Wife’s Double

The Copy of the Wife

Are you sure you wont mind? asked Margaret, lingering at the doorway with her bag slung over one shoulder and an awkward, uncertain smile Olivia had never seen from her before. Honestly. I know its a massive inconvenience. I do.

Maggie, stop. Come in, for goodness sake. Olivia stepped aside, holding open the door. Theres a spare bedroom. James doesnt mind. Everythings sorted.

James doesnt mind, repeated Margaret, like she was tasting the words. Not mockingly. More in wonder. As if the very idea of someone not minding was odd.

He hardly ever minds, Olivia said as she made towards the kitchen. Shoes off. Slippers in the basket to your left.

And so it began.

Olivia was fifty-two then; Margaret, her old university friend, was fifty-one. They hadnt been properly close for half a decadean occasional phone call, coffee at Costa in the town centreand Olivia had always believed she knew Margaret well enough. Well enough to open her door without hesitating. Margaret was recently divorced; her rental was up; the legal papers for her new place crawled along at the usual English pace. Two or three weeks, Margaret had said. A month, at the very most. Just somewhere to put my feet up and get back on track.

They lived in Readingneither tiny nor sprawling, a town where every neighbourhood felt much like the next, and the grocers knew their regulars by name and voice. Olivias flat was three bedrooms on the third floor, windows overlooking a silent street with maples. James, her husband, had a job with a local construction companynothing flashy, but comfortable. Olivia taught economics at the college. Theyd been together for twenty-three years. Their daughter was grown and lived in Manchester now. The flat was roomy, everything settleda home, not the sort you wish to rearrange.

Margaret arrived with one large bag and a box. She unpacked with such unobtrusive silence that for the first three days Olivia almost forgot she was there: Margaret headed off early each morning, returned late, barely ate, and said very little. On the first evening James asked, Long-term?

About a month, Olivia replied.

A month, he repeated, with the same strange note in his voice Margaret had carried at the door.

Olivia thought nothing of it. That, perhaps, was her particular flaw: never noticing little things. Or so she believed.

The first strange note came at the end of the second week. Olivia, bleary-eyed, entered the bathroom and noticed her perfume bottle wasnt where she’d left it. Gardeniaan old favourite, deep green glass with a silver cap, bought for three years from the same little chemist on Broad Street. It sat not on the usual shelf but perched on the sinks edge. Olivia assumed shed moved it herself, put it back, and, as always, forgot.

By the third week, there were more subtle shifts.

One morning all three breakfasted together. Olivia always made coffee her way: first a splash of cold water, then the hotnever boiling, or it turned bitter. James knew the ritual and praised it. But that morning Margaret brewed the coffee, Olivia delayed answering her phone. James sipped, said, Oh. Thats nice.

I learned from Liv, Margaret said, smiling. She always does it like that.

Margaret smiled. So did Olivia. Everything soft, harmless, friendly.

But something snagged at Olivia, deep down, unspoken, barely formed.

Busy days swept up that little snagmarking coursework, meetings, shopping. Still, coming home at the end of every day, she found the flat just so: cleaned, tidied, as if some invisible hand had straightened every magazine and wiped every mug. Margaret cooked simple lunches; James took to the new arrangement with an ease that surprised Olivia.

She cooked tonight, he mentioned one evening, with a note of good news. Bean soup. Very tasty.

I make bean soup, Olivia said, lightly.

Yes, he replied, Tasted similar.

She didnt ask whose he liked better. He didnt say.

Margarets work was remotesomething with admin and numbersand she spent daylight hours in the guest room tapping at her laptop, emerging around lunch to make a sandwich, fresh and smartly dressed by suppertime. Not just in an old jumper, but a crisp blouse and neat jeans. Olivia noticed it: Margaret looked better than she did in her own home.

One night James and Margaret watched a quiz show together. Olivia was marking in the other room, but the laughter and chat came through the wall, easy, without awkward pauses. James told a story; Margarets laugh sounded very much like Oliviasonly lighter, perhaps. Olivia almost smiled at the thought, then told herself not to be absurd. So what if a laugh is a laugh?

But days later, she found herself thinking of it again.

Margaret began styling her hair differently. It used to be shorta modern crop, sharp and businesslike. Now, she was growing it out, styling with a wave swept away from her face, almost careless, exactly how Olivia wore hers. Olivia noticed this one evening, catching their twin reflections in the corridor mirrorhers closer, Margaret just behind. Something about it looked as if an old photograph had lined up next to a new one, taken on the very same spot.

