No Longer a Wife

No Longer a Wife

“Philip, oh Philip. Have you checked your blood pressure today? Taken your tablet?” Linda paused in the lounge doorway, drying her hands on her apron.

Oh, for heavens sake, Linda, do give it a rest with the blood pressure! he grumbled, eyes never leaving his phone. I’ve got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirt? Did you iron it?

I did you three shirts yesterday, Phil, you said the blue one needed to go to the cleaners, had a stain, remember?

“You always muddle things up! Can’t trust you with anything. Forget it, just bring me any old one. And make my tea proper strong, would you? Im sick of your blasted chamomile.”

Lindas shoulders tightened, but she bit her tongue and retreated to the kitchen.

Outside, it was a particularly miserable Novembergrey and drizzly, the kind of English weather that seeps into your bones. The block of flats opposite glowed here and there with pockets of yellow light through mostly blank windows. Linda Matthews, aged fifty-six, stood by the hob watching the ancient, enamel-chipped kettle boil. Shed been meaning to replace it since spring. Didnt get round to it, not with everything else.

She made a mug of proper builders tea, no chamomile, no mint, exactly as he liked it. She grabbed the plate of sandwiches shed fixed at six in the morningjust bread, butter, cheddar, two slices, crusts cut off, because his stomach was sensitive. Shed even chopped a tomato, though November tomatoes taste like cardboard, but at least, you know, vitamins! She loaded everything on the tray and took it through.

Philip Matthews, fifty-eight, sat in his favourite armchair, tapping away on his phone. Only recently, three months ago, hed become head of his department. Twenty years as an engineer, just another chap in the office, until Mr. Prescott retired and, being the senior, Philip got the nod. The job came with a pay rise of two hundred quid a month, a pokey office all to himself and, apparently, a whole new way of looking down his nose at the worldincluding, and especially, his wife.

There, just put it down, he muttered, not glancing up from his phone.

Linda set the tray down and hovered.

Phil, honestly, take your tablet. You said your head hurt yesterday.

I said my head hurt yesterday. Today its fine. I need to make a calloff you go.

She stepped out and stood by the coat rack in the hallway, looking at his overcoat, her quilted jacket, and the umbrella with the bent spoke. She lingered a moment, then picked up a cloth and set to cleaning the kitchen windowsill, because she genuinely didnt know what else to do with herself right then.

So it had gone on for weeks now, ever since Philips promotion and that work retreat in the Cotswolds. Hed come back somehow sharper, with a smarter haircut and a new, oddly smug look on his face. Shed initially been happy, thought: the old lads had a new lease of life, good for him. But then the change crept in.

First, the moaning about her food. After decades quite happy with whatever was on the table, he suddenly found faulttoo much salt in the stew, chicken was dry, and baked beans on toast? Student food, not fit for a department head. When she checked if shed heard right, he looked at her as if shed just wandered in off the street and muttered, Linda, you could at least try to cook something proper. Fish, saladdecent stuff. Not this same old cottage pie all year.

So she cooked him baked fish, made the posh salads. He ate in silence, and she thought all was forgivenuntil the next evening, when he came home glum and said, You know, that new friend of mine from the course, Jonathan? His wife doesnt work at all and keeps the house immaculate. And she actually looks presentable.

Linda could have repliedafter all, she wasnt working either, not since being made redundant from the accounts department four years back. She got up at six, while he lay in, and went to bed after him. She ran the flat, booked his appointments, queued at the pharmacy for his blood pressure and cholesterol tablets, fetched the car in for its MOT, even though theyd sold the car three years ago because he couldnt be doing with driving anymore. She could’ve spelled all this out, but she said nothing. Shed got used to saying nothing.

But then, two days ago, something happened that made it impossible to keep quiet.

Hed got home about eight, just as Linda was dishing up chicken soupnice and light, double strained stock, doctors orders for his cholesterol. Kitchen smelt of parsley and onion.

What took you so long? she called out.

Working late, he grunted, kicking off his shoes right there in the hallway.

Soups on. Come and eat.

He peered in the pot and grimaced. Chicken again?

Phil, your cholesterol. Doctors orders

Yes, yes, I know. Im not a child. Im just tired of living on bloody hospital food at home.

She poured out the soup, sliced the bread, put it in front of him. He ate, dumped his bowl and wandered off. She washed up, wiped the table, cleared the crumbs, then popped her head into the lounge. Theres fruit compote if you fancy it.

