Simon compared me to his exgirlfriend, and I suggested he go back to her.
You know, Lucy always added a pinch of sugar to her beet soup, just enough to caramelise the beetroot. It kept the colour deep, rubyred, and softened the taste. Yours is too vinegary, it scrunches your cheekbones.
Simon pushed his plate away, made a theatrical grimace, and reached for the bread. Olivia froze, ladle in hand. Steam rose from the pot, clinging to the ceiling and falling in damp beads onto the kitchen suite theyd bought on a threeyear finance plan. Something inside her snappedquiet, without a clang, like an overtightened string breaking. It wasnt the first time, nor the tenth this month.
Simon, Olivias voice was oddly even, though the fingers gripping the plastic handle of the ladle had gone pale weve been married twenty years. Youve been eating this soup all that time. You used to like it. In fact, you always asked for seconds.
Simon shrugged, breaking off a piece of fish. He didnt meet her eyes; his gaze was glued to the smartphone screen where news flashes and funny clips flickered.
Tastes change, Olivia. People grow, start appreciating subtlety nuances. I was merely giving an example. Constructive criticism, so you can improve yourself. By the way, Lucy even finished culinary courses back then. You could tellher meatballs were airy because she soaked the bread in milk, not water, like some people do.
Olivia lowered the ladle back into the pot slowly. Her appetite vanished. The name Lucy had been echoing in their threebedroom flat more often than the television. Lucy was Simons first love, his university sweetheart, the one hed left a year before meeting Olivia. For two decades that name lay hidden in the backrooms of his memory, covered in dust, until a few months ago he stumbled across her profile on a social network. And then everything began.
At first it was nostalgic: Look, Lucys in Bali. And were just at the cottage, at the cottage. Then jokes turned to snide, then to sharp, painful comparisons.
Olivia sat opposite her husband in silence. She watched his thinning hair, the hint of a double chin, the sauce stain on his cosy jumper. Where had the man she fell in love with gone? He had melted into routine, complaints, and this sudden, inexplicable worship of the past.
Are you still talking to her? Olivia asked, trying to keep her tone casual.
Simon finally tore himself from the phone. A flicker of something crossed his eyes.
We chat now and then. Just friendly. Checking how lifes been. She looks great, keeps fityoga, Pilates, proper diet. She says a woman should inspire a man with her looks, not wander the house in a dressing gown.
Olivia glanced down at her own homewear. Neat, clean, but certainly not designer yoga attire. She worked as senior accountant for a major construction firm, shouldered the household, her younger sons schoolwork (he was at a summer camp), and looked after her motherinlaws cottage. No time for Pilates.
Im happy for her, Olivia murmured. Eat, itll cool.
They finished the meal in oppressive quiet. Simon deliberately added more salt, sighing, as if performing a great favour by consuming this flawed food. Olivia mechanically chewed a slice of bread, tasting nothing. The same thought churned in her mind: why now? Why when the children were nearly grown, the mortgage cleared, when they could simply live, he turned their life into a contest with a ghost?
The following days drifted like fog. Simon seemed to have broken free from a chain. Complaints poured out like bounty, each backed by an expert opinion from his past.
One morning, getting ready for work, he threw a fit over his shirt.
Olivia! Whats this? he shouted from the bedroom, waving a blue shirt. I asked for a starchstiff collar! It hangs like a rag!
Olivia, applying makeup by the hall, rubbed her eyes wearily.
I used spray, Simon. It holds its shape.
Holds poorly! he stormed into the corridor, tugging his trousers. Lucy washed shirts by hand so the fabric wouldnt wear, starched them the oldfashioned way. Her collars were so crisp you could cut yourself! And youre lazy, simplifying everything for my sake.
Lucy didnt have annual reports or two audits looming twenty years ago, Olivia snapped. And students didnt have washingmachinedrums then either.
Oh, dont hide behind work! Simon waved him off. A woman must create cosy. Its natural. Look at the dust on the cupboardI just brushed it with my finger yesterday. Lucy would never have allowed that. She was a stickler for cleanliness.
Olivia studied him with a long, probing gaze. He stood there, dissatisfied, petulant, convinced he was right. Suddenly she found herself laughingnot merrily, but a bitter, sarcastic laugh.
Simon, dont you remember why you both split? she asked, fastening her handbag.
Simon hesitated, adjusting his tie.
Young, foolish. Our temperaments clashed. She was demanding, brilliant. I didnt pull it together then. Now Im different. Ive made it, I know what I want.
Right, youve made it. And Im just the convenient option that fell into your lap while you grew into Lucys level?
Dont twist it! he snapped. I just want you to take a cue from the best, to strive for perfection. Whats wrong with that?
He left, slamming the door without a goodbye. Olivia stood in the silent hallway, her reflection a pretty woman with melancholy eyes. Take a cue from the best echoed in her mind.
