and rolled away like a coin. Eleanor felt something tighten at her throatnot tears, something harder and metallic, as if a switch had flipped inside.
“Alright,” she said quietly, and left the kitchen.
That night, she didnt sleep. Listened instead to his untroubled breathing, recalling the word proud. What did she have to be proud of, really? Eleanor Rose Carter, thirty-six, who could paint a mural neighbours took selfies with; whod coaxed a lemon tree from a pip on the windowsill; whod sat through nights of Simons fever, cooling compress in hand, quietly fixing his spreadsheets (and sleeves) and never insisted on thanks.
Proud.
She slipped from bed, poured herself a Yorkshire tea in the kitchen. Gazed out at the blinking city. Sent a text to Rita: “You awake?” It was, after all, 1amno answer.
She leafed through her phone, finding old student photos. There she was with Simon, sharing Chinese out of a plastic tub, both grinning. Her in her plait, him in that droopy old jumper shed mended.
She put the phone down.
Saturday was routine. Simon, chipper, scrolling his phone over an omelette and toast, untroubled by last night. Eleanor served breakfast, tidied away, went to the bedroom. She opened her wardrobe, surveyed its contents. Pulled an old navy holdall off the shelf. Laid it on the bed.
She packed lighta change of clothes, her battered old jumper, thermal socks, an ancient anthology of English verse hed never touched. Her sketchpad and pencils. Favourite perfume. Phone charger.
In the kitchen, she took the card where she squirrelled bits of housekeeping money. Enough for a few trains perhaps. She slipped it in her purse.
“Im popping out,” she called. Simon didnt look up.
She wrapped herself in her coat, slung the bag over her shoulder, and left.
The October wind bit, announcing itself with English efficiency. She headed for the bus stationa brisk twenty-minute walk. She bought a ticket to Little Wrenham. The 3:20 coacha direct to her late grans village, with a transfer at Allingford.
Eleanor popped into the kiosk, sat with a cup of weak tea, rang Rita.
“El? Early, isnt it?”
“Im leaving, Rita.”
A pause.
“Where?”
“Little Wrenham. Grans house.”
“El, your grans been gone seven years.”
“I know. The house is still there. You can live in it.”
There was another pause, deeper this time.
“You and Simon row?”
“No. Not really. He just… said hes ashamed to be seen with me.”
Rita inhaled sharply.
“Want me to come?”
“No need. I need to be there. Its quiet.
And Simon?”
Hell find out.
After the call, Eleanor watched the coach fill upa relic of the nineties, musty but comforting. She claimed a window seat, sketchpad open but untouched. Her phone buzzed: Simon. She let it ring out. Typed back: “Gone to Little Wrenham. Dont look for me. I need some time.”
The coach pulled away, the city retreating into the rearview as fields rolled bya green and brown blur dotted with sheep. The air inside smelled of stale upholstery and rain. Eleanor leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes. The word “ashamed” echoed, persistent, until, as the miles passed, it faded, replaced by the comforting aroma of her grans kitchen: cabbage pie, logs on the fire, a knitted tablecloth. “Youll make your way, mlove,” Gran always said. “Just dont hide those clever hands of yours.”
By nightfall, she was in Allingford, switching coaches. She sketched distractedly, glancing at grey-haired figures lugging shopping bags, athletic teens glued to their screens. Her hands moved almost by themselves, drawing curve and line with a fluency shed forgotten during her years apart from art.
Little Wrenham greeted her with lamplight and silence. The cottage stood at the village edge, same as alwaysa stoic birch tree out front, as if nothing in this world could surprise it. Eleanor found her ancient key (still on her ring, always had been) and let herself in. The door fought back, swollen by damp, but gave way.
Inside was a hush and thick dust. The old wardrobe, washbasin, kitchen tablethey all waited, unchanged. Eleanor shook out the patchwork quilt her gran had made, sneezing at the dust, and laughedproperly, for the first time in ages.
She slept deeply that night, cocooned under the weight of memories.
Meanwhile, Simon drifted through the city flat like a tourist in his own life. To begin with, he thought shed be back by bedtime. Then he expected a call by midnight. Three further unanswered calls later, he reread her message. He ate the stew shed left (microwaved, naturally), watched TV for a bit, then went to bed where the silence nagged oddly at him.
