Heat It Up Yourself
Rose Seymour placed a pot of stew on the table and glanced at her husband. Gordon Nicholas was already seated, his phone held up, not even bothering to turn at the sound.
Theres no spoon, he said, still not looking up.
Theyre in the caddy, like always.
I can see them, Rose. Pass one over.
Rose took a spoon and laid it next to his bowl. He didnt say thank you. He never did. In their thirty-one years together, she had stopped expecting itbut something pinched inside her today, not the usual dull ache but a quick, pointed jab, like a tiny shard of ice striking her heart and beginning, at last, to melt.
Its cold, Gordon muttered, putting his phone aside.
Its just off the hob.
I said, its cold. Or do you not believe me?
Rose said nothing. She walked to the window. Outside the glass, snow was falling, thick and slowproper December snow. On the thirty-first, snow always seemed different to her, as though even the air knew that today, one year must end and another begin.
Heat it up, came his voice from behind.
She turned. Gordons attention was already back on his phone.
You can use the microwave yourself.
A pause fell between themit stretched long enough for Rose to hear the clock tick out in the hall, the rattle of someones dishes next door, a door slamming in the buildings foyer downstairs.
What did you say?
I said you can heat it yourself. Press Start. Two minutes. Youll manage.
Gordon finally looked up, his face as though shed suggested something utterly ridiculous and unreal.
Rose.
Yes?
Are you feeling alright?
Perfectly.
He watched her for a long moment, in that familiar wayas if checking whether everything in the house was in proper order.
Go on, heat up the stew.
Rose stood by the window a heartbeat longer, then turned and switched the hob back on under the pot. Thirty-one yearshabits weigh more than a mornings sharp sting. She understood that. But still, inside, the ice continued to dissolve.
Theyd met when she was twenty-two, in the planning office of a small factoryshe as a clerk, he as a foreman. Tall, confident, with a smile that seemed to say, I know best. At the time, Rose hadnt realised that the smile wasnt confidence in himself, but in his right to decide for others. Only much later did she understand.
The first few years were unremarkable. Their son, Danny, arrived, and from then, Gordon quietly shifted everything onto her shoulders: the child, housework, cooking, laundry, parents, holidays, illnesses, school meetings. He worked. Work trumped all else in any discussion. I graft all day, and you want me to wash up too? Rose worked as well. That never seemed to matter.
Long ago, shed stopped calling what they had a relationship. It was merely lifeas it was. A continuum of days in which she did: cooking, cleaning, shopping, visiting his mother, picking up the grandson from nursery at Dannys wifes request. And still, she managed to find something for herselfbooks, her friend Lucy, evening phone calls when Gordon relocated to the TV.
Lucy was a true friend. Theyd been mates since Year 8. Lucy married late, at thirty-eight, to a widower with two children, and he turned out to be a decent man. Rose often envied hernot resentfully, but softly, understandingly. Like one envies someone who managed something you never could.
Oh Rose, how long will it go on? Lucy would say on the line. This is the fifth time this month youve told me a stew story. Different stews, same story.
But every time, its a new experience.
No, Rose. Every time its the same experience with a new stew. See the difference?
Rose heard her. She just didnt know what to do. At fifty-three, with three decades of what Lucy called a toxic marriage, how do you start anew? Where would you go? To whom? Her son had his own wife, his own flat, his own life. The flat she shared with Gordon. Workshe still had that. She worked as an accountant at a small building firm, and the director, Paul Andrews, appreciated her. Hed sometimes say, You hold our entire accounts together, Rose. It was nice. It was real.
Today, something had shifted. It was as physical as a change in the weathersome internal lever had flipped. The shard of ice in her heart had melted by lunchtime, leaving behind a drop of warmth she didnt recognise.
After lunch, Danny phoned.
Mum, are you coming over for New Years?
Im not sure yet, sweet.
How not sure? Its the thirty-first already. Kates doing the potato salad, the piescome on, please.
Ill talk to your father.
Mum Danny hesitated Are you really all right?
Im fine.
Youre sure?
Rose stared out at the still-falling snow. Yes, love. Certain. And she set down the receiver.
Gordon lay stretched on the sofa. The news droned from the telly about storms in the North. Rose walked in and stood mid-room.
Danny invited us over for New Years.