He was engrossed in his mobile, something pink flickered on the screenshe couldn’t quite see. He guarded it.

Phil, want some compote?

He looked up, studied her as if weighing something.

No, he said. Then added, after a pause, Lindalook at yourself.

She hesitated. Sorry?

I said, look at yourself. When did you last see a hairdresser? Hairs a mess. Youre wearing that ghastly old housecoat againyou look like youve given up.

Somewhere, next door, the TV was blaring. The kitchen tap dripped.

Phil she said quietly.

What? Im just telling you the truth. Im expected at proper work events nowpeople come over, and my wife should look the part. You dont.

People come over? she said slowly. No ones been round in three months.

Thats only because Im embarrassed, frankly! Jonathans wife is always so well presented. And stylish. Youyouve gone to seed. Always in that tired dressing gown, never bother with your hair

Philip. She used his full name, which was rare. Youll be sixty soon. Im fifty-six. Were not in our prime anymore.

Exactly! He leapt up as though this proved his point. Thats when it matters! Ive joined a gym, Im making an effort. You just sit at home all dayyou cant even

Sit at home all day, she repeated. Her voice was oddly calm, and she was surprised by it herself. All right, Phil. Understood.

She left the room gently, closed the door quietly, and returned to the kitchen. She packed away the bread, turned off the cooker light, moving with the steady detachment of an automaton. Inside, though, something shiftednot smashed or snapped, just shifted, the way you move heavy furniture in a room: strange at first, then a relief, and you wonder why it took you so long.

That night, she didnt sleep. She stared at the ceiling while Phil snored beside her. She listened to him breathing and she thought.

She thought of the last ten years spent in service modegetting up, cooking, cleaning, running to the chemists, booking doctors appointments, fetching and carrying. Not with a car anymoretheyd sold itbut ferrying him everywhere in Ubers, paying by card. Managing his tabletsperindopril for his blood pressure, statins for cholesterol, and now something for his joints, fifty quid a pack. Shed kept a notebook, timed it all, always restocked in advancedoctor said never to run out.

And now hed just told her he was ashamed of her. She was like a granny and Jonathans wife was better.

Linda stared at the darkness, and by one oclock she was absolutely, luminously clear: enough.

Not Ill leave him, not Ill divorce, not Ill have a row. Just enough of doing the things he never noticed or valued. No more being a resource, used like a tapturn it on, get water, turn it off. Now, let him sort himself out.

The next morning, she got up at her usual time: six. She made herself a pot of chamomile teathe stuff he despised. Sat at the kitchen table with her phone, looked up the posh salon at the shopping centre by the stationthe one shed never visited because a trim cost at least fifty quid. Booked in for Wednesday. Then she found Scandinavian walking classes in the local park; free, early on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Put them in her phone calendar.

When Phil breezed in at seven, only his mug sat out on the side. Bread in the bin, butter in the fridge. Hed have to help himself.

What about breakfast? he said, peering around.

Theres bread, butter, cheese in the fridge, said Linda, not glancing up from her phone.

He paused, looked slightly lostthen made his own tea, sliced bread, ate standing at the fridge. Left for work without another word.

Linda watched him go, and for the first time in ages, she felt something like relief.

That Wednesday, she strolled to the hairdresser. The stylista chirpy, tattooed twenty-somethinginspected her hair and said, Not coloured in a while, have you?

Three years, Linda admitted. Didnt get around to it.

Good growth, though! Lets do some highlights, softly, nothing harsh. And freshen up the ends!

For two and a half hours, Linda sat in the chair, watching herself in the mirror as her head transformed. Not young, no, but alive, recognisable at last as herselfher long-lost self.

She spent a hundred and ten quid in all. On the way home, she popped into Boots and bought herself a decent face creamone for mature skin, not the cheap pharmacy stuff. Thirty quid. She hesitatedthirty quid!but thought about Jonathans wife and bought it anyway.

Phil noticed that evening. Glanced at her hair. Said nothing.

She didnt expect him to.

The next week, he ran out of blood pressure tablets. Shed always kept on top of it, checking, restocking three days early. This time, she saw the empty packet, left it on his bedside table. Let him notice.

He came home, dropped his things, strolled past the empty box. She didnt mention it. Next day, he scrabbled for a tablet and found the packet empty.