That suits you, Olivia remarked, as Margaret fiddled with a strand.

Dyou think so? Margaret replied, pleased. I thought Id give it a go. Saw you and figuredwell, why not?

Again, Saw you. That same gentle, almost invisible mimicry. Olivia smiled, went to the kitchen, but inside something didnt smile back.

She rang her daughter on Sunday.

Mum, how’s things?

All right. Margarets staying. Told you about her, remember?

Yeah Is she still there?

She ispapers are delayed.

Okay. Hows Dad?

Fine. He and Margaret get along well.

A pause.

Is that good or?

Its good, Olivia said, firmly. Its good.

After the call, Olivia sat alone by the window, tea going cold. Get along wellneutral words, but the way shed said them almost as if she was checking where she placed her feet.

By week five, Margaret asked for the recipe to Olivias apple and cinnamon tart.

That one you did last Sunday.

No written recipejust by feel.

Could you talk me through it, then? Ill give it a go.

Olivia explained, carefully as she could. Margaret made notes on her phone, and three days later baked the tart herself. James ate it with compliments: Very good, he said. Olivia couldnt tell if he meant it tasted lovely, or if perhaps hed just stopped distinguishing who was behind the oven now.

That evening Olivia opened the hallway cupboard and found a light grey coat with a belt. So similar to her own, Margaret mustve bought one. Olivias coat hung next to it, neat as you like, the pair nearly indistinguishable. She stared at them for several moments. She didnt ask Margaret about itnot because she feared the answer, but more because she couldnt form the question without sounding foolish.

Work was stressful: college inspections on the horizon, paperwork mounting. James seemed to gravitate to the sitting room each eveningeven more so than Olivia expected. Margaret too. Shed hear their conversation through the doorsnippets about this, that, everythingbut never intrusive. Shed walk in and be politely included, but she always felt like a third wheel. Marginal. Not centre stage.

One night she voiced it to James, after Margaret had already retired for the night.

James, dont you think shes copying me, a bit?

He looked genuinely perplexed. Who? Margaret?

Yes. The hair, the coat, the everythingrecipes, even my perfume.

He shrugged. Friends pick things up from each other, Liv. Its perfectly normal.

Perhaps, Olivia replied, not really believing it. Perhaps.

He was back to his phone. Conversation closed.

She lay awake, replaying their words. Friends do pick things up from each othershe herself mustve picked up some of Margarets habits, once. It was normal, surely? She repeated the word until it lost all feeling. Normal. But it didnt settle in her mind.

She started to watch more intently: noticed all the little things now. The tilt of the head when Margaret listened to Jamesrightwards, just as Olivia always did. Exactly, Margaret would say, drawing out the last word the same way Olivia did. Margaret had begun drinking her tea without sugar; Olivia recalled Margaret had always wanted two spoonfuls before.

Nothis was more than accident. This was something else entirely.

She rang her colleague Ninaone of those friends you could talk to about anything.

Nina, has anyone ever started becoming you, right in front of your eyes?

How do you mean?

Imitating. Looks, gestures, the whole lot.

Oh, silent envy, Nina said at once. I read about it. Someone wants your life but cant take it outright. So they take it bit by bithabits, tastes, style.

Olivia listened in silence.

Has this happened to you?

I dont know, Olivia lied. Probably not.

But she knew, really.

It was Margaret who brought matters to a head, over mugs of tea late one evening.

Youre so together, Liv. I keep watching you and thinking, this is how you do life. Home. Husband. Secure job. Everything fits.

Ive been piecing it together for twenty-odd years, Olivia replied.

Margaret nodded. And it shows. You can feel it. Even James says so.

She hesitated.

James what?

He told me you two get on so well. That you understand each other.

Olivia set down her mug.

You talk about me with him?

Now and then. Just chit-chat. He only ever says good things about you.

Thats nice, Olivia replied, though she didn’t feel it.

She couldnt put her finger on why it was uncomfortable. After all, a husband praising his wife to an old friendwhat could be wrong? Still, something niggled. It was as if her own intuition, the very one she often teased herself about, was now in full alertyet she had no words for it.

Towards the end of the sixth week, Margaret asked to borrow Olivias perfume. Gardenia.

Ive run out. Havent time for Boots tomorrow. May I use yours, just for a bit?

Of course, Olivia answered.