Its far.
Forty minutes on the Tube.
Late coming back.
We can stay the night.
On what, the floor? Isnt Tom on the pull-out?
Kate says they bought a sofa bed.
Im not going. My backs bad.
Rose nodded. Gordons back always played up when family visits or help were needednever for the fishing trips hed make every summer, bouncy as ever afterwards.
Right. Ill go, then.
What?
I said, Ill go alone. You stay, if your backs bad.
Again he stared at her.
What do you mean alone? Its New Years.
Yes. Thats exactly why I want to spend it with my son and grandson. Join us if youd like.
She left the room and reached for a bag high up in the wardrobe. Her hands shook slightly, but it wasn’t weaknessit was something new. Something like resolve.
Rose, are you out of your mind? Gordon filled the doorwaystocky, arms folded in that way he used to end conversation.
No, she said, not turning. Im perfectly in my mind.
Youll walk out on New Years? By yourself?
Ill go to my sons. Theres a difference.
She turned at last. Thirty-one years, shed looked at that face and seen things that likely were never therecaring, where there was only habit; love, where there was only possession. Now, she simply saw an aging man, petulant, unaccustomed to anything not done for his comfort.
Ill come back tomorrow, she said, or the next day. Havent decided.
She put on her coat, wrapped her scarf, took her bag. Gordon spoke behind herwords: selfishness, your age, shameful, always the same. She knew every one, like a memorised poem whose meaning had long unraveled.
She opened the front door and stepped into the stairwell.
The snow met her at oncelight, festive, with the scent of frost and oranges someone carried in the next doorway. Rose paused at the landing and tilted her face to the sky. Snowflakes melted on her cheeks, eyelashesgone in a blink.
She couldnt remember the last time shed just stood like this, doing nothing, for no one.
Lucy answered on the third ring.
Rose? Is everything alright?
Everythings fine. Im on my way to Dannys for New Years. Alone.
A long pause.
Alone?
Gordon stayed. His bad back.
Rose Lucys voice was cautious but happy, Is this real?
Its real.
Well done.
You say that like Ive done something special.
You have. Maybe you dont see it yet, but you have.
It took nearly an hour on the Tube with a change. Crowds, smartly dressed, parcels and boxes in every hand, faces charged with that excited, slightly frantic pre-holiday energy. Rose watched them, reflecting how shed never particularly liked New Years Eve. Not because the holiday was bad, but because it always meant the same: a table to lay, salads to chop, guests to host, and a husband who would inevitably say something to ruin the mood.
Last year, hed said to her friend Vera, Still not found a man, Vera? Vera had smiled, but Rose had seen her tense. Later, Rose asked Gordon not to say things like that. He replied, It was a joke. Honestly, no sense of humour.
His jokes were the kind that squeezed, not amused.
Kate opened the door herselfyoung, pretty-eyed, flour on her hand.
Mrs Seymour! Its so lovely to see you! And Mr Seymour?
He couldnt make itso its just me.
Kate looked at her, assessing, then swept her into a warm hug.
Come inwere a bit chaotic, but its festive chaos.
Tommy, five, barrelled from his room and leapt onto Rose.
Nana! Nanas here! Nana, I wrote to Father Christmas!
You did? And what did you ask for?
A building set! The kind that has a motor!
Good choice.
And I wrote that I wanted you to come. So, it worked!
Rose laughedgenuinely, without effort. She realized she hadnt laughed like that in years, not out of obligation but pure joy.
Danny emerged from the kitchen, tea towel on his shoulder.
Mum! He hugged her tight, like he used to. How was the Tube?
Fine. Havent travelled on the Underground at Christmas in ages. Everybody looked so cheery.
Come on, Ill make you teaor coffee, Kate?
Coffee, pleasestrong.
They sat in the kitchen while Kate stirred something in a big pot and little Tommy circled with a toy car. Danny kept glancing at his mumnot distractedly, but closely.
Mum, honestlyis everything alright?
Tommy, dont run near the corner, youll go flying. She sidestepped the question as her grandson darted perilously close to the table.
Mum.
Danny, dont look at me like I need some big explanation.
He fell silent, fiddling with his mug.
I just want you to be happy.
I know.
Are you?
Rose stared out at the steadily falling snow.
