Husband for the Weekend

A Weekend Husband

The fishcake was lying right in the middle of the plate, surrounded by emptiness, like a miniature moon on a dinner table. William stared at it, his stomach uttering a low, mutinous growl.

Lizzie, do you mind if I grab a sandwich? Im absolutely starving, he called out.

Bill, dinnerll be ready in twenty minutes. The roast will go cold if you spoil your appetite.

But its only one bite, promise. Just need something to keep me upright.

Cant you manage to wait? Ive timed everything. The spudsll be done at quarter past seven, chickens out of the oven at twenty past. If you nibble now, youll just ruin it, wont you?

William sighed and sat down at the table. Lizzie, poised by the fridge, shuffled about recent Tesco purchases. Everything had a place. Milk, second shelf from the right, cheese in the cheese drawer, yoghurts all lined up by best-before date, the ones set to expire pushed front and centre.

Tea, at least? he ventured hopefully.

Go on then. But only a teaspoon of sugar.

Lizzie, love, Im a grown man.

And headed squarely for diabetes if you keep on. Your dad was, your granddad too. Teaspoon. Thats it.

William reached for the kettle, but Lizzie swept in, measured out the sugar with decisive gravity, and placed the mug in front of him.

There you are. Drink up.

He looked at the mug, then at her backalready returning to her choreography of fridge organisationthen shrugged, sipped. Weak, barely sweet at all, but he didnt protest.

Outside, the evening pressed close, a November dusk folding itself over their neat London suburb, where semis stood in orderly ranks, each looking out onto clipped lawns and the glow of tidy streetlights. Cars slipped silently into their usual spots. Nothing out of the ordinary; just another evening.

They were both in their mid-fifties. Thirty years married. The house was as immaculate as a gallery and as hushed as a library.

***

On Saturdays, their home came to life at eight sharp; not because there was any law against a lie-in, but because eight oclock was when The List began. Lizzie drafted it on Friday, inked in slanted blue in a crisp lined notebook.

Eight a.m. Breakfast.

Half eight. Mop the kitchen floor.

Ten. Tescos for groceries. Then, B&Q if needed.

Noon. Lunch.

One. Hours rest.

Two. Visit to Aunt Dorothy.

Five. Return.

Half five. Dinner.

Half six. TV or books.

Ten p.m. Bed.

William knew the list by heart. Not from reading it, but because it had barely changed in fifteen years. Only the shop names or the relatives swapped out every now and then.

He swished the mop down the hallway, pondering rivers and wide, silver mornings. Fishing. It floated into his mind with dreamlike clarity. How long had it been? Eight years, probably. Last time was with Colin from work, up by the New Forest lakes. They caught a pair of modest perch and a tench; brewed up tea in an old tin pan on an open fire, swapping jokes until the ducks fled the water from their laughter.

Hed returned long after midnight; Lizzie had, of course, been up.

Do you realise the time?

I do, Lizzie. Lost track, thats all.

I called eight times. Dinners in the fridge, but its not the same now.

Im sorry.

You have any idea how I worried?

Im sorry, Lizzie.

Hed never gone again, not because shed forbidden it, but because he simply didnt suggest it any more. There was always something more pressingrepairs, visits, errands. Safer just to let it slide away.

Bill, wring that mop properly, would you? Not so hard, or itll leave streaks.

He obeyed, not seeing the difference. The floors shone. Lizzie was proud of their house. William once overheard her telling a friend on the phone, You could eat off my kitchen floor. Through the wall, he chuckled privately, thinking hed never in his life wanted to eat off any floor, shiny or not.

The shopping trip went to plan. Lunch, too. Aunt Dorothys pies were slightly burned underneathLizzie gently remarked, just for the record, that Dorothys oven was probably uneven, darling. William silently thought the burnt bit was exactly what made the pies perfect.

They got home at twenty past five, a full ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Lizzie set the bags down, put the kettle on, fished out the cottage cheese bake shed prepped that morning. Six identical squares, each perfect.

William sat at the table, blinked at the cottage cheese, and felt a hush of panic. Not at the foodat everything at once. For he could see as clear as sunlight: tomorrow would be the same, and the next day, and next year, and forever.

He finished his tea and dinner and drifted off to the TV room.

