Oliver compared me to his exwife, and I helped him go back to her, Emily whispered, the words barely audible over the clatter of the kitchen.
Shed just pulled the last strand of rag from the sink, the towel still damp in her hands, while the stew on the stove boiled in a cloud of fragrant steam. The pot hissed, the meat stubbornly stubborn, and Oliver pushed his plate away, reaching for the crusty loaf as if the bread alone could fill the emptiness of the room.
Emily stood frozen, the towel hanging limp. Inside her, a spring that had been tightening for two years since theyd said I do snapped back into place. At first, Olivers occasional remarks about Laura Laura ironed the collars just right, Laura liked bright yellow curtains, Laura planned the perfect holiday had seemed random, almost playful. But lately, Lauras ghost had taken permanent residence in the twobed flat, hovering between the television and the sofa, echoing Olivers voice with a cruel, familiar cadence.
Oliver, Emily tried to keep her tone steady, though her voice quivered, if you dont like it, you can cook it yourself or go to the canteen. Ive spent two hours on this stew, my grandmothers recipe.
Oliver rolled his eyes. Here we go again. Im only giving you constructive criticism so you can improve. Laura never took offense; she learned. She was a natural housewife, a real firecracker, not like youso calm, like a pond. Everything in her house sparkled.
A pond, Emily repeated, smiling thinly as she draped the towel over a hook. She was, indeed, the quiet type. A librarian, lover of silence, evenings with a good book. Oliver had once told her he wanted a quiet harbour after a decade of storms with Laura, which hed described as a volcano of passion and tantrums. Now that harbour felt stagnant, like a swamp.
Why did you two split if she was such a perfect housewife? Emily asked softly, taking a seat opposite him.
Oliver stopped chewing his bread, frowning. The question clearly hit a nerve.
Different temperaments, thats all, he muttered. She was demandingalways wanted more, a new coat, a trip to the coast, a renovation. I grew tired of that pressure. With her I felt alive, like a man moving mountains. With you its smooth, flat, like mud. And the stew is dry.
He rose, leaving the plate unfinished, and stalked to the living room, throwing over his shoulder, Make me a tea, extra sugarlifes already bland enough.
Emily stayed at the table, watching the stew cool, feeling not anger but a crystalline clarity. She realized she was exhausteddeadtired of battling a phantom. She wasnt fighting to prove she could cook better than Laura; she simply wanted to be worthy of love for who she was.
Oliver missed Laura. He romanticised the past, forgetting the broken dishes and shouting, recalling only the succulent stew and the starchstiff collars. Emily thought, if a man is that nostalgic, a loving woman should help him.
The next morning Emily took a halfday off, not to lounge but to search. Their town, a modest market town in Yorkshire, wasnt huge; finding Laura was easy, especially since Laura was active on social media.
Lauras profile was a kaleidoscope of pictures: her in a bright sundress at the cottage, karaoke nights with friends, a leaky tap, and a caption, In active search of happiness. Emily smirked; the puzzle was falling into place.
That evening Oliver trudged home, still grumbling about the packed bus and the car theyd never boughtLaura knew how to save a penny. Emily greeted him with a smile.
Oi, love, dinners readymeatballs. I need to talk.
What about? Oliver sniffed, fork poised. Another fight?
No, she said, Ive been thinking about what you said. Maybe Im not as good a housewife as Laura. I could learn from her.
Oliver swallowed, eyes widening. You serious?
Absolutely. I dug up some old paperwork and found her numberclearly youd forgotten it in your notebook. I was thinking, since shes such a brilliant cook, maybe she could share that stew recipe, or that cabbage pie you always rave about?
Oliver set his fork down. A flicker of interest mixed with suspicion lit his face.
Not sure. Shes proud, might send it anyway.
Maybe not. I peeked at her pageshes lonely, seems to need a mans help.
Oliver straightened, puffing his chest. Shed fall apart without a bloke. She cant even hammer a nail. Cookings her thing, but fixing a tap or hanging a shelf? Thats always been me. Im the one with the golden hands she always praised.
