Oliver had once likened me to his former wife, and I told him he could go back to her.
You know, Laura always slipped a pinch of sugar into her beet soup. Just a grain, barely perceptible, and it gave the broth a richer, fuller flavour. Yours tastes sharp, as if youd poured in vinegar.
Nell froze, ladle in hand, watching Oliver push the steaming, rubyred bowl away from her. The scent of fresh herbs, garlic and a hearty stock filled the kitchen, creating what should have been the perfect ambience for a family dinner. Yet a single name, spoken in an everyday tone, shattered the cosy scene and turned the warm kitchen into a cold vault of memories.
Laura. Olivers exwife. A woman turned into a legend, a phantom that had lingered invisibly in their flat for two years of marriage.
Oliver, Nell tried to keep her voice steady, though hurt clenched her inside. Im making the beet soup from my grandmothers recipe. You always liked it. Just a week ago you were raving about it, asking for more. Whats changed?
Oliver shrugged, tore off a slice of black bread and chewed lazily while his eyes stayed glued to the television set on the wall.
Nothings changed, Nell. It just reminded me. Laura had a light touch with spices. She knew the balance, you see. Its a talent you cant teach. Dont take offence; youre trying, I see that. Im just stating a fact. Eat, itll cool down.
Nell lowered the ladle back into the pot. Appetite vanished. She sat opposite her husband, watching his profile. Oliver was a distinguished man: silver at the temples gave him gravitas, his shoulders were broad, his gaze assured. When theyd met three years prior, he seemed the ideal: divorced, no children, steady, respectable. He spoke sparingly of his first marriage, describing it as a clash of temperaments. Nell, ever tactful, never pried. She understood a man in his forties would have a past, and she respected that.
Who could have guessed how tenacious that past would be?
The first six months after the wedding were blissful. Then, as if an unseen valve had opened, memories of Laura began to surface from Olivers mind. At first they were occasional, offhand remarks. Laura had the same vase, She loved that film. Nell brushed them off as harmless. But the comparisons grew more frequent and, worst of all, never in her favour.
Your shirts creased, Oliver observed the next morning as he prepared for work, turning in front of the mirror. The folds uneven. Laura always used a special spray, and her iron was some sort of steamgenerator, I think. Her trouser cuffs were perfectly pressed. Thiswell, itll do for the country.
Nell, who had risen at six to prepare breakfast and iron his suit, felt a lump rise in her throat.
Oliver, I have a regular iron, and I iron the way I know how. If you dont like it, you can take the clothes to the cleaners, or iron them yourself.
Oliver stared at her through the mirrors reflection.
Whats with the outburst? Im just sharing what I know. Perhaps you should buy that spray? I just want you to improve. Laura, by the way, was meticulous about the little things. Her house was spotless, not a speck of dust.
I keep things tidy too, Nell replied quietly, recalling the two hours shed spent scrubbing the bathroom that day. And I work a full day, just like you.
Laura also worked. She managed everything. Right, I must go. Ill be late this evening; Mum needs help with the garden tap.
The door slammed. Nell was left alone in the quiet flat. She walked to the window, watching Oliver climb into his car. Laura, Laura, Laura echoed in her head like a worn record. If Laura had truly been an angel in the kitchen, a culinary wizard and a cleaning fairy, why had they divorced? Oliver always dodged the question, muttering something about people change or the daily grind gets stale.
That evening Nell decided not to cook dinner. She had no mood, and why bother when everything would be not like Lauras? She bought readymade cabbage rolls from the supermarket, heated them, and settled down with a book.
Oliver returned around nine, irritable and famished.
Mum said hi, he muttered, slipping off his shoes. Aunt Anne was thinking of you. She asked why you havent tried her cake recipe. She says Laura always baked on weekends, the house would smell of pastries, and she made the home cosy. Our place always reeks of takeaway.
Nell closed the book. Calm was slipping further away.
Anne can bake if she wants, Nell snapped. I dont enjoy fiddling with dough.
Exactly! Oliver lifted a finger triumphantly, as if catching her in a crime. You dont like it. A wife should love to keep the hearth warm. Laura
Enough! Nell could hold back no longer. She rose, and the book thudded onto the floor. Enough, Oliver. I hear that name more than my own. Laura cooked, Laura ironed, Laura cleaned, Laura breathed perfectly! If she was so perfect, why didnt you stay with her?
Oliver stammered, unprepared for Nells outburst.
Wellthere were reasons. She wasdifficult. Very commanding.
