“My wife’s as wooden as a board, and I’ve already found a buyer for her flat,” the husband chuckled into the phone.

No, Steve, whats she going to do? My wifes as wooden as a garden bench, she doesnt give a toss about anything. Dont worry, Ive already lined up a buyer for her flat.

I froze in the hallway, two shopping bags in each hand. The keys were still jangling in the lockI hadnt even managed to shut the door behind me. Inside the bags were potatoes, onions, chicken legs, a promotional pack of buckwheat and three plain yoghurts for Tommyhe only wants the white, sugarfree kind. I was already weighing up whether Id have time to defrost the meat or if Id end up tossing a frozen slab straight into the pan, ending up steamed rather than fried.

Dean was standing with his back to the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, stirring something in his muga instant coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. He never bothered washing the dishes after himself.

She wont notice a thing, he kept going, slurping from the mug. Ill say its paperwork for a transfer, youll sign. She trusts me. As wooden as a fence post. No feelings, no personality. The housekeeper comes free.

He chuckled. I recognised that laughhed cracked it with the boys in the garage while I hung the dishes after their gettogether. Hed laughed the same way when Tommy fell off his bike as a kid, and I ran in with a green tin, while Dean just stood there and said, What are you, a hen? Let him get up on his own.

My ears rang, like the pressure before a storm. My fingers clutched the bag handles, the cling film digging into my palms until white lines appeared. I set the groceries down slowly, fished out my phone and hit record.

From the kitchen came a low murmurDean was already chatting with Steve about fishing hooks and tomorrows lake trip. He always does that: first he spits out the poison, then he moves on to idle chatter, as if nothing had happened, as if I were really just a wooden statue.

I held the phone up to the gap in the halfopened door and waited until he finished his goodbye to Steve and promised to wrap up the deal next week.

Then Dean hung up, slammed the receiver and shuffled in his slippers to the fridge. I stopped the recording, slipped the phone into my coat pocket, grabbed the bags and slipped past the kitchen into the bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against the frame.

A cold, sharp sting pressed at the back of my throateither to scream or to howl like a dog. Twentyfour years of marriage. Tommy, school, university, his debts that I paid off from my holiday pay. His mother, whom I drove to the hospital three times a week until she passed. His socks, the meatballs, the endless Love, wheres my blue shirt? And now I was wooden. And there was already a buyer.

I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. Buckwheat dust clung to my fingertips. I looked at the wedding ringthin, worn. Hed given it to me when we were still sharing a flat and eating spaghetti with ketchup. I felt the urge to fling it out the window, but I didnt. I breathed in deep, just as Mum used to tell me: Lucy, if someone wrongs you, count to ten first, then decide what to do.

I counted to twenty. Then I got up, splashed my face with icy water and pulled an old diary from the bedside drawer. I found the number for the council officewritten down when I had arranged my mothers disability claim.

A woman’s voice on the line explained that a restriction on any registration action could be placed online, but it was better to come in person. I said Id be thereright now.

It was about three oclock. Dean was booming in the kitchenprobably frying an omelette. I slipped into the corridor, shrugged on my coat.

Where are you off to? he asked without turning, the pan hissing.

To the shop for bread. No crumbs for dinner.

And grab me a packet of cigarettes while youre at it.

I left. The lift jolted me as it ascended. Not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of what I was doing. For twentyfour years Id never taken any step without his nod. Even the colour of the wallpaper was a joint decision until hed later muttered, Beige is drab, it should have been sage. Id kept quiet.

The council office was empty. A clerk at the window stared at my papers for a long moment.

Are you sure you want the restriction? Without you being here in person, nobodynot even a power of attorneycan sell, give away, or swap the flat.

Absolutely.

She tapped the keys. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the street, a slip of paper tucked into the inner pocket of my coat, right where the phone with the recording lay.

I returned home with a loaf and a pack of Deans favourite cigarettes. Dean was sprawled on the sofa, watching an action film. I drifted into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. The pan still held the charred bits of yesterdays eggs. I washed it, out of habit.

Around seven the doorbell rang. Dean bolted up, tugging off his Tshirt.

Oh, thats me. Lucy, put the kettle on, a decent chaps coming.

I nodded.