I am thinking about it, she said, finally. And thats something.
Evening was lively, real. Kate was a wonderful host, her pies irresistible. Tommy fell asleep at 11:45, clutching his new building set that Danny had produced proudly at 11 oclock. At midnight, they raised glasses of sparkling lemonade, and Rose made a wishthe first in many years just for herself.
She returned home on 2nd January. Danny suggested she stay; Kate agreed; Tommy threw a minor fit, insisting, Nana should live with us always! But Rose came back, because running away solves nothing. She knew that now. You cant escape your own lifeyou can only change it.
Gordon met her in the hallway, face set in that wounded-yet-proud way he affected when lonely but unwilling to admit it.
Turned up, have you?
Yes. How are you?
How am I? Spent New Years alone, thats how.
I suggested we go together.
My back.
I remember.
She walked through, set her bag down, began to unpack. He hovered.
Arent you going to apologise?
She didnt turn straight awayshe hung up her coat, took off her boots, then finally faced him.
What for, exactly?
For leaving your husband alone on a holiday.
Gordon, you could have come. You chose to stay. Your choice. Im not responsible for it.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Whats got into you?
Me? Rose smiled, surprising herself. Just a bit of New Yearsarriving late.
In those early January days, Rose thought a lot. She was the sort who pondered inwardly, quietlyturning thoughts over as you would a stone worn in your pocket. The thought was this: She had lived for thirty-one years beside a man who did not respect her. Not because he was naturally eviljust because, for him, food and shelter and household sufficed; the rest was fluff. Had she demanded respect? Spoken of it? Ever really explained? No. Shed kept quiet, stashed it away inside, believing it was ugly to argue, impossible to leave, and virtuous to endure.
Who told her that? Perhaps no one directly, but it hung in the air since her childhood. Family first, her mum said. Look after your husband, said her mother-in-law. Dont air your dirty laundry, said the neighbour. So she built inner walls to hide her private aches.
Now, those walls were crackingnot loudly, nor all at once, but gently, like river ice at springs edge.
On January 8th, Lucy rang.
Rose, let me tell you something. Dont interrupt, just listen.
Alright.
Remember Natalie Wild? We lived in the same block, on Parkside?
Tall, ginger hair?
Yes. Three years ago she left her husband. She was fifty-six. Rented a flat, started work at a flower shopnow she manages a little wedding section. She said to me the other day: Lucy, I cant believe I didnt do this sooner. Nothing collapsed, only what should have.
Rose didnt reply.
Are you listening?
I am.
Im not telling you what to dojust sharing.
I understand.
Rose, you deserve better. Do you know that?
I dobut knowing and feeling are different things.
Then start feeling.
Easier said than done when every morning starts the same: coffee, toast, Gordon at his mobile, TV news, and the inevitable whats for lunch? instead of good morning.
But things did change, bit by bit. When Gordon made his little barbs, she no longer escaped to the kitchenshe stayed, met his gaze, nothing more, nothing less, and sometimes hed break off mid-sentence.
One night, over supper:
Youve gone odd lately.
How so?
Dont knowjust look at me different.
How different?
Dont know. Its uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable to be looked at?
Not like that. Uncomfortable-different.
Maybe youre not used to being seen, Gordon.
He didnt answer, just cleared his plate. Later, silence, then the TV.
Mid-January, something unexpected happened at work. Paul Andrews called her in: The company was growing, opening a second office further out, and he wanted her as head accountantmore pay, flexible hours.
Rose, I really would like you to take this on. Youre the best Ive got, no exaggeration.
She sat, feeling an inner spine strengthenshed been walking head down for years, now she lifted her chin.
When do you need to know?
A week. But Im hoping youll say yes.
She didnt mention it at home right away. The new office was forty minutes each way, but the pay was up by nearly a thirda genuinely new position, new opportunities.
Three days later, she rang Lucy.
Lucy, Ive been offered a promotion.
Rose! Thats marvellous news!
Im thinking about it.
Whats to think? Gordon wont like ita new area, new routine.
Do you need his approval?
Long pause.
No. I suppose not.
Exactly. Youve worked there eight years. Youre valued. Youd really let your husbands discomfort stand in your way?
Not discomfortits just, hell moan on and on
Rose, he moans every day anyway. But this is a promotion. This is about you.