***

The hoover gave up the ghost on Wednesday night. Just died. William dismantled it on the kitchen table, peered in: filter choked to death, brush loose at its bracketnothing complicated. Hed been a technician at the Kingston Instruments Works for twenty-two years. He could fix a hoover in his sleep.

Lizzie wandered in.

What are you doing, love?

Fixing this old thingsee, filters clogged and brush brackets snapped.

Bill, just call a service man. Dont tinker.

Lizzie, its a simple job. I can do it.

Youve done it with irons before. Once it broke altogether after your fix, another time only half the plate worked.

That was different. This I understand.

Bill.

Im an engineer.

Youre an engineer at the factory, not a gas man. Dont botch it and end up costing us more.

Something shifted inside him. Quiet, heavy, as if a stone thatd lain silent for decades had finally started rolling. He gazed at the hoovers guts, at his palms, at her quiet, certain face.

Im fixing it, Lizzie.

Bill

I. Am. Fixing. It.

She blinked in some surprise, then in faint annoyance. She left, didnt come back.

He fiddled an hour. Hoover worked better than before, what with the filter clean. He tidied the tools, ran the hoover just to hear its soothing buzz.

Lizzie passed through, looked, nodded silently, said nothing.

Hed hoped for a well done.

***

The advert was stuck to a post by the Tube: Repairs for older gadgets, appliances, and easels. Ring or visit. A number and an address. Williams cassette deckan ancient Royaltyhadnt worked for years. Lizzie had often told him to bin it. Every time he said Later, and returned it to the shelf.

Hed bought it before their wedding. His father had chipped in. In digs, hed lined up his cassettes by the window. When he and Lizzie moved in, she shut the tapes in a boxYou know, they only collect dust. Why keep them out? Sometimes William would slide open the storage cupboard and just touch them, remembering.

The phone never answered. William decided to check the address near Notting Hill Gate, in a faded Edwardian terrace with battered doors.

He found the right flatthird floor. Rang the bell. Long silence. Then shuffling, a crash, and the door opened.

A woman stood there, about his age, wearing a paint-splattered apron, hair tied up in a wild, haphazard knot, streaks of blue and yellow on her arms, a dab of green on her cheek.

Hallo! That for the mending?

Yes. Lost your phone, did you?

I do, almost daily, she laughed. Vanessajust Vanessa, please. Mind the easel, dont trip.

He entered, halted. The room was a swirling overflowhazy, half-finished canvases everywhere, stacked and leaning, old brushes in jars, newspapers crushed with footprints. A fat ginger cat reigned on the sofa and watched William with chilly, royal contempt.

There was the scent of linseed oil, coffee, and something elsea flavour William recognised as life.

Sorry for the mess, Vanessa said, I was painting all morning, never got to tidying.

No trouble, he said, surprising himself with his honesty.

What do you need mended?

My old tape deck. Wont turn. Motors gone, I expect.

Oh, a Royalty! Havent seen one since school. Checked the battery in the remote? Contacts corrode sometimes.

Yup. No luck.

Bring it over next time. Meanwhile, would you? She paused, eyeing a rickety easel.

***

The offending easel squatted by the window. Its leg wobbled, and the top bracket held the canvas at the wrong angle.

See, here? I tried a short screw, but it just flaps

He knelt, looked, asked for a screwdriver. Vanessa reappeared with three mismatched choices. William picked the right one, fixed it with tape insulation, got it going.

Thats only a fix-up, he said. M6 bolt, best, with a nut. You can get them at Wickes.

M6, right, best write that She took a paintbrush and scribbled M6 BOLT & NUT! on a bit of old newspaper.

William laughed, genuinely, as if he hadnt for months.

Youll forget the note when you bin the paper.

Ill stick it on the fridge! Come on, lets have some tea and a pie. Ive got one from last night.

He intended to declineso many things he should be doing, jobs waiting, Lizzie waiting

Yes, please, he replied instead.

***

They drank tea in a cramped kitchen. The window overlooked a little rear garden, and green things sprouted in mismatched pots on the ledge. Vanessa brought out the pie on a plate, no fuss, no napkin, just a heap. William took a piece; it was the wrong side of fresh, caved indelicious.

Good, eh?

Very, he nodded.

Mum taught me, right before she moved to Cardiff. Shes at uni thereArt History. Proper grown up now. Unlike me.