Emily nodded gently. We do have a leaky tap in the bathroom. I know youre tired, but maybe shes flooded? Could you give her a call? Just as a courtesy. Ten years together isnt nothing.
Oliver hesitated. The idea of ringing an ex was uncomfortable, yet Emilys suggestion stroked his ego. He finally agreed, Just to ask how shes doing, nothing more.
Half an hour later, from the balcony, Emily heard his voice shiftfrom hesitant to oddly buoyant, then something like triumph.
He returned, eyes shining. You wont believe it, Emily! Her bedroom curtain rod snapped. Shes halfasleep with a streetlamp glaring in her eyes. She asked for help. I said Id think about it but
Go ahead! Emily urged. You cant leave a woman in trouble. Its Saturday, go help.
Are you okay with that? Oliver asked, halfjoking.
Of course. Its noble, and maybe shell teach me to make borscht the way you like.
Saturday saw Oliver in his best shirt, freshly scentedsomething he hadnt done for Emily in a yearcarrying a toolbox to Lauras small cottage. He returned late, exhausted but grinning like a cat with a saucer of milk.
What did you fix? Emily asked, pouring him a mug of tea.
I nailed the curtain rod, repaired a socket, tightened the wardrobe door. She even fed memeat pies, jelly, cold jelly. She sent her regards, called me a saint for letting her back in.
Emily smiled cryptically. Thus began their strange threeway life. Oliver started visiting Laura more oftenadjusting the TV, moving heavy boxes, hauling potatoes so she wouldnt break a bone. He always came back full, smelling of someone elses perfume, recounting Lauras flamboyant personality.
She wore a tight red dress today, Emily! She says its for herself, but I think its for a guest. Her laugh is booming, like a fountain. You just smile with your lips, while shes a fireworks display, he would say.
Emily listened, nodded, and slowly stopped cooking dinner.
Oliver, youll be at Lauras again after work to hang a shelf? Ill just have kefir, thats fine, she replied.
Oliver protested weakly at first, then accepted. It suited him: home was calm, shirts were clean (Emily still washed them, though without zeal), while Lauras place was a feast for his golden hands and the spark he craved.
A month passed. Oliver grew more distant, irritable at home, bored. He spent nights on the sofa staring at the ceiling.
Emily, he said one evening, Laura says she made a mistake, didnt appreciate me. She cried today.
Emily set her book down. And what does that mean for you?
My marriage, my decency but my heart aches. Shes still my
Shes just using you for free repairs, Emily thought, but answered, Youre hurting both her and me.
Maybe I should go back? Oliver asked, eyes pleading.
Emily stared at him. We live like neighbours. You find me boring, Im a swamp. Shes a volcano, passions, pies. Maybe you should try returning?
Oliver froze, Are you kicking me out?
No, Im letting you go. You always compare me to her. The scores never in my favour. Why torture yourself? Go spend a week or two figuring things out.
If I find its better there?
Then thats that. I want you happy, Oliver.
It was a highstakes bluff. Emily knew that if she staged jealousy, Oliver would stay out of duty, but resent her forever. If she let him go, perhaps hed finally leave.
Oliver paced the flat, eyes pleading, hoping shed beg him to stay. Instead, she calmly packed his suitcaseshirts, socks, his favourite sweater, even a tin of his beloved coffee.
Am I leaving? he asked, shifting weight.
This is temporary, she smiled. Lauras waiting. Dont make her nervous.
The door slammed shut behind him. Emily turned the lock twice, then collapsed onto the floor, laughinga nervous, relieved chuckle. At last she was alone in her quiet flat, surrounded by books, no one nagging about dry meatballs.
The next three days Oliver didnt call. He was probably enjoying his honeymoon with Laura. Emily rearranged the living room, bought new navy curtainsher taste, not hisand went to the theatre with a friend.
On the fourth day Oliver called, his voice oddly flat. Hey, Emily. How are you?