The next day, Rose texted Paul Andrews: Ill take it. Thank you for trusting me. Then went off to stew some fruit for Tommys visit, as he adored her dried-fruit compote.
She told Gordon over dinner.
Ive some news. Im being promoted to chief accountant at the new office.
Far?
Forty minutes.
Why bother?
Because theres more responsibility, better pay, its more interesting.
You get by as it is.
Ill do better now.
Gordon looked at her.
Wholl do lunch?
Rose pausednot for want of an answer, but to choose the words.
Gordon, youre fifty-eighta healthy man. You can make lunch.
I cant cook.
Its not innate. Its learned. You can learn.
Rose!
Im taking the job, she said calmly. Thats final.
He left for the living room. The TV came on louder than usual. Rose washed up, set fruit to soak, hung the towels to dry. Then she stepped onto the tiny balconythe cold air bit, her breath fogged in the dark.
She thought of Natalie Wild, arranging wedding flowers. Of Lucys husband, whod brought a huge bouquet to Lucys birthday and said, Lucys told me so muchIm delighted to meet you. That moment, Rose cried all the way home in the car. Gordon had asked, Whats wrong? Shed said, Nothing. Just tired. He nodded.
In February, something happened she never expected.
It began while searching for a folder in her desk. She found an old envelope, slightly yellowed, no stamp. Inside was a letterin Gordons handwriting, dated April, years ago when Danny was seven.
She hesitated, almost put it backthen read. It wasnt to her. It was to someone called Elaine. Not many words, but each one clear and personalGordon telling Elaine how much he thought of her, how complicated things were at home.
Rose sat on the floor, letter in hand. She didnt cry. First thought: So thats when. Second: How much time Ive wasted. Third: No, not wastedraised a child, lived, created something for myself.
She put the letter away. Washed her face in cold water. Looked in the mirror; grey eyes looked back, calm. She recognised them nowbetter than in the last decade.
Later, Lucy called.
How are you?
Found something. In a drawera letter.
What sort of letter?
Old. Not for me.
Pause.
Rose
No need. HonestlyI want to say this: You dont need a specific reason, or anyones permission. The right to live your life is yours, no justification needed.
Have you decided?
Im thinkingbut differently now.
Lucy was quiet, then gentle: Im here, whatever you choose.
In March, Rose started her new role in the new office. The team was small and friendly; especially kind was Sally Vaughan, an older HR woman who always greeted first and, on Roses first day, brought a cup of tea: You probably havent found everything yet. Let me show you around. So simple, and so lovely.
Work was fresher, busier, but energising. Reports, spreadsheets, new software, calls to fieldher mind alive with challenges. She found herself coming home not drained, but renewedtired in a different way, but alive.
Gordon never quite accepted her new job. He said your work with a tone suggesting it was a mere hobby. Rose shrugged it off. Shed learned to separate: here was home, and here was herself.
April brought Dannys birthday. They gathered at his: Kate, Tommy, Rose, a few friends. Gordon came, but sat glumly, left early, citing tiredness.
One friend, Simon, chatted at the tablehe restored historical buildings, and spoke of them as living things: You see the cracks outside, think theyre finished. But inside, the beams hold strong. Sometimes, the house is just tired on the outside, but solid withinthese are the ones worth working on.
Rose noddedhe could have been speaking about people.
When Danny saw her to the door, he asked, Mum, did you enjoy today?
Yes, I truly did.
Good. He hugged her. Mum, you know if you ever need anything, help of any kindjust say.
She looked at her grown son, thirty-three now, gentle-eyed. She wanted to say something enormous, but just nodded.
I willI promise.
In May, Sally Vaughan callednot about work, but to Roses personal number.
Rose, I hope you dont mindits not my place, but have you ever thought of, well living alone?
Rose nearly dropped the phone.
Why do you ask?
Ive been through it myself, years ago. I dont mean to intrudeits just I can always tell. Please forgive me if Im out of line.
No, said Rose. Youre not.
They talked for over an hour. Sally shared her story with calm resolvehow shed left at fifty-one, rented a flat near work, and though the first six months were hard and the silence odd, things got better, and eventually, right.
Im not saying you need to do the sameeveryones different. Just knowonly the first part is frightening. Even freedom, you get used to.