Youve lived here long?

Twenty-five years. Was with my ex till last year. Now its just me and Albie, the ginger. He rules the place.

At mention of his name, Albie flicked his tail with disdain.

You upset?

About the divorce? At first, yes. Thenwell, you know how you walk in shoes that rub and think no more of it, take them off and realise youve been limping for years. Bit like that.

William gazed out to the garden. A giant tree nearly bare; the last leaves trembling.

Are you an engineer?

Yeah, at Kingston Instruments.

Interesting?

Its a job. But I used to love working with bitsmechanisms, for myself, not just for work. Used to fish a lot, too.

Fishing! Tell me

He blinked; few ever wanted to hear. At home, Lizzie would sigh, What is there to say? You just wait. But Vanessa listened, utterly attentive.

He told her about early mornings, the smell of the river at dawn, the silence broken only by fish flicks. About catching a monstrous tench with Colin once, thinking it was a log.

He talked on, and when the clock finally shook him, it was half eight.

HeavensIve been here ages.

Of course! Thanks for the fix. Thanks for the fishing stories.

For the fishing?

For making me see it. I could almost smell that water.

On the Tube home, William wondered: when had anyone last simply listened to him?

***

Lizzie was sitting in the kitchen when William slipped back home. Dinner plate covered by anothersealed in its cold disappointment. Her face was battle-ready.

Where were you?

I went about the tape deck, saw a womanartistneeded help with her easel. Stayed ages, sorry.

You didnt call. I had dinner at seven. The chicken dried out, reheated twice. I waited.

He looked at the plate, at her.

Sorry about the dinner.

Its not about the chicken! Its basic respect. If youre going to be late, tell me. You never thinklast Tuesday you bought the wrong butter. I wrote unsalted, you got salted. Ruined the baking.

He hung his coat. His hands were steady but something tight and coiled was growing inside, silent and determined.

I had a pie at her place. Sorry.

A pie.

Yeah.

You went for a tape deck, came home late, ate someone elses pie. Do you hear yourself?

I helped with her easel. Had tea. Shes alone, thats all.

Whats her name?

Vanessa. Fifty-four. Teaches at the community college. Divorced last year.

Youve got her life story down, have you?

We talked, Lizzie. Just talked.

Lizzie whisked the covered dinner plate away, tense and sharp.

Reheat it yourself if you want. Im going to bed.

After she left, William sat in the hush, watching rain slant against the window. Rain, he thought, never comes when its scheduled.

***

He visited Vanessa several more times. Delivered the tape deck; she had a friend fix it. Next time he brought a cherry tart, bought en route. Later, he called round just to check, to see if shed bought the M6 boltshed got an M4 by mistake, and they laughed about it.

He didnt mention these visits to Lizzie. He said, Im calling at the workshop, nothing more. Maybe that suited them both.

One evening he lost track of timeagain. He and Vanessa browsed Cézanne prints, discussing how the artist caught light, utterly absorbed.

Lizzie was waiting.

The dinners cold

Lizzie, listen

She looked at him. Something in her stare had shifted: not anger, but a living anxiety.

Whats happening, Bill?

Nothings happening. I enjoy her company. I help her out. She listens.

You do understand what youre saying?

I do. Theres nothing No, theres nothing like that. We just talk.

Talk.

Yes.

Ive kept this house thirty years. Cooked for you, managed your health and our budget. Im senior accountant at Marks & Sonserious job. I always put us first.

I know, Lizzie.

Then why, Bill? Why go to some artist woman when you could be at home?

He had no answer. Or perhaps he did, but it would have sounded cruel.

***

He left one Friday evening, with just a holdall: shirts, razor, that half-finished book. Lizzie appeared in the bedroom doorway, watching him pack.

Where will you go?

I need time alone. To think.

This is daft, Bill.

Maybe. But Im off.

Youre off to her.

Im off to figure this out.

He zipped the bag. Faced her. Lizzie stood, arms folded tight, in her robealways crisp, always perfect. Her face was baffled, not cold. As if her toolbox had suddenly emptied itself.

Ill call you, he said.

And he left.

***

Vanessa asked nothing. When he rang, asking to stay a few days, she replied, Course, sofas free. Come on over.