Linda! he called from the bedroom. The tablets are finished!

I know, she called back from the kitchen.

Wellwhy havent you got more?

Youre a grown man, Phil. You can get them yourself.

Pause. A long one.

But Ive got work.

Ive got things to do as well.

She didnt list her things. Now she genuinely did have things: walking in the park with two other women shed met, Susan and Margaret. Susan was a deputy head at a local school with a laugh loud enough to shoo off pigeons. Margaret was quiet, retired, doted on her grandkids. They marched round the park with Nordic poles, nattering, breathing, and Linda found it surprisingly delightfulshe hadnt known you could get enjoyment from such things.

Phil bought his own tablets. Returned from Boots with the air of a man whod accomplished an epic quest. Put the box by his bed. Said nothing. Neither did she.

Around then, Linda rang her old friend Barbara, her mate from years in accounts.

Barb, you busy Saturday?

Whats up?

Fancy a film? Or just a coffee?

Linda, are you all right? Barbara sounded waryit had to be four years since theyd met just for a natter.

Better than ever, Linda replied.

Saturday, they met at the station. Barbara gasped at Lindas new hair.

Linda, what have you done! Its marvellous!

Salon job, finally took the plunge.

Its about time! I was starting to worry

Well, here I am, better late than never. They settled into a café with lattes and slabs of cake, parked by the window as the seasons first snow started to fall outside.

Go on, tell me everything, Barbara said.

So Linda did. The promotion, the retreat, the new haughty attitude, the salty stew comments, Jonathans wife. The youre embarrassing speech. She recounted it steadily, as if telling a story that happened to someone else.

Barbara stirred her coffee, head tilted.

So what have you done, then?

I havent made any big decisions, Linda admitted. I just stopped doing the things he doesnt even appreciate. Not to get at him. Just pointless otherwise.

Barbara repeated Pointless, slowly, and nodded. I get it. Youre right.

Dont know if its right or not, but I cant do it any other way.

Barbara nodded, nibbling her cake. Has he noticed?

That I dont chase after his prescriptions? Yes. That Im not ironing his shirts every day? Yes. Yesterday he hunted in the wardrobe and wore a crumpled one to work.

No row?

No. He seems unsure what to say. Used to me staying silent. Now Im quietbut a different kind of quiet.

Barbara looked at her, searching. Linda, are you thinking of divorce?

Maybe. Not yet. I need to work out who I amwithout all this. Without the pills, the stew, the shirts. I cant remember the last time I saw myself.

They sat a while longer, ordered more coffee, and hugged at the station. Barbara said, Ring me. And next Saturdaysame again?

Definitely, Linda said.

On the way home, Linda realised she hadnt sat across a table from Barbara with no rush, simply to chat, for six yearsno, maybe more. There had always been something more pressing: Phils dinner, Phils appointments, Phils ever-needy stew.

At home, he was slumped in front of the telly. The kitchen bore evidence of his solo lunch: a greasy frying pan, a plate with a congealed yolk. Once, Linda wouldve washed them up at once. Now, she left them.

Whereve you been? he asked, eyes not leaving the screen.

Out with Barbara.

Long time.

Yes.

She went to wash her face, smoothed on her fancy cream, and studied her reflection. Nothing dreadful there: fifty-six, lined but alive, with streaked hair that rather suited her. She was no spring chicken, and that was fine.

December descended with a vengeance. Linda bought herself proper leather boots, not those bargain wellies shed worn for three winters. Spent a hundred and fifty and didnt regret it a bit.

Something shifted in the flat. She still cooked, but it was food she liked: proper stew, roast potatoes, even the odd ready-made meal, because why not? She didn’t bother with Phils depressing steamed fish. He knew what he should eatit was up to him now.

His shirts went in with all the rest of the laundry now. No separate hand-washing or special settings. Let him sort his wardrobe out.

He noticed, of course. Didnt say muchbut now and then threw in a jibe:

Ready meals again?

Yes, ready meals, she replied evenly.

Giving up on cooking, then?

No, I made a lovely soup yesterday. And a roast on Sunday.

He would grumble and stomp off, but what could he really say? Why wont you orbit around me? would be a bit on the nose, even for him.

