Nothing Personal, Just the Stuff

Nothing Personal, Just Things.

Pack up that vase as well, said Mrs. Valentine Armstrong, her voice cool and matter-of-fact, without so much as glancing back.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room, surveying the shelves with the clinical precision of someone window-shopping in a store where she already owned everything. Calm. Business-like. A connoisseurs squint to her gaze.

Which vase? asked Emily.

Her voice came out frail, quieter than shed intended. She coughed and repeated, Mrs. Armstrong, which vase do you mean?

That one. The blue one. We brought it back from Prague in 98a family piece.

Emily looked at the blue vase. She and Andrew had bought it for their third wedding anniversary from a tiny shop off Charles Bridge. The shopkeeper was elderly, with a white beard, and had spoken something in Czech. Andrew had laughed and pretended he understood. Afterwards, they ate chimney cake on the street, Emily burnt her tongue, and both had laughed about it well into the afternoon.

Its not a family piece, said Emily, evenly. We bought it together. In 2009.

Emily darling, Mrs. Armstrong finally turned around, her tone laced with the same patient clarity Emily had learnt to dread within her first year of marriagethe tone one used to a witless child. Lets not complicate things. You know, surely, that all this she swept her arm around the sitting room all this was bought with our familys money.

Our familys money, Emily echoed. Andrews and mine.

Andrew earned it. His father and I helped. You kept house. Thats quite different.

Andrew was by the window, staring out at the city below. From the twenty-third floor, it all looked like a toy: tiny cars, tiny trees, tiny people. He said nothing.

Emily stared at his back, thinking how familiar it washow he stooped slightly when tired; the mole beneath his left shoulder blade; how he breathed when he pretended to sleep. Ten years. Ten years, and now he stood at a window watching a miniature world, while his mother packed their life into cardboard boxes.

***

The flat was beautiful. Emily had admitted as much, even at her angriest. High ceilings, panoramic windows, walnut parquet you couldnt scratch with heels. The kitchenstraight out of Lux Interiorspurchased solely by Mrs. Armstrong, an act she cited at every opportunity. A chandelier in the sitting room, like a frozen waterfall.

Eight years here, and still Emily had never felt at home. Not because the flat was lackingon the contrary, it was too perfect. Too expensive. Selected too carefully from catalogues Mrs. Armstrong would carry over in her handbag.

Newly moved in, Emily had put an unglazed pot of violets on the bedroom sill, bought from the market for a tenner. A week later the pot was gone. Mrs. Armstrong had disposed of it because it didnt suit the theme.

Emily said nothing. Andrew said nothing.

That was the first time. There would be many more.

***

The removal men arrived at ten sharptwo silent men with a trolley and endless rolls of brown tape. Mrs. Armstrong met them at the door with a typed, numbered list in hand. Emily barely glimpsed the first items: Sitting room: corner sofa (grey leather), 1; marble coffee table, 1; bronze floor lamp, 2…

Emily slipped into the kitchen. Put on the kettle. Anything for her hands to do.

Andrew followed, pausing at the threshold.

Em, he began.

What?

How are you?

She looked at himhis handsome, familiar face, now wearing what she privately called his guilty schoolboy look. Frown slightly furrowed, eyes averted, voice meek, almost pleading.

Im fine, she said. Would you like some tea?

Em.

Tea or not, Andrew?

He hesitated. Yes. Id like tea.

She poured boiling water into two mugs. White ones, with painted rabbits theyd bought in Amsterdamridiculous mugs that clashed spectacularly with the Lux Interiors kitchen. Mrs. Armstrong had called them trashy. Thats exactly why Emily cherished them.

They stood together, drinking, the sound of tape unrolling and Mrs. Armstrongs quiet instructions drifting in from the sitting room.

She hasnt got the right, Emily said quietly, more to herself than him. That sofawe bought it together. I picked out those lamps myself. The bedroom paintings? I brought them back from Florencewith my own money.

Ill speak to her.

Youve said that five times today, Andrew.

He didnt respond. He stared into his rabbit mug.

Andrew, she said, and her voice finally became what shed tried to avoid: tired, flat. Im not asking for the sofa. I dont want the sofa. I only want you to just be here. Beside me. Once.