He slept on her couch, Albie the cat warming his feet at night. Mornings Vanessa made strong coffee in a battered pot and they listened to local radio, talking only about rainstorms, or whether Albie had eaten yet another windowsill geranium.

Lizzie phonedonce per hour at first, then less. When William did answer, shed roll through her script:

Have you taken your blood pressure pills, Bill?

Yes, Lizzie.

Youve got your warm coat? Forecast says minus temperatures.

I have.

Dont forget your GP appointmentfour oclock day after tomorrow. I arranged it ages ago.

Right.

Cant you just come home? Whats missing there?

Hed fall silent.

Ill call, Lizzie.

Then came a message from her friend Maggie: Bill, are you off your head? Lizzies in pieces. Even his boss phoned: Bill, what happened? Lizzie rang the office, says youve vanished. Then a note from her cousin Gregory, whom William barely saw but at Christmastime.

He read these, realising Lizzie had launched her full army. That was always her way: if anything got out of her grasp, shed mobilise, delegate, charge ahead. This time, the target was him.

How are you? Vanessa asked one night.

Strange, he answered honestly. Bit frightened. Bit lost.

Course.

I realised this morning, I didnt know what to wear. So I grabbed a dark blue shirt, not white, not grey. The one I fancied. I havent chosen my own clothes for, what, twenty years?

She chose them?

Shed lay them out. Said Id dress wrong otherwise. I just accepted it.

Vanessa was quiet.

She loves me. I dont doubt it. Just love in her way.

I believe you.

But with her, somewhere along the line, I vanished. Became her schedule, not me.

***

Lizzie turned up on Sunday. Found the address, as she always did. William opened the doorthe air between them brimming with silence.

Can I come in? she asked.

He stepped aside.

Lizzie entered, glanced round. Her expression flickereda hint of distaste, maybe. By the door stood Vanessas boots, one toppled over. A scarf with garish chevrons, a paint-blotched jacket. She could see a canvas edge from the sitting room.

Vanessa came from the kitchen. The two womens eyes met.

Hullo, said Lizzie.

Hello, replied Vanessa.

Lizzie faced William.

You all right?

Fine.

Taking your tablets?

Lizzie

Just asking.

William had just sliced cucumber for a saladragged, awkward pieces, flopped in all directions. Lizzies breath caught; cucumbers should be neat.

Lizzie, said William, you didnt need to come.

Bill, I gave you all my yearslooked after you. That was love, you know that?

I know.

Then why, Bill?

Vanessa spoke gently, Lizzie, may I say somethingas an outsider, not an enemy?

Go on, said Lizzie, still facing away.

Care is when someone feels light with you. If theyre suffocating, its not really care. With you, he couldnt breathe.

Long pause. Lizzie finally said, You dont know our life.

I dont, Vanessa agreed.

William put his hand on Lizzies. She didnt pull away.

Lizzie, Im asking for a divorce. I mean it. Its not that I dontor didntlove you. I just cant do this anymore.

She studied their linked hands, then gently separated her fingers. She picked up her bag, standing tall as ever, her posture perfect, her walk even.

Dont forget your medication. Top right drawer, blue box, she said from the hall.

The door closed behind her.

***

The divorce took six months. He left her the house, no argument. Moved into a room just down the road from Vanessa, in another mews terraced by the high street. It felt ridiculous and inevitable, both at once.

He rebuilt his routines in slow, odd ways. Bought whatever bread he fancied, not the right loaf. Sometimes ate from the fridge, straight from the container. Stayed up to 1a.m. watching a black-and-white film, feeling a cheeky delight like a child sneaking biscuits.

He and Vanessa didnt rush. They understood the importance of not hurrying.

Together, spring saw them try fishing. William borrowed rods, Vanessanever having fished in her lifewarned him shed be hopeless. They drove her old red Fiesta, wheezing up hills, to a pond outside Guildford.

By mistake, William forgot the thermos. When she asked, he said, Left it at home. Drat.

No matter, Vanessa said. Look at that mist over the water.

They watched, the river blanketed in morning haze, sunlight blushing through the trees.

Isnt it wonderful? she whispered.

The first fish was a tiny perch; Vanessa squealed when William cradled it. Let it go! Poor thing!

He did.