That evening the situation worsened. Without warning, Margaret, Olivias motherinlaw, arrived. She was a stout, loud woman, certain that her son had been sentenced to a heavenly punishment rather than a wife. Olivia usually endured her visits stoically, but today her armour cracked.
Margaret swept into the kitchen, eyed the table, then wrinkled her nose.
Again those shopbought dumplings? Olivia, you cant feed a man like that. Hell ruin his stomach.
Theyre homemade, Margaret, Olivia replied calmly, pouring tea. I made three hundred over the weekend.
Really? Margaret poked the dough with a fork. Too thickly rolled. I remember Simons girl, Lucy she was such a craftswoman! Her dumplings were translucent, glowed in the light, filled to the brim. She had golden hands. Simon missed that treasure.
Simon, sitting nearby, smiled smugly, feeling his mothers support.
Thats why I tell you, Mum, Lucys the benchmark. Shes single now, divorced a businessman. She says its boring with him, no soul left.
What? Margaret gasped, almost spilling her cup. Single? That woman! Perhaps youll meet, chat? Old friends, after all.
Olivia placed the kettle down; the clink of plastic hitting plastic sounded like a gunshot. She glanced from Simon to Margaret. They sat side by side, discussing Simons former girlfriend as if Olivia were a piece of furniture, a kitchen appliance, not a living person.
You know, Olivia interrupted their bickering, her voice clear, thats a splendid idea.
Silence fell. Simon and his mother stared at her.
What exactly? Simon asked cautiously.
To meet. To chat. Olivia smiled, a smile that promised nothing good but seemed wholly friendly. Simon, you suffer. The beet soup is sour, the shirts are drab, dust on the cupboard I see how you torment yourself. Why continue this torture?
Simon frowned, sensing a trap he couldnt locate.
Olivia, stop the theatrics. I was just saying
No, no, you said it perfectly, Olivia interjected, sitting down, hands clasped. Youve grown. Youve reached Lucys level. And I what am I? Im a regular woman who tires, sometimes buys ready meals, cant starch collars to razor sharpness. Weve become incompatible. Youre an aesthete, a gourmand; Im just an accountant.
Margaret opened her mouth to add something, but Olivias hard stare silenced her.
So, Olivia continued, Im not just suggesting a meeting. Im offering you a chance to reclaim happiness. Shes free, shes perfectwhy not?
Simon chuckled nervously.
Youre kicking me out? Over a shirt?
Im not kicking you out. Im letting you chase a dream. Different things. Olivia rose and walked to the window. Evening deepened, street lamps flickered. Fear mixed with a strange sense of liberation. Im serious, Simon. Go to her. Live a bit. Maybe you really have a love of a lifetime, and Im just a placeholder.
Youve lost your mind! Simon shouted, but Olivia heard hesitation mixed with curiosity. We have a family, a son!
The boys at camp. And family family means protecting people, not comparing them to ghosts every damn day. Im weary, Simon. Im tired of competing with Lucy, who isnt even here. I always lose because shes an ideal in your head, and Im a reality. My head hurts, Im aging, she stays forever young in that white coat.
Simon fell silent. Margaret quieted, shifting her gaze between son and daughterinlaw.
If thats how you see it Simon said, a note of hurt in his voice. Then you dont value me. If youre ready to give me away so easily.
I value myself, Olivia cut in. Lets do this. Todays Friday. Pack a bag. Go to her this weekend, or meet at a hotel. Test your feelings, test her perfect meatballs. Come back Sunday night and well decide whats next.
Simon leapt from his seat.
Oh, so youre challenging me? You think Im useless? Lucy would love it! We texted yesterday; she said shes lonely!
Excellent, Olivia nodded. Suitcase on the loft.
The packing was chaotic. Simon tossed clothes into the suitcase, proclaiming that some wives dont recognise their own happiness and that he would finally feel like a respected man. Margaret swirled around, adding fuel: Let him sit alone, think, then beg for forgiveness later.
Olivia watched the farce with uncanny calm. She fetched his favourite aftershave, placed clean socks (not starched, sadly), even ironed his dress shirt.
Thats it! Simon stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand, looking like a melodrama hero. Im leaving! Dont expect calls! Ill enjoy life!
Good luck, Olivia said, closing the door behind him.
The lock clicked like a final chord. Silence settled over the flat. Margaret, realizing the audience had left, hurried out, muttering about pride that never leads to good.
Alone, Olivia didnt weep. She went to the kitchen, poured the cooled tea, retrieved a bottle of fine red wine shed saved for a special occasion, and poured herself a glass. Then she ordered a greasy pepperoni pizza, double cheese. No beet soup. No meatballs.
The weekend passed oddly. At first the emptiness was strangeno television chatter, no demands for tea, no stray socks. Olivia did a deep clean, not to please a husband but to sweep away accumulated irritation. She washed floors, rehung curtains, threw out the cracked mug Simon always complained about but was reluctant to discard.