A man in his fifties, dressed in an expensive coat and clutching a leather briefcase, stepped into the hallway. Dean brightened, grinned.

Meet him. Oliver Benson, estate agent. About the flat.

I slipped out of the kitchen, drying my hands on a towel, and gave Dean a lookhis smug face.

Dean, you remember you were on the phone with Steve this afternoon?

He froze. The smile slipped away like badly glued wallpaper.

What? It was just something.

You called me a wooden wife and said youd already found a buyer for my flat, that I wouldnt notice anything.

A silence fell. The estate agent shifted his weight from foot to foot. Deans face went pale, his cheeks mottled.

What are you on about, Lucy? he began, but I raised a hand.

No need. I heard every word.

I pulled the phone from my pocket and played the recording. His voice filled the room: My wifes wooden Ive already found a buyer she trusts me the housekeepers free

Oliver stepped back toward the door.

David, you didnt mention there were complications.

Dean stared at me as if I were a stranger.

You recorded me? Been watching me? he hissed.

I was standing in the doorway with the groceries Id bought on my own wages, so you, Tommy and his girlfriend would have something for dinner. And while I was doing that, you were bargaining away my house. My house, Dean. Not ours. Mums.

He took a step toward me, but I kept my composure.

And another thing. I went to the council office today and placed a restriction on any action concerning the flat unless Im there in person. So your buyer I nodded at Olivercan look elsewhere. This property isnt for sale any more.

Oliver retreated.

I suppose Ill be on my way then. David, well be in touch. Sorry.

He slipped out the door.

We were left alone. Dean stood in the middle of the room, gulping air like a fish out of water.

What have you done? Youve ruined everything! We had plans!

You had plans. I had faith. And you snapped it today, calling me wooden. Well, wood burns, Dean, and Ive burnt.

He slumped onto the sofa, clutching his head.

Lucy, Im sorry. It just fell apart. I didnt mean it. Steve pushed me

Steve, I said with a wry smile. Of course. Always someone else to blame. Not you, the man who lived off my salary for twentyfour years, drank my tea, slept in my sheets and treated me like a piece of décor.

I slipped off my ring and placed it on the coffee table.

Ill file for divorce tomorrow. The flat stays with meits Mums inheritance, you have no claim. Pack your things within a week. Ill explain everything to Tommy; hes an adult.

Lucy

No, dont. You cant imagine how light I feel right now. For the first time in years Im not thinking about what to cook. I know I have a house, and I have myself.

I retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, and the phone chirpeda message from a friend: How was your day?

I typed back: Brilliant. Im no longer wooden.

In the morning I woke at seven. Instead of racing to put the kettle on for Dean, I stretched, threw on a robe and brewed coffee for myselfground beans with a pinch of cinnamon. Dean only ever drank instant.

He emerged, his face creased, and stared at the Turkishstyle pot in my hand.

What about me?

Dean, its time you find a new housekeeper. Wooden things sometimes sprout life.

I took a sip. The coffee burned my tongue, my hands still trembled, and the cup clinked against my teeth. It was the best coffee Id ever tasted, because Id made it just for me.

A knock at the door. I set the cup down and opened it. Oliver Benson stood there, coat still on, but his expression was sheepish.

Sorry to bother you so early. Your husband mentioned yesterday the flat was yours, but I wasnt aware Id like to offer my services as an agent, should you ever decide to sell or buy again. Honest, no strings.

I stared at him, while Dean peeked from the kitchen, his face twisted in anger.

What are you doing here? he barked.

Working, Oliver replied calmly. Ive got a new client now.

He handed me a business card. I turned it over in my hand, glanced back at Deans frantic look, and at Olivers professional smile.

Thank you, Mr Benson. Ill think about it, but not today. Im buying a cat. And perhaps a new frying pan.

Oliver nodded, said goodbye and left. Dean muttered something and disappeared into the bedroom. I leaned against the closed door, laugheda soft, almost inaudible laugh. For the first time in years I laughed in my own hallway, morning light spilling in.

I finished my coffee with a grin, already deciding the cats name would be Martha, after the tomcat that lived with us as a child until Dad gave her away because she shed everywhere. Now Ill have my own Martha, and no one will complain that the fur is a problem.