They drove home fishless, trousers streaked with mud, for William had slipped and pulled Vanessa down too, both howling with laughter until the swans took flight.

His jacket was ruined.

Worth it, Vanessa shrugged. What a morning.

He looked at herher mess, her easy laughter, that wild tuft of hair.

This, he thought, is living. Not a timetable, but a muddy jacket and a morning mist.

***

They married that autumn, nearly two years after the split. The wedding was tinyColin from the factory, Vanessas friend Irene (self-appointed photographer), and Albie, eyeing everyone darkly from the mantelpiece.

Life with Vanessa was vivid, messy. One month shed splash out on canvases, then forget toilet rolls. William would take apart knackered sets found at car boot sales, scattering bits everywhere. She lost her keys constantly. He left tools in the fridge. She once found a spanner behind a lettuce and neither could explain how it got there.

They squabbledover money, abandoned paintbrushes, misplaced screwdrivers. Occasionally it turned stormy. When arguments finished, nobody counted faults or tallied grievances. Someone would simply put the kettle on. That was the truce: gesture first, then together again, talking over a mug of tea.

***

Lizzie heard of the new wedding from Maggiewho made it her business to know all business.

The first months after William left, Lizzie ran on inertia. She prepared dinner, cleaned, filed accounts at Marks & Son.

Evenings were too quiet, too wide. She would catch herself putting out two cups of tea out of habit, then whisk one away. That hurt in a sharp, surprising way.

At work, her boss, Mrs. Robinson, called her in after a meeting.

Lizzie, are you all right?

Yes, alls fine.

But you havent been yourself for weeks. Is it family?

Personal matters.

Your husband?

Lizzie looked up.

Howd you know?

I just do. I went through it myself. Heres my advicedont start by scrubbing the skirting boards of your house. Start by scrubbing your feelings. Find someone to talk to. Not a frienda proper counsellor.

Lizzie wanted to protest she wasnt the sort. But she said nothing.

***

She found a therapist online, a woman in her mid-forties in a tiny Islington office. For the first sessions, Lizzie barely spoke, answers clipped, as if made to undress in public.

On the fourth session, the therapist asked, Lizzie, when were you frightenedtruly, for yourself?

Lizzie had to think hard.

When he packed his bag. When he left and I realised I couldnt stop him. When I couldnt control it.

And why is control so important?

Long silence, as cold sleet drummed the window.

Because otherwise it all falls apart. Mum always said, Lizzie, keep a grip on thingsmen vanish otherwise. She did. My father left her anyway. But she never let go.

The office silence was gentle, not brittle.

So youve been afraid all your life youd lose everything if you let go?

Yes.

And?

And holding on too tightlyturns out you lose everything that way, too.

It was hard to say. But once said, Lizzie felt lighter.

***

Maggie suggested a trip to a local art show at the community centreSunday, otherwise oppressive in an empty house.

The watercolour exhibition was charming and quiet. Lizzie liked the transparent colours, how the blank page shone through.

She was gazing at a riverside painting when a stranger, a little older than her, mild-eyed and gentle, stopped by.

Curious, he mused, the artist has left this corner unpaintedsee there? Pure white. It makes the whole thing.

Lizzie peered closer. I never noticed.

Many dont. Im Jack, he said.

Lizzie.

He was endearingly clumsy; as they left, he caught his jacket on the door, zip jamming. He fumbled, sighing, and Lizzie, on impulse, fixed the teeth with practiced fingers and zipped it up.

Thank you! Jack beamed as if shed just performed surgery. Ive wrestled with this thing for weeks.

You need a new one.

Im hopeless in shops.

They lingered a while outside. He taught guitar at the centrecame most Sundays.

Would be nice to see you next week, he said shyly.

She didnt promise. Yet next weekend, she came.

***

Jack, she would discover, was a widower. He lived alone, drank oceans of tea, played guitar every night, rarely remembered the day of the week, and could natter about anythingwhy London robins sang in winter, or why some street trees survived and others didnt.

At first, Lizzie itched to organise him: advised buying a planner, admonished his disorderly fridge, started rearranging the tins in his cupboards.

He just took her hand. Lizzie, I like it how it is. Honest.

She looked at the cupboard. At his warm, steady grip. He wasnt annoyedjust calm.

Sorry. Silly habit.

Not silly. Just my kitchen.