Fine, reading. You?
The pies were good Hey, where are my winter boots? I cant find them in the suitcase.
Theyre on the loft, Oliver. You said youd be back soonwhy need winter boots now? Its autumn.
Oh, right. He paused. Could you?
No, Oliver. Im busy. Let Laura buy you a new pair; shes caring, isnt she?
He hung up. A week later his calls became regular.
Emily, my backs killing me. Lauras sofa is sagging, springs poke through. We had an orthopedic one at home.
Fix her sofa then, with those golden hands. Laura makes good money, doesnt she?
She quit a month ago, searching for herself. Im doing double shifts, carrying groceries. She expects fine cheeses, red fish, but theres no cash. Yesterday she yelled because I didnt bring enough.
Emilys tone was icy. Thats the volcano of passion you dreamed of. You wanted to stay in shape, right?
Are you mocking me?
Its a fact. Ive got yoga now, so I must go.
Three days later he called, sounding drunk. Emily shes mad. She made me repaper the hallway at night because the colour didnt suit the lamp. I havent slept in two days. I want to come home. Your stew even if dry, at least its quiet.
Oliver, go rest. You chose fireworks; you got fireworks. Im an amoebano drama for me.
The climax arrived two and a half weeks after his departure. It was Friday night. Emily sat in an armchair, cocoa in hand, watching a drama on TV. A firm knock echoed through the hallway, followed by the metallic scrape of a key.
She didnt startle. She knew he would come. She rose, approached the door, but left the chain in place, only unlocking the outer latch.
The door opened a crack, revealing Olivers gaunt, unshaven face, eyes bloodshot, a battered suitcase at his feet.
Emily, open up, he croaked. Im back. Ive had enough of Laura. You were righther swamp is rotten. She used me, just a handyman, a sponsor. She stopped cooking, bought frozen dumplings from the shop and pretended shed made them. I found the packet in the bin.
Tragic tale, Oliver, Emily said calmly through the gap. But I cant let you in.
What do you mean? This is my flat! Im on the register!
The flat is municipal, left to me by my parents. Youre registered at your mothers. We only rented it together. Ill change the locks tomorrow; the locksmith couldnt make it today.
Emily, youre joking! Im lost, Ill drink your water, Ill wash my feet
I dont need you drinking the water from my floor. I need you to respect me when you lived here, not compare me to a ghost.
Please, open! Its cold out there!
Go to Laura, theres a fire there to warm you.
She threw me out! Oliver shouted, losing his composure. When I said I couldnt afford a coat, she called me a failure, said the previous man
Emily laughed, a loud, genuine burst. Isnt it funny? They compared you to the former. How does it feel, Oliver? Energised? Like a weight lifted?
Emily, stop! Let me in!
No, you have no home here. Your home is where youre valued. Im better off alone. I dont want starchstiff collars any more. Ill wear untucked tees and eat what I like.
She slammed the door. Oliver hammered, screamed, threatened, wept. Neighbours gathered in the stairwell; Emily warned them shed call the police if he didnt leave.
He fled to his mothers house, then tried to stalk her at work with flowers, called from disguised numbers. Emily remained unmoved. The night he left with his suitcase, something finally burned out inside her.
Six months later the divorce was final. In court Oliver looked pitiful, pleading for the judges pity, claiming his wife had deceived him and driven him out. Emily just smiled.
She met a new man a year laternothing spectacular, just ordinary. When she served him her own stew, he ate two bowls, dabbed the sauce on his bread, and said, Thank you, Emily. You must be tired. Ill wash up.
No mention of Laura, no lecture on how to fry onions.
Oliver, they say, reunited with Laura once more, split again, then reunited againperhaps some men need that volcano of passion to feel alive. Emily watched from her quiet, cosy harbour, where strangers were never welcome.
Sometimes you must help someone make a mistake so they finally understand the worth of what they had, and you learn that you deserve more than being a pale shadow of someone elses past.
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