Linda carried on: walks in the park, more time spent with Susan, who recommended her a fantastic womens health GP Linda had been meaning to visit for ages. She actually booked in. She found a free watercolour painting course at the library on Wednesdaysnot because shed always dreamed of being an artist, but because, well, why not? Two hours midweek, nowhere to be, nobody needing her, just her, a brush, and a bit of peace.

By mid-December, Phil started staying late at work. Once, Linda would have worried, kept his supper warm, fretted. Now she just ate when she liked and went to bed if she was tired. Hed roll in at nine, ten, even gone midnight once. She didnt ask; he didnt explain.

It became obvious he was seeing someone elsewasnt from his phone, but from the unfamiliar fruity perfume that clung to him one night. Not office or restaurant airsomeone elses scent. Linda sniffed it in the hallway and just thought, well, there it is.

Strangely, it didnt sting. Shed expected anger, pain. Instead, just a tired curiosityand, eventually, a sense of freedom. If he wanted out, that was his mess, not hers.

She said nothing and slept soundly.

This carried on for a few weeks. Phil left for work, came back at all hours, sometimes whispering on the phone in the bathroom. One time, Linda caught yeah, Chloe, Saturday, I told you through the door. Chloe. All right.

Linda did a lot of thinking then. About spending thirty-two years under one roof, raising a sonMatt, now living with his wife and two kids in Manchesterand how Phil was a completely different man when they were young. She couldnt pinpoint when he changed; it was like the slow seep of water into a basementyou notice only when its beyond draining.

She thought about herself, about how shed spent so long looking after him, shed neglected her own needs. Not just outwardly, but insideher own tastes, preferences, even music and books were lost somewhere among years of dinners and pill packets.

The painting class proved unexpectedly important. Linda sat quietly in the library as the tutor, Mrs. Hammond, a spritely fifty-two, explained blending and washes. Linda painted an apple and thought, goodness, last time I did this was Year Seven, and its not half bad.

One day in January, Mrs. Hammond said, Youve got a good eye for colour, Linda. It seemed a throwaway remark, but it struck her. It had been a very long time since anyone, especially Phil, had said anything like it.

By early January, Chloe, apparently, had called it quits. Linda pieced it together from Phils sudden deflation, the return to coming home on time, the end of whispered phone calls. He looked dampened, sniffled a bit.

She still cooked; he still ate; but now, hed pass by silently. Once, he sat as she was drinking her chamomile and muttered, testing the air, Cold out today.

Yes, she replied. Supposed to be minus four.

Right. He shuffled away. That was that.

She later heard via mutual mate Dave, who phoned about the garden shed, Heard your Phil was hanging around with some young lady? Well, shes moved on, I gather. Linda said, Oh, did she? and nothing more. Dave snorted and changed the subject.

She could imagine what happeneda young woman expecting a charming manager with fine dining and adventure, but ended up with a fifty-eight-year-old bloke obsessed with his blood pressure and how he likes his tea brewed. Impossible to keep that up.

Linda felt no sympathy for Philjust the dull satisfaction of an ache finally gone. Not gleejust an absence of pain was enough.

By February, Phils health deteriorated. He took his pills off-schedule despite years of Lindas diligent routines. Sometimes missed a dose, sometimes doubled up. She noticed the jumble of packets haphazardly shoved in his drawer. Once, she even saw him swallow two because he forgot the previous day. She kept schtum. The doctor had told him enough times.

His blood pressure soared; he went pale, sometimes complaining about tinnitus. Woke in the night. Once, he muttered in the morning, Bit light-headed, actually.

Go see the GP, she said.

Youll ring for me?

Do it yourself. The numbers on your NHS card.

He hesitated. She sipped her tea.

I forget how to book.

Phil, youre a department head. Figure it out.

He did, in the end. Doctor gave him a new prescription.

Here you go, he handed over the slip.

All right, Linda replied.

Youll fetch it then?

Im out that way tomorrowI can. Give me the cash.

He looked momentarily startledshed always sorted it from the joint account, automagically, for years. Now this.

He gave her money. She bought the medicine, plonked it down with the rest. No little colour-coded chart this time, no fuss.

March brought the thaw. The snow retreated into muddy puddles; rain dripped from flat roofs; children poked at the mess with sticks. Linda often went for walks without her Nordic poles, just to get air. She bought herself a new spring jacket: fitted, beige, with a beltnot a baggy charity shop castoff but something nice, just because she fancied it.