That evening, seeing the bottle nearly emptyless than a third left, when shed been sure it was over half a week beforeOlivia locked it away in the mirrored cabinet, with the little padlock she hadnt used in years. She looked at herself in the mirror: there she was, hiding perfume from her friend. What had she come to?

But she didnt unlock the cabinet.

That evening James came home jubilantwhich, of late, happened far more on the nights Margaret was there. Hed brought cake, just to treat themselves.

Lets spoil ourselves, he declared.

Margarets delight matched Olivias, just as it would if James had brought cake for her. Exactly so. Olivia watched them from the kitchens threshold, thinking Margaret responded to everything just rightcoffee praise, laughter, even the angle of her head when surprised. Everything Olivia would do, but a little more brightly. No trace of weariness. No twenty-three years of habit behind the smile.

And James noticed itmaybe not consciously, but he noticed all the same.

So Olivia joined them, ate a slice of cake she admitted was very good. Conversation was mild, just the sort of thing families talked about around eight in the evening. But inside, she felt something she couldnt name for weeks. It was as if her belongings were all in place, but each moved a single inchthe difference almost invisible, but irrevocable.

The course was a surprise. The college sent someone on a training course in Oxford. Four days. The head asked her Friday; she agreed. She caught herself thinking: James and Margaret, alone. But immediately dismissed it. They were all adults. Nothing would happen. She was overthinking. She needed a break.

Before she left, in the kitchen:

Ill be back Friday night, she told James. Margaret can help youshes a wonderful cook.

Well manage, he said. Dont worry.

Im not worrying.

She studied his facea face shed known, line by line, for decades. Calm. But almost light-hearted, the way people are when something heavy has been lifted.

She left Wednesday morning. On the train, she read her notes, drank coffee from a takeaway cup, watched the English countryside slide past. The course was dry but practical. She rang home each evening:

Hows it going?

All fine. Ate. Everythings grand.

Margaret in?

Yes, in her room.

All right. Good night.

Night.

Nothing odd, nothing amiss. Still, in the hotel, she tossed and turnedher mind meandering through work, her daughter, the chipped old mug she meant to replace. Margaret. The grey coats. The perfume.

Thursday afternoon, her department head called. Olivia, the last days just revisionyou know it all already. Come home tonight, save yourself the journey.

By half nine, she was back in Reading. The train ran on time, the taxi was quick, the streets quiet.

She let herself in quietlythinking James might already be asleep.

But the sitting room glowed. Two candles smouldered on the coffee table. The remains of dinner on two plates, glasses, nibbles in bowls. The room smelledof food and perfume. Gardenia. Olivia had locked her bottle away. Margaret must have bought her own.

James sat on the sofa. Margaret, in a blue dress that Olivia had never seen but whose style and shade were distinctly her. Hair done in Olivias now-signature waves. Their hands rested calmly on laps. They were chatting. When Olivia opened the door, they both looked up.

The silence lingered three full seconds.

Youre early, James said.

So I see, Olivia replied.

She set her bag down, hung up her coat, moving very deliberately. When anxious, she grew careful; every gesture measured.

Olivia, its just dinner, Margaret said gently. We ate

I can see its dinner, Olivia replied. With candles.

Another pause.

Romantic, she added, her tone so even she surprised herself.

James got up. Dont make a mountain

James, she cut in quietly, dont tell me what to make.

He fell silent. Margaret stared at the tablecloth.

Olivia went to the kitchen, poured water, looked out at her geranium on the windowsillshe always watered it Wednesdays. Wednesday shed been away. The plant was perky. Margaret watered it, she thought.

She returned to the sitting room. Margaretwill you find somewhere to stay tomorrow?

Margaret looked up, searching for words. Olivia, I know how this must

Will you? Olivia repeated, voice steady.

Yes, said Margaret. I will.

Good.

Olivia picked up her bag and crossed to the bedroom, closingnot lockingthe door. She lay atop the duvet, fully dressed, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Somewhere a plate clattered softly, someone clearing up. A door creaked; guest room this time.

James didnt come to bed. She heard him settle on the lounge sofa. That, she thought, was answer enough.

Next morning, Olivia was up before either of them. She made coffee, sipped at the window. The street stretched out, Friday slowly unfurling. Woman with a dog. Pigeons crowding the gutter. An ordinary morning.

James appeared near eight, halted in the kitchen doorway.

We need to talk, he said.

Yes, Olivia agreed.

Olivia, nothing happened between Margaret and me.

Perhaps.

Not perhaps. Nothing.