By Saturday evening she caught herself feeling content. Calm. No one judging her steps, no one comparing. She soaked in a bubble bath, read a book, sipped tea with biscuits in bed, unafraid of breaking anything.
Simon didnt call. Olivia didnt pick up, though the urge to see if hed been online was strong. She held her resolve.
Sunday was sunny. Olivia strolled through the park, bought an icecream, then drifted into the shopping centre and tried on a dress shed eyed for a month but thought too pricey. She bought it, slipped it on, and walked home, catching strangers admiring glances.
Evening came inexorably. Around eight, a key turned in the lock. Olivia sat in an armchair, heart thudding, but she stayed seated.
The door opened and Simon stepped in, looking crushed. His shirt was stale, dark circles under his eyes, the suitcase now heavier. He slipped into the hallway, set the suitcase down, and collapsed onto a pouffe.
Olivia waited, breath held.
Simon ripped off his shoes, tossed them into a cornera habit he never shedand lifted his gaze to hers. There was no triumph, no joy, only fatigue and a childlike resentment of the world.
So? Olivia asked. How were the perfect meatballs?
Simon waved his hand.
Forget them meatballs.
He shuffled to the kitchen, poured water from a crystal jug, and gulped it greedily. Olivia followed, leaning against the doorway.
Tell me, she demanded. You went to paradise. Why return to my hell?
There was no paradise, Simon muttered. Lucy shes changed. Completely different.
And slowly, word by word, his romantic weekend unfolded. The perfect Lucy lived in a flat with three cats, obsessed with crystals. Instead of dinner she suggested a chakracleansing meditation and a celery smoothie.
Imagine this, Olivia, Im starving like a wolf, and shes talking about the universes vibrations while grinding herbs! I asked, Lucy, maybe a steak? Or at least some potatoes? She stared at me like I was a corpse. Said, Your energy is low, Simon. Heavy. He gestured wildly. I said, Fine, Ill go to work now. And I fled.
Her flawless cleanliness turned out to be a myth; over the years shed shifted toward the spiritual. The flat smelled of incense, giving Simon a pounding headache, and the sofa was covered in fur more than fabric.
And the shirts? Olivia teased. Did she starch them?
Shirts? Simon groaned. She lectured me for two hours on wearing natural linen, loose cuts so the body can breathe. My shirts are officeslave shackles. I spent the night on a prickly blanket, a cat perched on my face. At five a.m. she started chanting mantras. I couldnt take it. Said I had to get back to work and ran.
Olivia listened, feeling the spring inside her loosen. The perfect image collapsed, shattered by beet soup and celery. Relief mingled with disgust.
You know whats the worst? Simon continued, now daring to peek in the fridge. She talked only about herself, her practices, her exesshe called them grounded goats. She never asked how I was, what Id achieved. She just told me how to live. Olivia, any food? Something normal? A proper beet soup? Ill even settle for sour.
He turned to her, hopeful.
Got any? he asked, eyes pleading for the familiar, for home.
Olivia looked at the pot of beet soup shed set aside, now chilled in the fridge, then at Simon.
Theres soup, she said. In the fridge. Heat it yourself.
And you? Wont you stay?
No, Simon, Olivia adjusted her new dress. Im leaving.
Simon froze, the fridge door agape.
Where? Its night.
To the cinema, with a friend. Then maybe a walk.
What? Im back! I get it now! Lucys a fool, youre the best! Im sorry! Should I kneel?
Olivia gave a sad smile.
No kneeling. You see, Simon Lucy not being what you imagined doesnt make me automatically better. You didnt come back because you missed me. You came back because they didnt serve you meatballs and forced you to listen to mantras. You returned to the convenience of wife. Over the past two days I learned one thing.
Which?
I love it when no one compares me. And I wont let that start again. Today Lucy is bad, tomorrow youll meet Tanya, Mary or Sophie, and youll start hunting my flaws again.
I wont! Olivia, I swear!
Well see. She grabbed her handbag. Im staying with Iris tonight. I need time to think, just as you needed time to test your feelings for Lucy. Now its my turn to test my feelings for you.
But the beet soup
Eat the soup, Simon. Be grateful it exists. And the sugar add it yourself, to taste.
Olivia slipped out, leaving Simon alone with a cold pot of beet soup and shattered fantasies. Descending the stairs, she felt an incredible lightness. She didnt know whether shed finally forgive him, whether theyd return to their old life, or if this weekend marked the end of their marriage. One thing was certain: she would never again let anyone compare her to anyone else. That knowledge warmed her more than any ideal beet soup could.
Outside the air was mild. Olivia inhaled the evening fully, pulled out her phone, and called a taxi. Life, it seemed, was full of colour, even when youre over forty and cant starch collars.