My kitchen, then, she smiled.

She remembered that moment. Afterward, shed notice: her hands reaching to fix, to line up, to directshe stopped, more and more often.

Her therapist had said, You cant control other people, Lizzie. Only yourself. And thats much more interesting.

She thought that over.

She began to bake. Always precise beforeflour to the last ounce. But Maggie gave her a recipe: Apple pieyou add cinnamon to taste. Lizzie paused, spoon in handwhat does to taste mean, if its not measured?

She dumped the cinnamon in, likely too much. The pie tasted faintly burnt, but the smell was gorgeous. She ate half, laughing at her own boldness.

You bake now? Maggie asked.

Im learning. Its not always perfect. But fun.

Maggie watched her.

Lizzieyouve changed.

Have I?

For the better, love.

Lizzie didnt reply. But outside, she realisedshe was smiling at nothing, just the golden leaves in the lane.

***

It happened by chance, two years later. In Battersea Park. William and Vanessa were headed to the river; Lizzie sat on a bench with a book, waiting for Jack whod gone for coffee.

She spotted William first, in that navy shirt she remembered. Vanessa at his side, laughing, pointing at squirrels.

Lizzie snapped her book closed.

William waved, paused, and came over.

Hello, Lizzie.

Hello, Bill.

Vanessa stepped back politely. Lizzie noticed.

You look well, William saidnot as a pleasantry, but in surprise. She didsofter, lighter.

You too.

They let the silence pool, autumn leaves gold at their feet.

How are you? she asked.

Good. Vanessa and I are driving down to Cornwall next monthno bookings, just back roads and coastal towns. See what we find.

Cornwall?

Not sure yet. Thats the delight.

She looked at Vanessa, studying a beech tree.

And you? William asked.

Good. I bake, now. Its ridiculous. Last time I doubled the baking powder; the pie rose to the ceiling, crackedbut we ate it all.

Thats wonderful.

Im seeing Jackhes a teacher. Rather scatterbrained. Im learning not to correct him every second.

Williams face warmed.

That cant be easy.

No. But interesting.

Jack trotted uptwo coffees, and an overfilled paper bag. Lizzie! Got you a Chelsea buncouldnt remember if you liked currants or icing, so I picked both! Coffee slopped everywhere.

She laughed, unselfconsciously.

William gazed at her.

Youre laughing.

I am, she replied, a little surprised herself.

Vanessa joined them.

Well go on, let you be, she said softly.

Were fine, Lizzie repliedand meant it.

They said their goodbyes, no drama, no lingering. William nodded, Lizzie smiled. Vanessa wavedher gesture warm, free of hurt or triumph.

Lizzie watched them down the path. William said something, Vanessa laughed and looped her arm through his.

Jack returned and thrust both buns at her.

Choosewhichever you fancy.

She chose the iced one, bit in, warmth crumbling onto her lap.

The autumn park whispered with leaves. Somewhere children shouted. Clouds sauntered along, at their own pace.

Lizzie sat, eating her bun, thinking: I could have lived and never learned how it feels simply to love instead of manage. Never, if he hadnt left.

Jack sat beside her, unwrapped a currant bun, tasted a bite, grimaced.

Not for me. Want to swap?

She took his bun, and laughed again.

I do.Jack took her hand, and they finished their buns in companionable silence. Around them, the park shifted into late afternoon, the world flushed honey-gold. Lizzie watched the sunlight filter through the last of the leaves, the shadows stretching gently over the grass, and felt, for perhaps the first time in decades, that the passage of time was nothing to be feared.

Shall we walk? Jack asked, brushing crumbs from his jumper. No plan. Just follow the paths.

She nodded, rising, not caring if her skirt caught a bit of icing. They strolled beneath the trees, their pace easy, with no timetable and no list, letting the hours unfold with the certainty that nothing at all needed managing, only enjoyed.

As they walked, Lizzie thought of the immaculate dinners, the strict routines, the mopped floors shed once tended like a shrineand saw now how bright and unpredictable life looked when things were left a little untidy, open, welcoming. A future not boxed in by certainty but flung wide by hope.

She squeezed Jacks hand, and together they wandered on, both a little lost, both a little found, disappearing into the generous, ordinary, marvellous chaos of the worldjust as they were.