He made his own coffee the next morningtoo strong. The eggs came out rubbery. His shirts, neatly ironed weeks ago, were all he had left of Eleanor. Eventually, he braved the washing machine. Ironing not so muchcreased sleeves became the new normal at work. People noticed, not unkindly, but the change was there.
He even forgot his own blood pressure tablets, only remembering when an evening headache crept in. Pills had always just appeared by his mug, part of Eleanors morning routine. He stood in the pharmacy queue, annoyed to learn he needed a prescriptionand Eleanor kept the paperwork. The small necessities had always seemed like magic tricks.
About this time, he met a woman named Victoria.
At a marketing dinner, Victoria, sharp in a tailored suit, clear about her ambitions and with the right number of networking contacts, asked Simon questions about Gadgets UK. He liked the feeling of being seen as clever and important. She asked for his number, suggested a potential business project, hinted at something more.
He toasted his solo life with supermarket sushi and carefully crafted WhatsApps. It wasnt romance, more a reprievea reminder someone appreciated his suit and handshake. But the connection felt, ultimately, transactional, as if she were taking notes for a business report.
Meanwhile, in Little Wrenham, Eleanor cleaned. She attacked the dust with satisfying vigour, working her way through every forgotten nook. She warmed the cottage with the wood burner, the smoke-rich air tugging at memories long dormant. She ran into Mrs Hawkins next door, now in her mid-seventies.
“Well, I saw the lights and thought, whos that, then?” Mrs Hawkins surveyed her. “Thinner around the eyes, dear.”
Eleanor managed a smile.
Mrs Hawkins handed her a jug of fresh milk and half a loaf. “Staying long?”
“Not sure.”
“Does Simon know?”
“He will.”
Mrs Hawkins seemed content with that. “You know where I am if you need anything, love.”
Clearing out her grans trunk, Eleanor found her old acrylic paints, tucked away with brushes shed meant to use for painting the windowsills. The acrylics had dried out, but the brushes survived. There were even some unopened pots of gouache.
She started with the shutters. She sanded down the peeling wood, primered with white household paint. Then, brush in hand, she traced flowers and birdswhimsical, English and distinctly hers, a touch folk-art, a touch daydream. Zoya from the village shop noticed, and soon Eleanor was painting her gate too, then kitchen boards for Mrs Kelly down the lane, then a childs crib for an overwhelmed mother-of-three. She worked slow, content, her fingers stinging from the cold and paint.
She found herself talking to Mrs Hawkins ancient cockerelMontywho strutted arrogantly around the yard.
“You dont trust me, Monty?” she called, scattering feed.
Monty glared back, offended yet intrigued.
She laughed. All this, in wellies and an old mac, felt more right than anything had in years.
Back in town, Simons flat slowly claimed its untended look. Bags of recyclables, smudged mugs, a lopsided ironing pile. The rhythm that had once been invisible became obvious only by its absence like Central London suddenly quiet on a bank holiday.
He texted Eleanor once more”Hows everything?” got only, “Fine,” in reply.
That week, Victoria messaged about her “exciting brand partnership opportunity.” He replied vaguely, then let the chat fizzle. The interaction felt flatno warmth, no substance.
He wandered the silent flat, aware for perhaps the first time of just how much of his lifes nice bits belonged quietly, unobtrusively, to Eleanor.
December arrived, as British Decembers so often do, with no courtesy at all. Simon, brisk as ever at the office, found even his boss was watching him closely. The teams patience stretched thin, no one unkind, all a little wary. Even the cleaners had started missing bin day in his kitchen.
His mother rang of a Sunday. “Eleanors with her gran, then?”
“Yes, Mum. Nearly a month.”
“Will she come back?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause thick with importance. “Have you hurt her?”
He stammered something about misunderstandings.
“Simon, shes a good woman,” his mum interrupted. “You never saw your father apologising, but he did, and he was the better man for it. Dont be a fool, son.”
He wandered the flat all evening with only his thoughts and half-cold tea.
