Nothing Personal, Just Belongings

Nothing personal, just things

Pack that vase as well, said Veronica, without turning around.

She was standing in the middle of the living room, gazing at the shelves with the air of someone admiring the window of a shop where everythings already been paid for. Calm. Business-like. A slight squint of the connoisseur.

Which vase? Emily asked, her voice coming out much quieter than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, Veronica, which vase do you mean?

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

Emily looked at the blue vase. She and Thomas had bought it for their third wedding anniversary in a little shop on Kings Parade, Cambridge. The shopkeeper was old, with a shock of grey hair, and had told them something in Czech. Thomas laughed and pretended to understand. Afterwards, they ate hot apple pastries on the street, Emily burnt her tongue, and they both laughed about it for half an hour.

Thats not a family heirloom, Emily said evenly. We bought it together. In 2009.

Emily, dear, Veronica finally turned, her voice taking on that careful, patient tone shed used with Emily since the first year of the marriagethe tone you use when explaining the obvious to a particularly slow child. Lets not make this complicated. You understand all of this she waved her hand around the living room was purchased with our family money.

Our family money. Emily repeated. Thomas and mine.

Thomas earned it. His father and I helped. You managed the house. Thats not quite the same.

Thomas stood by the window, staring down at London, which from the twenty-third floor looked like a toy town. Tiny cars, tiny trees, tiny people. He said nothing.

Emily looked at his backshe knew every inch by now: the way his shoulders slumped when he was tired, the mole just below his left shoulder blade, the rise and fall of his breath when pretending to sleep. Ten years. She had known him for ten years, and now he stood there staring out at the miniaturised city, while his mother packed their lives into cardboard boxes.

***

The flat was beautiful, Emily had to admitshe always did, even when angry. High ceilings, panoramic windows, American walnut floor that couldnt be scratched by heels. The kitchen, from Elite Interiors, paid for by Veronica herself, who never missed a chance to mention it. The living room chandelier, like a frozen waterfall.

Emily had lived here for eight years but had never felt it was truly her home. Not because the flat was badjust too perfect. Too expensive. Too meticulously chosen from catalogues brought by Veronica.

When they first moved in, Emily put a simple clay pot of violets on the bedroom windowsillbought at the market for a tenner. A week later, the pot was gone. Veronica said shed binned it because it didnt fit the aesthetic.

Emily had kept quiet then, and so had Thomas.

That was the first time. There were many more after.

***

The removal men arrived promptly at tena pair of silent blokes with a dolly and a reel of packing tape. Veronica met them at the door with a printed checklistnumbered, boldly titled. Emily glimpsed the first few lines: Lounge: corner sofa (grey leather), 1; coffee table (marble), 1; floor lamp (bronze), 2… She turned quickly and drifted into the kitchen, putting the kettle on just to keep her hands busy.

Thomas followed, pausing in the doorway.

Em, he said.

Yes?

How are you?

She looked at him, at the well-loved face now clouded by that guilty expression she mentally called the little boy lookeyebrows knitted, gaze averted, voice low, almost pleading.

Im fine, she replied. You want tea?

Em

Thomas, do you want tea or not?

He hesitated. Yeah. Please.

She poured boiling water into two mugsthe goofy white ones with the rabbits painted on, the ones they bought in Amsterdam. Not at all to Veronicas tasteshed always called them that cheap rubbish. Thats why Emily cherished them.

Side by side, they sipped their tea, listening to the business-like rasp of tape and Veronicas quiet directions from the living room.

She cant just take what she likes, Emily said, softly, almost to herself. We bought that sofa together. I chose the lamps. The paintings in our bedroomI got them in Florence. With my own money.

Ill talk to her.

Youve said that five times already today.

He didnt answer, just stared into his mug with the rabbit.

Thomas, she said, her voice finally sounding as tired and flat as she felt, Im not asking for the sofa. I dont care about the sofa. Im asking you just to be here. With me. Just once. Stand by me. Once.

He lifted his gaze. Im here.

No, she said. Youre at the window.