In March, Matt and wife Emma came up from Manchester for a few days. Matttall, kind-eyed, very much his fathers son but softer. Emmaa lovely woman, calm, competent. They brought honey and chocolate.

They all sat down for dinner. Linda cooked up a proper spread: roast potatoes, prawn cocktail, her mothers special cold beef salad. Phil was quiet, barely spoke. Matt carried the conversation, Emma asked Linda about her art class.

Youre painting, Mum? Matt looked astounded.

Im learning. Watercolours.

Wow. Show us?

She showed them her work: an apple, then a vase of flowers, then the view from the library window. Matt studied them solemnly, Emma cooed over their beauty.

Mum, you look so refreshed! Matt grinned.

Just a new haircut is all, said Linda.

She noticed Matt glancing at his dad during dinner. Phil quietly picked at his food. Clearly, something was registering with Matt, but he said nothing.

Next day, while Emma nipped to the shops, Matt joined Linda in the kitchen as she made dumplings.

Mum. Is everything all right?

What do you mean?

Dad seemswell, flat. Is he ill?

His blood pressures not great. Saw the GP, got tablets. He’s looking after it himself now, he’s an adult.

Matt rolled a bit of dough between his fingers, silent for a moment.

Are you two okay?

Were not fighting, if thats what you mean. And it was true: no arguments, just an eerie parallel existence.

Let me know if you need anything, Mum.

She smiled at him. Im fine, Matt. Really. For the first time in ages.

He seemed to believe her, and that was that: for the first time, she was, indeed, fine.

The visitors left on Sunday evening. The flat felt quiet, properly empty for once. Linda tidied up, wiped down, cleared away. Phil stared at the TV.

That night, Phil wandered into the kitchen late, poured himself some water, stared out the window.

Matts looking well, he said.

He is, Linda agreed.

And the kids

Yes.

He drained his glass, shuffled off. She watched the streetlights reflected on the slick pavement outside, soft snow barely holding on.

April began, and with it, Philip suffered a mild hypertension crisisnot dramatic, no ambulances, but nasty enough. He tried standing up in the hallway and, unsteadily, sat straight back down.

Linda Not feeling right, he called.

She found him flushed, sitting on the floor, hand against the wall.

Come on. Back to bed.

She helped him up, got him to the bed, took his blood pressure: two hundred over one-ten. Not great.

Take a captoprilshould be in your bedside drawer. Lie down, best stay still. Well check again in half an hour.

Where are you going?

The kitchen.

She put the kettle on and waited, listening as he fumbled about for his tablet. He improved after an hour: back down to one-fifty over ninety. Manageable.

Stay in bed today, she commanded. No work.

Ill have to call in

Ring, say youre ill. You’re not going anywhere.

He stayed home. She brought him tea, dry toast. Not because hed askedjust the decent thing to do. Theres a difference between opting out of servitude and abandoning a person in distress.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Linda, he murmured after a long silence.

Yes?

Ivewell, Ive probably been a bit of a prat these past months, havent I?

She sat at the beds edge, looked him full in the face.

Yes, Phil. You have.

Just this promotion, all went to my head, I suppose. Thought everything should be different, that IdI dont know, achieved something.

You did, youre head of department.

Well, yes. And youve well, you havent changed.

I think I know what you meant, she replied softly.

She rose, took his mug, and went to the kitchen. No major reconciliation, no sobbing, no speeches. He said hed been a fool, she agreed. That was all.

April departed, May arrived. She still walked, painted, grew closer to Susanwho revealed she went to the theatre monthly and invited Linda along. They booked good seats at the citys main theatre. Linda hadnt been in ten years. She sat, sipped her orange juice from the foyer, and watched actors bring stories to life. She realised, at fifty-six, it was not the end, but something entirely new.

She and Phil kept on as flatmates. Hed stopped mentioning Jonathans wife, rarely passed comment on her cooking, sometimes asked about the laundry or the boiler. They sat some evenings in the same room, TV and book, peacefully, but the air was different: she owed him nothing.

Once, he asked her to order his tablets online, claiming Boots had a better price.

I can’t figure it outcould you do it?

Its easy, Phil. Search, add to basket, choose the nearest store.

But youre better at this.

I am, but you will be, too.

He grumbled, but did it. After all these years, it dawned on her that doing things for someone is not the same as helping. Shed spent years replacing him, not assisting him.