Rose sat long after, the sky bright and blue outside. She opened her laptop and browsed flat listings. Just looking. Just to know.
Living alone was truly possibleher salary would cover it.
She closed the laptop, opened it again, and then jotted two columns in her notebook: Leftwhat keeps me; Rightwhat releases me. The left had three points. The right had only one: Fear.
She spent weeks with that wordfear morning and night. Fear of what? Disapproval? Whose? Neighbours, in-laws, acquaintances who barely noticed her? Fear of loneliness? But shed been alone, for thirty-one years, in a room with someone who never saw her. Fear of mistake? But why was staying always right and leaving wrong?
In truth, the fear was just habita habit of believing there is no other way, of thinking she had no right, that everyone lives like this.
But not everyone did. Natalie Wild didnt. Sally didnt. Lucy didnt. Theyd chosen differently.
On 16th June, Rose rang an ad for a small flatthird floor, bright, near work. Landlady, Mrs Antonia Miller, in her sixties, was practical and warm; they viewed the place together and agreed terms simply.
Do you work yourself? asked Mrs Miller.
Im a chief accountant.
Good. Any pets?
No.
Quiet?
Im the quietest person youll ever meet! Rose laughed.
Will you take it?
Yes. I will.
She rode the bus home, watching the green summer trees, the people in light clothes, the ice cream sellers. In her hand was a plain door key. But to Rose, it felt momentoussomething shed needed to grasp long ago.
She told Gordon that eveningwith no lead-in.
Gordon, I want to talk. Ive rented a flat. Im moving out.
Silenceproper, heavy silence. The TV babbled on.
What?
Ive rented a place. I need a different sort of lifeone with respect, warmth, conversation. I want more.
Is there someone else? Of course, the question had to come.
No, there isnt. I finally found myself. Thats all.
This is nonsense.
Maybe. But its my nonsense.
Youre fifty-three, Rose.
I know my own age, Gordon.
Its He stood, sat down again. Its not serious.
Its very serious.
What will people say?
Ive thought of that. And decided I dont care.
He stared at her, long and hard. Softly, he said: Is it because of the letter?
Rose met his eyes.
You know about the letter?
I saw its envelope had moved.
Nothis isnt about that. It only confirmed what I already knew. This isnt about you, Gordon. Its about me.
She lay awake that night as he clumped about. The next morning, she began ferrying her things over. Danny helped. Kate came, and Tommy inspected the new place.
Nana, theres a balcony!
Yes.
We can have flowers?
Of course.
Ill buy you onea little one, in a pot.
That would be perfect.
Sally brought a homemade strawberry sponge and arrived the first evening just as Rose was settling into her empty, still-uncluttered home, saying simply, Welcome to your new life, Rose.
It wasnt grand talkbut the warmth of the words made Roses eyes smart.
Thank you, she murmured. Come in.
They spent the evening with tea and cake, chatting about work, the city, Sallys daughter in Manchester, Roses grandson and his building sets. An ordinary eveninga true one. Two women at a kitchen table with cake and tea.
After Sally left, Rose wrapped up in a throw on her new sofa, and listened to the silence. Not the tense, heavy quiet of her old home, but a soft, gentle hush.
She slept deeply with dreamless ease.
August was busy and fullRose fitted in at work, knew the routine and everyones names. In the evenings, shed stroll in the park by her flat, just sitting and watching. It was a noveltyto sit and be, not fluster about.
Gordon rang at the end of August.
Danny says youre settled.
I am.
Your job pays well?
Well enough.
Could we talk?
About what?
Us.
Rose gazed out at swaying branches in the breeze.
Gordon, there is no us as before. You understand that?
I do. But maybe
No, she said, simply, kindly. No maybes. Im not coming back.
Why?
Because I wasnt happy there.
And here?
Here Im learning. Its different.
He paused. Youve changed.
Yes.
A lot.
I hope so.
His calls grew less frequent. Rose picked up when she wantednever out of spite, just because now, it was her right, and she intended to use it.
In autumn, Natalie Wild actually rangLucy had given her number.
Rose Seymour? Natalie here. We met a few timesLucy thought we might
Chat? Rose replied. Very much so.