James, she said, gazing out at the street, youre missing the point. Its not about what happened. Its what I sawlast night and these past six weeks.

He waited.

I saw someone come into my home and gradually become me. My hairstyle. My scent. My recipes. My coat. My manner. And my husband, who noticesand likes it. Because its mebut without the tiredness, without habit, without twenty-three years.

He was silent.

Its not a question, Olivia finished. Its just what I saw.

Youre exaggerating, he said, quietly.

Perhaps. She slipped on her coat. Im off to work. When Im home, make sure her things arent in the spare room.

Olivia

One more thing, she paused in the hallway. Blind trustthats my problem. I trusted too much. Both of you.

She closed the door softly behind her.

At work, two lessons. Attendance sheets, the usual staffroom tea with Nina, who chattered on; Olivia nodded in the right places though she heard only half. Nina didnt ask; she just looked with that particular sympathyno questions needed.

Back home by half three. The guest room was immaculate, empty. Margaret had gone completelyonly a small white plastic comb forgotten in the bathroom. Olivia picked it up daintily, deposited it in the kitchen bin.

James was in the living room. He looked up when she entered.

Shes gone, he said.

I see.

What happens now?

She hung up her coat, entered the kitchen, busying herself with pots. She hadnt decided what to cook. She just needed movement.

Weve been together so long, Liv. You cant just

I can. Give me space, James. Let me think.

How long?

Im not sure. A few days. I need headspace.

A few days stretched to a week. They inhabited the same flat as strangerscivil, no drama. Meals apart; separate rooms at night. James tried for conversation, Olivia replied only with short, clear answers. Not out of spite, but because she wasnt ready to explain aloud what thundered in her thoughts. She worried that, if she began, shed let slip something that couldnt be unsaid.

She reflected a good deal that week. On how it all startedthe casual kindness, opening her door as a friend should; Margarets need; the normality. She couldnt place when unease first crept in, or why she couldnt speak plainly from the start. Silent envy, Nina had called it. Identity copyingnot mean-spirited, perhaps, just a person with little life of her own slowly taking someone elses. Perfume, pie recipesa scent at a time.

What hurt most wasnt Margaret. It was James.

He could have been oblivious. He could have noticed. He could have told her. He could have refused the improved copy; but he responded. He brought cake. Sat beside Margaret, laughing. Arranged dinner with candles when his wife was away. Maybe not consciously wrongperhaps just not thinking at all.

The following week, Olivia phoned her daughter.

Mum, whats wrong?

How do you mean?

Your voice is different.

Your dad and I might separate, Olivia said, for the first time.

A long pause.

Because of Maggie?

Not just that. If anything, Margaret showed what was already there.

What was there?

I cant say. We got so used to each other neither of us really saw the other. When Margaret came, she became mejust better. Sharper. Fresher. He liked it.

Mum

No, dont worry. Im not crying. Im just explaining.

Will you be on your own now?

For now, yes. Its all right.

This time, the word felt rightall rightbecause it was her choice.

Sunday night, Olivia broached it with James: I think we should live separately.

He was quiet a long time.

Is that final?

I dont know. But I need some distance. I need to work out who I am, apart from all this.

Its about that night with the candles. Olivia, it was only dinner.

Its not about the candles. The candles were just the last straw. So many things before thatthings I saw, things I let go, kept telling myself were fine but they werent.

I dont know what I did wrong.

Nothing, specifically. You just stopped seeing me. If youd really seen me, youd have noticed when someone else began becoming your wife.

He didnt answer. There was nothing to say.

Well sort out the flat, Olivia added. Maybe Ill buy you out. Not now. Later. Well work it out.

Where will you go?

Ill rent. Here, or somewhere new. Ill figure it out.

To start over at fifty-two He sounded somehow sadshe couldnt say for whose sake.

Yes. Fifty-two. Some start even later.

She rose to fetch something from the kitchen, passed through the bathroom, unlocked the little cabinet and removed her Gardenia bottle. She held it for a moment, then placed it into the bin, carefullynot thrown, just set down like something quietly resigned.

Boiled the kettle. Made tea.

The following days she was methodical. Consulted an estate agent about the flat; spoke to a solicitor; dropped in on Nina to sum things up. Nina, bless her, didnt exclaim or chide, just listened and said yes in that soft, empathetic way the best people can.

Sitting at Ninas kitchen table.

Do you resent her? Nina asked.

Margaret? Not really. Annoyed at myself for missing it. For pretending it was fine when it wasnt.