In Little Wrenham, by now iced over properly, Eleanor found herself busy. The cottage almost ran itself. Folk brought things to be painted: chopping boards, stools, a wooden crib. The village soon filled with little traces of her handiworkbirds and blooms on everything from window frames to hay carts.
A few commissions found their way in from the next village, lady with a baby on the way offering more than asked as payment. Rita rang excitedly. “You should go online, Elpeople pay for things like this! Youve got golden hands.”
“Im alright,” Eleanor replied. “I just need to do this, for me.”
“Did Simon ever really see it?”
“He looked, but he didnt see,” she said quietly.
On and on, the days trundled by. Eleanor walked out beneath the winter stars, remembering not just Simon as hed becomebut as hed once been. It wasnt all lost. But neither would a half-hearted apology put it to rights.
Meanwhile, in Simons world, things unravelled furthera missed client meeting here, a bungled spreadsheet there. He caught himself realising that half the things hed taken for granted didnt just happenthey happened because Eleanor was there, a quietly supportive, clever pair of hands behind everything good.
Christmastime arrived. Simon, thinking not of presents but of scarves (specifically, Eleanors favourite grey one, found behind the fridge), for the first time truly contemplated a trip to Little Wrenham.
He called his mother. “Mum, I think I have to go up.”
“Its about time. Dont expect anything. Just go. Speak the truth. Thats all you can do.”
He wrote Eleanor carefully, awkwardly: “El, is it alright if I come to see you?”
She replied: “Come if you want.”
He prepared as best he couldpresents (her favourite tea, honey, paints), a tidier haircut than he liked, a proper winter coat. Set off at dawn, the motorways slick and frosty, radio off for once.
Four hours later, he pulled into Little Wrenham, past the familiar birch. Her grans cottage had transformed: the blue-and-white painted shutters, complete with red-berried branches and English robins, made it bright against the grey. Smoke curled from the chimney. The snow was trampled to the front doora sign of living.
Eleanor came out, her old duffel coat buttoned to the top, hair in a warm scarf, mug in hand. She saw himneither smile nor frownand waited.
“Made it, then,” she observed.
“Just about,” he huffed.
She nodded toward the door. “Its open, if youre coming in.”
He brought in his bags, awkwardly presenting his gifts (tea, honey, new acrylicsinternational, apparently). She showed the faintest hint of a smile. “You guessed right. Im nearly out of ochre.”
She made tea. He clocked the sketchbooks and paint pots, the mural panels drying on the window ledge. The house, even in its two-up, two-down simplicity, glowed with Eleanors touch.
“How are you, El?” he asked.
“Im fine here.”
“Is it cold?”
“The stove does its job.”
They drank tea at her table, steam filling the silence.
Eventually: “El, about what I saidashamed. I remember.”
She gazed at him, waiting.
“I got lost in thinking everything was about me. That I deserved some new level of life, and you… belonged elsewhere. I was wrong.”
She nodded, letting him sit with it.
“Ive realised, bit by bit, how much that life was ours. Not mine. I just… I was stupid, and proud, and I forgot the important things.”
She topped up her tea. After a long beat, she said, “You want me to come back, dont you?”
“I do.”
“But before thatat the work dinner, you compared me to those other wives. Do you even know whats happened since? Claires divorcing Serge. Her husband said the same things you did. She walked.”
He had nothing to add.
“There isnt one way to be a wife, a woman, a partner. Either you see each other… or you dont.”
He took that in.
“I came here to talk,” Simon said, slow and careful, “to see you, to understand. No grand speeches. Just… me, asking to try.”
She finished her tea.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Ive stew left over.”
She set a bowl before himnothing fancy, but hearty and real. He ate, watching her hands, the thumb stained with ochre.
When he finished, she fetched a patchwork quilt.
“Theres a camp bed in the lean-to. Not much, but its yours for tonight. Ill show you the stove.”
He understooda step, but not an embrace.
They stood outside, breath visible in the starlight. Simon looked up.
“Id forgotten stars could look like this,” he said.
They paused together.
“I dont know what happens now,” Eleanor said quietly.
“Neither do I.”
“Come in for breakfast, if you like.”
She headed inside.
He lingered, watching the cottage windows glow against the darkEnglish, ordinary, and for tonight, enough.