They met for coffee. Natalie wore a vivid blue coat, looked goodnot radiantly happy, but quietly sure of herself. They talked two hoursNatalie described her shop, how odd the first months alone felt, and how one day she realised she was humming on a busa thing she hadnt done in twenty years, but now did without thinking.
Dont you regret it? Even once? Rose asked.
I only regret waiting.
Were you scared?
Terrified. But thats the thingonce you do it, the fear evaporates. Theres nothing left to dread once its real.
Rose mulled that long after. Nothing really had collapsed. Her son was close, Tommy phoned (Nana, I miss you!), work was challenging, Sally was a true friend, Lucy always near.
And morea sense that shed finally taken her proper place in her own life. Not a visitor, not a helper, not an add-on to a husband. Herself. Rose Seymour. Fifty-three. Chief Accountant. Mother. Grandmother. Woman.
She celebrated New Years twicethe first at Dannys, with salads and pies, Tommy now deeply enamoured with his motorised building set. The second was at her own flat, with Lucy, Sally, Natalie. No one judged, no one asked awkward remember whens. Just a handful of people, each having chosen to be there.
At midnight, Rose raised her glassmade a wish again. This time, not a plea or a hope. Just a quiet, certain resolve: Im continuing.
Mid-January, in the new year, her mother-in-law rangnot quite former, really, just always Mrs Palmer in the next city. Theyd never been close, but kept up a civil connection.
Rose, Mrs Palmers voice was old, a bit quavery. Gordon told me.
Alright.
I want to say something.
Im listening.
You did the right thing.
Rose went mute.
I wish Id said it sooner, Mrs Palmer continued. Years ago. I saw how he treated you. I kept silentmothers always do, about their sons. Its not right, but there it is. Im sorry for that.
Mrs Palmer
Dont interrupt, let me finish. Youre a good woman, always have been. You deserve a good life. Age means nothing. Im ninety and I still find something every morning to be glad for. Dont bury yourself before your time. Understood?
Yes, said Rose, her throat thick.
Good. Ring me sometimes, just to chat.
I will.
Promise?
Promise.
She hung up, sat for ages, then quietly laughed. Of all peopleit was Mrs Palmer, and just now.
Life, she thought, does offer up its surprises in unlikely wrappings.
Late February, Danny showed up alonenot for any reason, just to chat. Brought some nice food, made tea. They talked about his job, Kate, Tommys nerves for starting school in the autumn (though he denied feeling anxious).
Mum, you look wellyoure different. Better. Like Like youve switched on.
Id been switched off for years.
I know. He paused in the doorway. Mum, Im sorry.
For what?
For not noticing. Never asking. I thought, well, she gets on. If Id seen
Danny, she cut in gently. You see as much as youre able. I hid it myself. Youve always been a good son. I know that.
He nodded, hugged her tight and left.
Rose lingered in the hall, then went to make another cup of tea. Outside, snow fellagain. It had been a snowy winter.
She remembered how, a year ago, shed stood at another window in another flat and watched this same snowand how something had started to thaw inside her then, quietly, like a tiny shard of ice. Now, that had become running waterwater to wash in, to drink, to let flow.
A week passed and Gordon rang. She answered.
Rose.
Yes?
I went to the doctor. Nothing serious, just blood pressure. They said I need to mind my diet.
Thats goodyou went.
Youd have reminded me before.
Gordon.
What?
You remind yourself now. Thats right.
Pause.
Are you really not coming back?
No.
And youreyoure alright?
Rose looked out at the window. Snow was still tumbling down. Quiet, patient, winter snow.
Yes, she said. Im alright. Dont worry.
Im not worried. I just wanted to know.
I know.
Another silence. Then Gordon spoke, low, almost inaudibly:
I know its my fault.
She didnt answer at once. She wanted to speak her truthnot wound, nor console.
Gordon, I dont hold a grudge against you. Weve lived a long life together. That cant all be thrown away. But it wasnt the life I wantednot really. I cant speak for what you wanted; thats for you to decide.
I think about it, he said.
Good, she said softly. Thats healthy.
She put the phone down, flicked on the kettle, reached for her mug, and glanced at the ordinary key resting on her shelf.
In all that time, the hardest, and the most essential, thing she learned was this: your life belongs to you aloneand its never too late to start claiming it.