He looked up at her.

I am here.

No. Youre at the window.

***

Mrs. Armstrong was sixty-four, one of those women who could occupy a space so completely that it seemed to leave less air for everyone else. Not cruel, exactly. Just precise. Always certain of what was proper, what fit, and what was out of place.

She loved her son. Emily didnt doubt that. But Mrs. Armstrongs love was so dense, so absolute, there was no space inside it for Emily. Not because of malice. She simply couldnt imagine anyone else loving him as wholly as she didor more so.

Emily had tried to befriend her, that first yearinvited her for meals, asked for recipes, even bought a beautiful scarf after much searching. Mrs. Armstrong had thanked her, set the scarf aside, and informed her she had sensitive skin.

The second year, Emily stopped trying to be friends and kept her distance. Politely, without drama.

By the third, she realized distance wouldn’t helpMrs. Armstrong wouldnt acknowledge any boundaries unless they’d been set by her.

Fourth, fifth, sixth Emily stopped counting altogether.

***

Andrew James, Mrs. Armstrong called from the sitting room. Come here, we need to decide about the pictures.

He set his mug down. Emily watched him answer his mothers summonsthe familiar brisk steps, slightly hunched shoulders. Ready to obey.

How many times had he done this in ten years? Responded to her voice, her call, her command.

She wasnt angry. She was too tired for anger. It takes energy to be angry, and she had none left.

She heard their voices from the sitting roomMrs. Armstrong: Well take this one; its from Fort Gallery, good investment Andrew: indistinct, acquiescent.

Emily finished her tea, rinsed the mugs, set them to dry.

She left for the bedroomnot because she needed to, but because she didnt want to hear their lives split by bullet points from a printed list.

The bedroom lay quiet. Bars of sunlight crossed the neatly made bed. They hadnt decided who would get the bed yet. Mrs. Armstrong, no doubt, had already decided.

Emily sat on the edge. Ran her hand gently across the sky-blue cover.

She remembered picking out the coverlet, torn between two choices in the department store. One was practical, doesnt show the dirtas Mrs. Armstrong would say; the other, delicate, blue as the spring sky. She bought the blue. Andrew had been baffled, but said nothing.

This blue coverlet was, perhaps, Emilys one act of rebellion in eight years here.

***

She opened the bedroom loft idly, searching for a battered old bag to take with her. The bag was there, and beside it, a box.

An ordinary old shoebox, its corners scuffed. Misc. Ourswritten in green marker, her own hand.

For a moment, she couldnt remember what was inside.

She set the box on the bed. Opened it.

On top: two faded cinema tickets, corners torn. She couldnt place the film then remembered. Amélie. Their third date. Andrew had claimed he hated it, but three years later admitted hed liedhed loved it, just been too shy to say.

Beneath the tickets, a postcard from Barcelona. Their honeymoonLa Sagrada Família on the front, Andrews scrawl on the back: I love you more than Gaudí loved this cathedral. And that was seventy-three years. Emily had laughed, asked, Will you love me seventy-three years too? Hed answered, Ill try.

He was forty now. She, thirty-eight. Ten years together. Sixty-three to go.

She turned the postcard over, thinking.

Beneath it: a souvenir Eiffel Tower magnetbought at a flea market in Paris, instantly relegated from the fridge by Mrs. Armstrong, tasteless; a plastic Participant wristband from an office party where theyd danced drunk until 1 am; a brittle wildflower, edges crumbling; three seashells from Brighton beach; a paper napkin, marked with a game of noughts and crosses played whilst waiting for their meals in some nameless café.

Everything inside was cheap. Insignificant. Not listed on any spreadsheet in Mrs. Armstrongs folders.

Emily sat on the soft blue cover, holding the napkin, and something inside herlong pressed tightstarted to untangle.

She didnt cry. She never did, not like this. She just breathed, as quiet as she could, while the noise of packing tape and Mrs. Armstrongs voice floated in from outside.

***

Andrew entered the bedroom, probably after something of his. He saw hersitting with the open boxand stopped dead.

Whats this?

See for yourself.

He picked up the old cinema tickets. The postcard.