It wasnt your fault for trusting.

Blind trust, Olivia said, quietly. Thats just me.

Not blind. Just trust. Theres a difference.

Maybe.

And James?

Im frustrated with James. Thats different. But I think itll pass.

What now?

Ill find a place. Change my hair. Get a new scent. She hesitated. Probably not Gardenia.

Very sensible.

And maybe Ill rediscover what actually appeals to me. Whats mine, not just familiar.

Thats a slow process.

I know. Ive got time.

Nina poured more tea. Outside, autumn rain fell steadilynot cold yet, just grey. Olivia watched and remembered how, just weeks ago, she thought she knew her life. Flat, James, work, daily patternsperfume always on the left bathroom shelf. Everything in place. Now, in place didnt seem so secure.

But she didnt feel the emptiness shed expected. Not lost, not floating. It was something elsea peculiar discomfort, like taking off a coat that had long pinched in the shoulders, which shed not noticed due to habit.

You know, Nina, I dont know what will happen next. For the first time in ages. And thats bearable.

Bearable, Nina agreed, smiling. Good word.

Another week. Olivia found a one-bedroom flat in another part of Reading, by the parkbright, airy, not cheap, but manageable. She arranged a viewing, wandered the empty rooms, noting the slight creak of the floorboards. She walked the length of the lounge and thought: I could live here.

Ill take it, she told the owner, an elegant older lady.

How long do you need? the owner asked.

I dont know. Lets say a year for now.

The owner nodded with understanding.

Back at her old flat, Olivia quietly began sorting her things, not in any showy or hurried way; just separating hers from not-hers. Books, crockery, the clothes she wore. She threw out the odd blouse she hadnt worn in years but kept for just in case. Gave away the grey coat with a belt. Bought a navy one insteada different cut, nothing like Margarets. It felt right.

Margaret didnt phone. She only texted once: Olivia, I know I hurt you. Forgive me, if you can. Olivia read it, set her phone down, and left it unanswered. Not out of resentmentjust not ready, or unwilling. She couldn’t yet decide which.

James stayed at the flat. They spoke when neededcalm, measured, even easy at times. There was a sort of bitterness in it, but also relief. She saw he didnt know how to get back what had slipped awaymaybe didnt understand what hed lost.

The day before moving, Olivia visited the perfume counter in Marks & Spencer. She tested bottle after bottle, a patient young salesgirl suggesting new ones. Gardenia, no; too familiar. Eventually, she found a scentSilver Cedar. Slightly woody, a hint of warmth, not floral at all. Not what shed expected, but perhaps that was the point.

Lovely choice, the assistant said.

Well see, Olivia replied.

Moving day took half the daylight. Nina helped with boxes. James came, too; she didnt refuse his offer. They worked in silence, no awkwardness. By evening, all her things were in the new space, arranged as she pleased.

Left alone, Olivia opened the Silver Cedar, dabbed a touch on her wrist. It was unfamiliar. Not at all unpleasantjust new. She sniffed again. Thought: shed learn to like it, or notit didnt matter.

Out the window, park trees nearly stripped by November. Lamplight flickered early. She put the kettle on, found the mug with no crack. Standing by the window, phone ringingher daughter.

How are you, Mum? Settling in?

Getting there.

Is it scary?

Olivia gazed at the lamplit street. No, she said truthfully. You know, its really not.Her daughter smiled through the call, Olivia could hear it. Im proud of you, Mum.

Olivia laughed softly. It caught her by surprisea lighter sound than she remembered, nothing like Margarets, nothing borrowed. Thank you, darling.

I mean it.

I know.

She hung up and stood for a moment in the hush, just her breath and the faint rush of wind at the window. Everything was smaller nowher space, her needs, the weight on her shouldersand something loosened inside her, some undetected knot.

She unpacked a few plates, set a pan on the hob, hummed an old song. She made herself a simple supper, her own way, without needing to remember whose favorite it used to be. Later, she pulled on her new navy coat and strolled across to the park. The night air was cold, bracing. She walked without hurry, shoes quiet on damp leaves, following the winding path beneath the bare trees.

Halfway along, she stopped and breathed ina crisp tang, a trace of woodsmoke on the air, and the smallest hint of something new: her own scent, cedar on her wrist, threading with the autumn.

She smiled into the dark. Nobody was watching. It was enough.

For the first time in a long time, Olivia felt like herselfher own, exactly as she was. And that, she thought, was all right. More than all right.

It was a beginning.