So Im just convenient? Nells bitter smile cut through the tension. Im silent, I endure, I try, yet you keep thrusting her virtues in my face. Im fed up.
Dont exaggerate, he brushed off, heading to the kitchen. Whats for supper? More takeaway? HmphLaura would never have let me eat storebought food. She cared for my stomach.
Nell slipped into the bedroom. That night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, a plan forming. A plan that could either shatter their marriage completely or save it. She would no longer live with three: herself, Oliver, and Lauras ghost.
Saturday arrived, the day usually reserved for cleaning and shopping. But this time nothing went as expected.
That morning Aunt Anne called.
Nellie, love, were planning a visit to the cemetery tomorrow for my husbands grave. We should paint the fence. Could you make some pastries for the road? No cabbage, Oliver gets heartburn. Meat, please. And make the pastry crust as thin asyou know how we used to do it.
Nell took a deep breath, looking at her reflection in the hallway mirror.
Aunt Anne, Im on duty tomorrow. Im in the middle of a reporting period, paperwork at home. I could pick up pastries from the bakery near the tube; theyre excellent.
Working on a Sunday? Anne retorted. Thats a sin, Nell. And leaving a husband hungry is a sin. Laura never slacked for the family. Shed even rise at night to make pancakes if Oliver asked.
Let Laura bake then, Nell snapped, surprising herself. Im not Laura.
Oliver, who had overheard the tail end of the call, emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth.
Why are you being rude to Mum? Shes old.
Im not rude. Im setting boundaries. Im not Laura, Oliver. Im Nell. I will not bake pies at midnight.
Of course, he spat, splashing toothpaste into the sink. All you do is fuss over paperwork. You have no femininity. Laura was a real womanshe managed a career and kept a husband happy. And you sigh.
He waved his hand and went to the kettle. Nell stood in the centre of the room, icecold resolve spreading through her. Every remark about Laura struck like a hammer against a crystal vase; the vase was already cracked, and the last shard fell off.
She walked calmly to the bedroom, pulled a large wheeled suitcase from the wardrobe and opened it on the bed.
Oliver peeked in, chewing a sandwich.
Where are we off to? On a business trip? Or finally helping Mum with the garden?
Nell said nothing. She methodically began to pull Olivers shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks from the wardrobeeverything hed ever owned.
What are you doing? Oliver stopped midchew, bewilderment turning to panic. Nell, why?
Im helping you, Oliver, she replied evenly, folding his favourite jumper. I realised Im not worthy of you. I cant add sugar to beet soup, I cant press collars perfectly, I cant bake pies at night. Im a poor housekeeper, unfeminine, and my iron is cheap. I cant compete with an ideal.
Which ideal? he snapped. Stop this circus!
He lunged for a shirt; she stepped aside.
Dont interrupt. Ive thought this through. You live in constant stress, tolerating my sour meals, my laziness. You suffer, recalling how great it was with Laura. I dont want to be the cause of your misery. I love you, Oliver, and I want you happy. And your happiness, by your own words, remains in that past marriage.
She reached the dresser, tossed his underwear into the suitcase.
So I propose the only sensible solution. Go back to Laura.
Silence settled like a bells toll. Only the clock on the wall ticked, and Olivers breathing grew heavy.
Have you lost your mind? he whispered. Which Laura? We divorced five years ago! Shes married now, I thinkor notI dont know!
It doesnt matter, Nell said, zipping the suitcase. You speak of her so often, detail her virtues, Im certain she still loves you. Such a perfect woman must be waiting for her prince. Youll return, repent, and shell feed you the right beet soup, press your shirts with a steamgenerator, and youll live happily ever after. Without me and my shopbought rolls.
She placed the suitcase on the floor, pulling the handle out.
All packed, Oliver. I even put your toothbrush and razor in. You can leave now. Aunt Anne will be delighted to hear youre back discussing how saintly Laura is, while I remain the mistake.
Oliver stood, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Hed grown accustomed to Nells softness, to her silence when he grumbled. He never expected her to take such a step.
Nell, enough. We all slip up. Why the rush? This is childish! he tried a feeble smile. Lets unpack. I wont go to the cemetery; Ill stay, help you with the report.
Nell shook her head. No anger, only fatigue and disappointment shone in her eyes.
No, Oliver. This isnt a nursery. Its selfrespect. Ive endured a year, trying to be perfect, learning new dishes, striving to match a ghost. A ghost has no flaws; a living man always loses to an imagined ideal. I will not be secondrate in my own home.