Emily watched his expression shift, slow as the sky clearing after rain.

Amélie, he murmured. I said I hated it.

I know.

I lied.

I know.

He sank beside her, fidgeting with the Participant bracelet.

That was Sarahs office party. 2015.

Yes. 2015.

You lost your shoe on the dance floor.

And you found it under the bar.

I said you were Cinderella.

And I told you youd never make a Prince.

He smileda real smile, not the tired, apologetic one shed grown used to these last years, but the old one, left corner lifting.

Im no Prince, he agreed.

They sat in silence. In the hall, something crashed and Mrs. Armstrong barked, Careful, please. The removal man apologized.

Andrew, Emily said.

Yes?

How did we get here? Not just this roomhere.

He didnt answer right away, twisting a shell between his fingers.

I dont know, he admitted.

You do, she said, without malice.

He put the shell back in the box. Im a coward, he said simply.

She studied himhis profile, that familiar line of brow and nose.

I know.

It was meant to be different.

Yes.

I shouldve shouldve stood up. For us, for you. Time and again.

Yes, Andrew.

He looked at herreally looked, for the first time all day.

I want you to knowI remember all of this. Every bit. He gestured at the box. I remember buying those tickets. I remember you burning your tongue on chimney cake. I remember the wildflower. The shells, Emyou said youd make a frame for a photo, I said it was tacky, you sulked, and later we swam at three in the morning, and

Stop, she said quietly.

Why?

Because it hurts.

He sat in silence.

It hurts me too, he whispered.

***

Mrs. Armstrong appeared in the doorway.

Andrew, I need you to sign

She saw the box, and both of them sitting on the bed. Something flickered across her faceEmily couldnt read it.

Whats this?

Our things, Andrew said.

What things? This is rubbish, you should throw it away.

Mum.

These silly tickets, bits of paper

Mum, he repeatedand this time there was something new in his voice. Not pleading. Something else.

She looked at him.

What?

Could you leave the room, please.

A long pause.

Andrew, the removal men are waiting, were losing time

Mum. Please. Leave the room.

Emily didnt look at her mother-in-law, only at her own hands folded in her lap. She heard the silence settle thick and ringing after Andrews words.

Very well, Mrs. Armstrong said at length. Her voice was even, but different. Call me when youre ready.

Her footsteps faded.

Emily exhaled.

That was the first time, she said.

What?

You asked her to leave.

He was quiet.

In ten years, she said. The first time.

I know.

Why now?

Im not sure. He searched for words. I suppose I saw this box, and it hit meeverything were dividing, out there in the sitting room, its all just stuff. A sofa is just a sofa. A vase is a vase. But thishe tapped the boxthis is us. Its all thats truly ours.

Emily regarded him for a long moment.

Andrew, thats a beautiful speech.

Im not trying to be poetic. I

Wait. Let me finish. It is a beautiful speech, but Im tired of the speeches. Youve always been able to explain, to promisebut knowing and doing arent the same.

I know.

No, Andrew, you think you know, but you dont. Because if you did, your mother wouldnt be out there packing our life into boxesby her own list. She made a list. Of whats ours. She came, with a list.

Ill stop this.

Right now?

Yes.

Its too late, Emily said gently. It should have happened years ago. Seven years ago, when she threw away my flower pot. Or six, when she rearranged our bedroom while we were on holiday. Or five, when she criticized my cooking. Or four, when

Em

Or three, Andrew, when she convinced you to wait on having children, because you needed to find your feet, and you agreed, and I was thirty-five and

She broke off.

The room was silent.

That was the hardest, she said quietly. Hardest of all.

Andrew sat still. His expression was unfamiliar to hernot guilty, not searching for excuses. Just open, unguarded.

I know, he said. Back then I

Dont. Dont explain.

I want to.

Not now.

She closed the box, gently pressing the lid flat.

Im taking this, she said. Thats all I want.

Alright.

I dont need anything else from this flat.

He looked at her.

Where will you go?

To Mariannes, for now. Ill find somewhere after.

Em

What?

Dont leave.

She stood. Picked up the boxit was surprisingly light, considering all it held.