***

Veronica was sixty-four, the kind of woman who could dominate a room so that others had to make do with a little less air. Not unkind, just exact. So sure of what was right or didnt fit the aesthetic.

She loved her sonEmily had no doubt. Her love was just so dense, so all-encompassing, there was no place inside it left for Emily. Not through cruelty, but because she didnt believe anyone else could possibly love Thomas as muchor morethan she did.

The first year, Emily tried to build a friendship: inviting her to lunch, asking for recipes, once giving her a carefully chosen scarf. Veronica thanked her, put the scarf aside, and said it would irritate her sensitive skin.

By the second year, Emily stopped trying, simply kept her distancepolite, conflict-free.

By the third, she realised that distance didnt work. Veronica never recognised boundaries unless she was the one who drew them.

By the fourth, fifth, sixth Emily stopped counting.

***

Thomas William, Veronica called from the living room, I need your opinion about the paintings.

He put his mug down. Emily watched him walk towards his mothers voicefaster steps, shoulders slightly cocked, ready.

So many times, over these ten years, hed gonelike that. At her call, at her ring, at every request.

She wasnt angry anymore. Anger took energy, and shed long since run out.

Veronicas voice drifted from the living room: Well take this one, definitely; its from the Fortnum gallery, a solid investment Thomass voice came backquiet, agreeing.

Emily finished her tea. Washed the mug. Set it to drip dry.

Then she left for the hallway, heading into the bedroomnot from need, more because she couldnt stand hearing her life carved up by items on a printed list.

In the quiet of the bedroom, sunlight striped the bed through the windows. They hadnt decided whod keep the bed. Veronica probably already knew.

Emily sat on the edge, smoothing her palm over the cover.

She remembered choosing that cover in John Lewisholding two in her hands: one practical and dark (less likely to show marks, as Veronica would say), the other a delicate blue, the shade of spring sky, wildly impractical. She bought the blue. Thomas was surprised but said nothing.

That blue bedspread was probably the boldest thing Emily ever did in this flat.

***

Emily opened the bedroom cupboard absently, searching for her old handbag. It was there, deep inside, beside a carton box.

A plain cardboard shoe box, battered corners, with Bits. Ours. scrawled on the lid in her own handwriting.

She couldnt recall at first what was inside.

She set it on the bed.

She opened it.

Two yellowed cinema stubs lay on top, rough-edged. She didnt remember what for, not at once. Then: Amélie. Their third date. Thomas said he disliked it, but three years later admitted hed liedhe loved it, just felt too shy to say.

Beneath those, a postcard from Barcelonatheir honeymoon. Sagrada Família on the front. On the back, Thomas had written, I love you more than Gaudí loved this cathedral. And he loved it seventy-three years. Shed laughed, asked, Will you love me that long? He said, Ill try.

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

She held the postcard, thinking.

Under it: a little Eiffel Tower fridge magnet from a Paris flea marketswiftly removed by Veronica as tacky; a plastic bracelet stamped Participant from a work do when they both danced too late and drank too much; a brittle pressed flower, source forgotten, from some early morning in the countryside; three shells from the Brighton seaside; a serviette where theyd played noughts and crosses awaiting a meal in some random cafe.

All worthless. All listed nowhere in Veronicas manifest.

Emily sat on the soft blue cover, holding the napkin with the inked grid, and something inside her, long clenched tight, began to loosen.

She didnt weepshe wasnt one for tears. She just sat and breathed while the tape rasped in the living room and Veronicas voice discussed crystal glasses.

***

Thomas entered the bedroom by accident, perhaps to pick something up. He saw her sitting on the bed, box open, and paused.

Whats that?

Look for yourself.

He walked over. Took a cinema ticket. A postcard.

Emily watched his features shift, slowlylike sunlight brightening as a cloud moved away.

Amélie, he murmured. I said I didnt like it.

I know.

I lied.

I figured.

Sitting, he picked up the Participant bracelet. From Steves company party, 2015.

Yeah, 2015.

You lost your shoe dancing.

And you found it under the bar.

I called you Cinderella.