She rolled the suitcase toward the hallway.
Leave. Stay with your mother, think, or try to win Laura back. But I wont hold you here any longer.
Oliver fumbled for jokes, then rage, then pity, but Nell stayed unmoved. She opened the front door, waited. Eventually he snatched the suitcase, muttered Stubborn fool, youll regret this, and fled down the stairs.
Nell locked the door on both bolts, slid down the wall to the floor and wepttears of relief. At last the flat was quiet. Lauras spectre seemed to have left with Oliver.
A week passed. Oliver lodged with his mother. Aunt Anne called daily, alternating curses with pleas to take the wayward son back. Nell never answered. She delighted in making meals she likedlight salads, steamed fish, ordering pizza. No one nagged about undersalted rice or dust on a shelf.
One Thursday evening Nell returned from work. Outside the block she saw a familiar car. Oliver sat inside, his head resting on the steering wheel. Seeing his wife, he bolted out, looking dishevelled: his shirt was unpressed, a threeday beard, eyes weary.
Nell, we need to talk.
Speak, she halted, not inviting him inside.
I I was a fool. I finally understood.
Understood what? That Laura wouldnt take you back? Nells tone held a faint smile.
Oliver lowered his gaze, cheeks flushing.
I called her, just to ask how she was. I thought maybe
And?
She sent me away. Said I was a bore, a tyrant, that shed crossed herself when we split, that her new husband carries her on his shoulders and never scolds her for a speck of dust. She said Id ruined five years of her life with my nitpicking.
Nell laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. The puzzle fell into place.
So the perfect Laura was just a figment of your imagination? You conjured an ideal to hide your own flaws, to excuse perpetual discontent?
Probably, Oliver shifted his weight. Living with Mum is impossible. She nags from dawn till duskif I put a cup in the wrong spot, if I snore too loud. She also keeps reminiscing about her father, who she paints as flawless, though I remember their daily quarrels. Nell, let me back. I swear Ill never speak of Laura again. Ive realised how lucky I am with youyour warmth, your realness. Im a bitter old fool.
Nell looked at him, a pang of pity stirring. A man who could not value the present, forever haunted by a fabricated past.
You know, Oliver, Im not sure I want you back. Ive grown to enjoy my own company. No one compares me to anyone else. No one critiques my cooking.
Please, Nell! Ill change! Ill iron my shirts myself! Ill learn to cook, I promise! Give me one chance.
She remained silent, examining the toes of her shoes. Forgiveness? Possible. People err. Yet if she let him in now, everything would revert to the old cycle within a month.
Fine, she finally said. One chance, with conditions.
Anything!
First: the name Laura is banned in this house. If I hear it, the suitcase will reappear at the door within a minute, and youll be out. Second: stop comparing me to anyoneyour mother, a neighbour, anyone. I am me. If you dislike me, find someone else. Third: weekends we either cook together or order in. Im not a chef.
Agreed! Oliver shouted, his enthusiasm so fierce it seemed his head might pop off.
Lastly, go to the florist now and buy me the biggest bouquet they have. Not Laura liked, but what I love. You remember which flowers I adore?
Oliver froze, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He rattled through flower names.
Lilies? No, they give you a headache. Roses? Too common Tulips! You love white tulips!
Nells smile widened just a fraction.
Peonies, Oliver. I love peonies. Tulips will do if theyre fresh. Youve got an hour.
He bolted to his car, floored the accelerator, tyres screaming. Nell watched him go, unsure how long his fire would last. Perhaps six months later hed start grumbling again. One thing she knew: she had changed. She would never allow herself to be measured against ghosts. And the suitcase would stay on the attic shelf, a reminder, not a burden.
When Oliver returned, arms laden with a massive bunch of blushing peonieshow hed sourced them in late autumn, crossing half the country to find themNell opened the door.
That night they ate pizza. Oliver devoured it with the gusto of a man whod found ambrosia, praising the crust.
Delicious, he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You pick the best delivery.
Nell smiled. Lauras phantom, finally dispelled, dissolved in the scent of peonies and pepperoni. Aunt Anne, calling the next day to ask whether the poor daughterinlaw was still suffering, received a curt reply:
Mum, stay out of it. Were fine. And by the way, your pie recipe isnt needed. Nell makes a wonderful tiramisu.
LifeAnd as the sun set over the quiet village, Nell finally felt the peace of a life lived for herself, unshadowed by any lingering specters.