Andrew, Im leaving this flatnot you. I cant do this anymore. I never wanted to live here; I just pretended to want it.

You can leave this flattogether.

She paused. Turned.

What did you say?

He stood, hands at his sides, looking directly at her.

I said, we can leave together. I dont want the sofa, or the crystal glasses, or any of the art. I want you, this box, and nothing else.

Emily stared at him.

Inside, something stirredpart hope, part fear, part exhaustion, and something else, unnamed.

Andrew, she said slowly, youre forty. If you walk out with me, your mother

I know.

will be furious.

I know, Em.

And youre ready?

I dont know if Im ready. But I do know that if I dont do this now, Ill never respect myself again.

A pause.

Thats a different conversation, she said.

Is it?

Yes. This isnt I want you back. This is I want to respect myself. Thats different.

Maybe, he said. But maybe you cant have one without the other.

***

Mrs. Armstrong was busy with the removal men when they re-entered the sitting room. She turned, eyeing the box in Emilys hands, her sons face.

Have you two finished your chat?

Mum, Andrew said. Stop.

Stop what?

All of this, he gestured at the roomfurniture shifted, one floor lamp wrapped in bubble wrap in the middle. Take it. Take all of it. I dont want a thing.

She blinked.

What are you talking about?

The sofa, the vases, the glasses, the paintings, the Lux Interiors kitchen. All yours. Do as you please.

Andrew, these are valuable things, assets

Mum. Im leaving with Emily, and this box. Thats all I want.

Silence.

Mrs. Armstrong looked between them, as if unfamiliar with the rules. No anger. Not even hurtjust someone realising the rules were suddenly different.

Youve lost your mind, she whispered.

Maybe, Andrew replied. But if I have regrets, at least this time, theyll be mine.

***

They left the flat just past one. Emily carried her box. Andrew had a small bag and his work laptop.

They were quiet in the lift, staring at their reflections: two not-so-young people, tired faces, one clutching a battered cardboard box, the other a holdall for three days clothes.

On the ground floor, the porter nodded. The doors slid apart. Outside, it was an ordinary April afternoon: cool, grey, smelling of damp leaves and distant rain.

They paused at the steps.

Where to? Andrew asked.

I told you. Mariannes.

I cant stay at Mariannes.

You dont have to.

I dont want to be anywhere except with you.

Emily watched the street. The people below, who didnt seem small at all, but normal-sized, living their lives.

Andrew, she said. We dont have a flat.

I know.

Weve hardly any money. Its all frozen until the courts decide.

I have some put aside. Mum didnt know.

Good. But well have to rent somewhere. Honestly, something tiny. And probably ugly.

Fine.

No Lux Interiors kitchen.

Thank heaven.

She looked at him. He looked at hersomething in his face was like relief, yet relief was a small word for the heavy reality.

This isnt the end, she said. Its just the start. Therell be the courts, your mother, plenty else.

I know.

Im not sure well cope.

Neither am I.

And still?

He waited, and then, Still.

Emily shifted the box under her arm. It was light. A few tickets, a postcard, a magnet, a wristband, a dried flower, three shells, and a napkin scratched with noughts and crosses.

All ten years boiled down to this. But maybe, it was the only part of those ten years that truly mattered.

Lets go, she said.

And so they went. Along an ordinary April pavement, on an ordinary grey day, with no plan, no answers, one bag and a shared cardboard box. Somewhere, far away on the twenty-third floor, the walnut parquet and frozen-waterfall chandelier stayed behindwith Mrs. Armstrong, probably already instructing the men.

They walked forward. Emily didnt know if it was right. She hardly knew anything for sureexcept this: the box under her arm, him beside her, the April air. That scent that comes only in spring, when its still cold but you know the cold cant last.

Andrew, she said, as they walked.

Yes?

Remember the shells? By Brighton Pier? You said itd be tacky.

It was tacky.

Im making that frame anyway.

Alright, he said.

Just nowhere to hang it yet.

Well find somewhere, he said.

Emily didnt reply. She just walked beside him, holding her box, knowing that well find somewhere wasnt a promise. It was just a word. But sometimes, words were all there was. And sometimes, that was enough to take one more step. And another. And another.