And I told you you didnt look much like a prince.

He smiledthe old one, not the tired, guilty smile of the last two years, but his real smile, crooked slightly left.

No, I dont, he agreed.

They sat, quiet, as something fell noisily in the living room and Veronica snapped: Careful! Sorry, the mover replied.

Thomas, Emily began.

Yeah?

How did we end up here? Not this roomjust here. At this point?

He didnt answer right away. He spun a shell in his fingers.

I dont know, he answered, eventually.

You do, she said, gently.

He put the shell back in the box.

Im a coward, he told her.

Emily looked at him, that familiar brow and nose in profile.

I know.

It should have been different.

Yes.

I should have I should have done a lot.

Yes. Thomas.

He turned, for the first time all day, looking straight at her. I want you to know, he said, I remember every bit of thisall of it. He nodded at the box. I remember the tickets. You burning your tongue. That wildflower fieldI remember it. The shells. You said youd make a frame for a photo. I said it was kitsch, you got annoyed, and then we swam at three in the morning and

Stop, she interrupted.

Why?

Because it hurts.

He fell silent.

It hurts for me, too, he said, softly.

***

Veronica appeared in the doorway.

Thomas, you need to sign

She saw the box. Saw them, sitting together. Something flickered in her face, hard to define.

Whats that?

Our things, Thomas said.

What things? Thats all rubbish. Bin it.

Mum.

These scrapstickets and such

Mum, he said it again, but this time, something in his tone had changed. Not pleading. Something else.

She looked at him.

What?

Can you leave the room, please?

A long pause.

Thomas, we dont have much time, the removal men

Mum. Please leave the room.

Emily sat, staring at her hands on her knees, hearing the sudden, rich silence that followed.

All right, Veronica said, voice even but different. All right. Let me know when youre finished.

Steps receded. No click of the doorjust footsteps retreating.

Emily exhaled.

Thats the first time youve done that, she said.

Done what?

Asked her to leave.

He was quiet.

In ten years, she added. First time.

I know.

Why now?

He paused, looking for words. I suppose seeing this box I realised everything were dividing up out thereit’s all just stuff. A sofas a sofa. Vase is just a vase. But this he gestured at the box, this is us. The only thing thats truly ours.

Emily looked at him a long time.

Thomas, she said finally, thats a nice speech.

I dont want speeches, I

Wait. Let me finish. It is a nice speech, and Im tired of speeches. Youve always been good at speechesexplaining why, promising itll be different next time, telling me you understand. But understanding and doing arent the same.

I know.

No, Thomas. You think you know, but you dont. If you did, your mother wouldnt be in our living room, packing our life into boxes on her terms. She made a list, Thomas. A list of whats ours.

Ill stop it.

Right now?

Yes.

Its too late, Emily said. You should have done it years ago. When she chucked my plant from the windowsill. Or when she rearranged our bedroom while we were on holiday. Or told me how to cook Sunday roast. Or

Em

Or three years ago, when she said you didnt need children yet, that you needed to find your footing, and you agreed, and I was thirty-five, and I

She broke off.

It was so quiet in the room.

That hurt the most, she whispered. Worse than anything else.

Thomas sat still. His face showed a look Emily had rarely seennot apologetic, not searching for excuses. Just open.

I know, he said. Back then, I

Dont explain.

I want to.

Not now.

She closed the box, pressing the lid smooth.

This is what Ill take, she said. Thats all I want.

All right.

I dont need anything else from this flat.

He looked at her.

Where will you go?

To Hannahs for now. Then Ill rent something.

Em.

What?

Dont go.

She stood, tucking the box under her arm. It was strangely light.

Thomas, Im leaving this flat, not you. I never wanted to live hereI just got used to pretending I did.

We can leave this flat together.

She paused.

Say that again?

He stood up, arms by his sides. I said we can leave this flat together. I dont want the sofa, or the crystal, or those fancy paintings. I want you, and this box, and thats it.

Emily stared at him.

Something was happening inside hera jumble of hope, fear, exhaustion, and something else she couldnt name.