That June, the heat set in. She bought herself a summer dress with a floral pattern. Tried it on in the shop and thought, I actually look quite nice. Not a grannyjust a woman in a nice dress.

Older couples handle these things differently, she knew. Some fight, some are all sugary affection, some ignore each other. With Phil, it was none of thoseneither war, nor peace, nor disinterest. Something else: two people, still under the same roof, but finally separate.

She wasnt sure about the future. Sometimes she thought of Barbaras question: divorce? She didn’t rule it out. But first, she had to finish finding herself.

Summer kept moving. She visited Matt in Manchester for two weeksthe first time in years she’d travelled alone. Phil claimed he had work commitments and stayed. Linda sewed a cushion for her granddaughter, a skill shed picked up from YouTube, and set off.

Two weeks in Manchester with Matt, Emma, and the grandkidsHarry, six, and Elsie, fourwere the best in ages. She walked in the park, cooked porridge, bathed Elsie, read bedtime stories. It was a completely different kind of care: not demanded, not exhausting, something she delighted to give.

Matt gently prodded: how was life at home? Linda answered honestlythings were calm now, but complicated. Matt nodded, never pushed. At least shed raised a decent lad.

She came home tanned and cheerful. Phil met her at the doorYoure back then, and helped with her bag. Not much, but something.

August was airless, stifling. Linda bought a little fan for the bedroom, treated herself to a nice watermelon from the market, ate half, shared the rest. Phil quietly said thank you for the first time in years.

Then, in September, mornings grew cold, leaves rattled on the poplars outside, and things came to the crunch.

Phil turned up late Friday, ashen-faced, moving stiffly. Linda sat in the kitchen, reading.

Lindadont feel well.

Whats up?

Pressure, I reckon. Head, chest feels tight, tapping his chest.

She stood, watched him closely. How long?

Since lunch, maybe. Thought itd clear.

Tablet?

Took one at three. Didnt help.

Sit down.

He slumped at the kitchen table. She grabbed the blood pressure kittwo hundred over one-fifteen. Worse than April.

Phil, this is serious. You need an ambulance.

Oh come on, let me have another tablet

No. Two hundred, tight chestthis is not an extra paracetamol job. Doctor, now.

All right, wellyou ring them.

Here Linda paused, blood pressure kit in hand, and studied himgrey faced, anxious eyes, clutching his chest.

She saw a man in trouble and felt genuine pityhe was an elderly, unwell, frightened man. Nothing vindictive, nothing smug.

But she also saw everything else of the past year: him looking right through her; the words that couldnt be taken back; how, long before she stopped caring, hed stopped seeing her as a person.

And she knew what she wouldand would notdo.

Phil, she said, calmly. Youve got your phone. Dial 999. Give the address. Tell them its your blood pressure and chest pain. They’ll come round.

He looked blank. What?

Call the ambulance yourself. You know the number.

Linda His voice was childlike, bewildered. Arent you going to help?

I have helped. I’ve checked your blood pressure. Said you need help. The rest is down to you.

She left the kitchen, crossed the hallway to the lounge, and gently closed the door behind her. Not locked, not slammed, just closed.

After a while, she heard him, voice shaky: Hello? Yesambulance, please. Its the address

She brewed herself some chamomile, carried the mug into the kitchen, passing by as he explained things to the dispatcher. He glanced up at her. She stood by the window, watching the blackened tarmac below the old streetlamp.

Ambulance is coming, he managed.

Good, she said.

Will you, er, come to hospital with me?

She turned, looked him in the eyeso grey, hand pressed against his chest, eyes wide as a childs. She felt sorry for him, honestly, not spitefully. He was an old, sick man in trouble. That was all.

No, Phil. The doctors will look after you.

ButLinda

Paramedics will do their job. Thats what theyre there for.

She picked up her mug, returned to the lounge, and quietly closed the door. She sat by her window, looking at the familiar chestnut tree, the distant flats, and the final few yellow leaves dripping down in the light rain.

Voices in the hallway: shoes, businesslike. Blood pressure ECG Maybe hospital.

Is your wife home?

Yes, but she isnt coming.

A pause, then the medic, matter-of-fact: All right. Lets get you sorted then, shall we?

Door snicked shut. Lift. Silence.

And Linda, sipping her chamomile, felt lighter than she had in years.