Thomas, she said slowly, youre forty. If you leave with me, your mum

I know.

will be furious.

I know, Em.

And youre willing?

He let out a breath. I dont know if I am. But I know if I dont act now, Ill lose all self-respect.

A pause.

Thats a different conversation, she said.

Is it?

Yes. Its not I want you back. Its I want to respect myself. Thats different.

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

***

In the living room, Veronica was speaking to the movers. They walked in, and she turned, eyes flicking to the box in Emilys arms, then to Thomass face.

Done talking?

Mumstop.

Stop what?

All of this. He swept his arm across the room, where things were stacked and the lamp stood wrapped in bubble wrap. Take it all. I dont want any of it.

Veronica stared.

What are you saying?

The sofa, vases, glasses, paintings, the Elite Interiors kitchenall yours. Do whatever you want.

Thomas, those are valuable. Theyre assets

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

Silence.

Veronica looked back and forth at thema look Emily hadnt seen before. Not anger. Not hurt. Something more like confusion, as if shed turned up to a game whose rules had changed.

Youre mad, she said softly.

Possibly.

Its reckless. Its

Mum. He stood beside her, looking at her directly. I love you. But I cant go on living like this. This isnt life. Its a spreadsheet. I am not a project.

Veronica was silent. Then, Youll regret this.

Maybe, he replied. But Ill regret my own decisions, not someone elses.

***

They left just after one. Emily carried the box, Thomas a small bag of clothes and his work laptop.

They didnt speak in the lift. Emily caught their reflection in the mirrored wall: two no-longer-young people with tired faces, one clutching a cardboard box, the other a weekend bag.

On the ground floor, the concierge nodded. The sliding doors parted. Outside was a typical April daycool and grey, with the scent of damp leaves and distant rain.

At the top steps, they stopped.

Where now? Thomas asked.

I told youHannahs.

I cant go to Hannahs.

You dont have to.

I dont want to not go to Hannahs. I want to go where you go.

Emily looked out at the street, at the people who, from up high, had looked so small but now were perfectly normal, going about their business.

Thomas, she said. We dont have a flat.

I know.

And barely any money, not until the settlement.

Ive got some put by. Mum didnt know.

Okay, but it wont last. Well have to rent, somewhere small, probably ugly.

Fine.

No Elite Interiors kitchen.

Thank God.

She looked at him. He looked back. There was something like relief on his facethough relief was too shallow for what lay beneath.

This isnt the end, she said. Its all just beginning. Therell be hearings. Your mum. A whole mess.

I know.

Im not sure well manage.

Neither am I.

And still?

He was silent, then said, Still.

Emily adjusted the box under her arm. It was light. A few tickets, a postcard, a magnet, the bracelet, a crumbling flower, three shells, a napkin scribbled with noughts and crosses.

All that was left of ten yearsand, somehow, all that was real from those ten years.

Lets go, then, she said.

And off they walked. Down an ordinary, grey April street, with no plan and no certainty, one bag and one cardboard box between them. Behind and above, they left the flat on the twenty-third floor with American walnut floors, the frozen-waterfall chandelier, and Veronica, who was surely talking to the movers again already.

But they walked on. Emily wasnt sure if it was right. She wasnt sure of anything anymoreexcept: she had her box under her arm, and Thomas beside her. And April. And that scent you get in England in spring, when its still cold, but you know the colds on its way out.

Thomas, she said as they walked.

What?

Do you remember the shells? When we got them?

Brighton seaside. You wanted a photo frame.

You said it was kitsch.

It is kitsch.

Im still making the frame.

All right, he said.

We dont have anywhere to hang it.

Well find somewhere, he said.

Emily didnt reply. She just walked on, holding her box, thinking that finding somewhere wasnt a promiseit was only a word. But sometimes words are all you have. And sometimes thats enough for the next step. And the one after that.

***

If Ive learned anything from this, its that things are just things. In the end, what matters is whats really ours, even if it fits inside a shoebox. And maybe the truest start to something new is having nothing left except each other, the open road, and just enough hope to take the next step.