Copy of a Wife
Are you sure youre comfortable with this? Jane asked, standing awkwardly in the hallway with a holdall over her shoulder and a puzzled sort of smile Id never seen on her. Honestly, I know its a bother. I do know that.
Jane, come on. I opened the door wider, stepping aside. The spare rooms yours, David doesnt mind. Honestly, its all fine.
David doesnt mind, she repeated, the words slow and thoughtful. Not sarcastic, just bemused, like she was trying out the phrase in her mouth.
He rarely minds, I called over my shoulder as I went towards the kitchen. Shoes off slippers in the hallway, on the left.
And that was how it all began.
I was fifty-two, Jane was fifty-one. We met at uni years ago, didnt see each other properly for about five years, kept up with calls and the odd coffee in Oxford or so, and I thought I knew Jane well enough. Well enough to open my door without fuss. Shed split up with her husband, her rental was ending, the paperwork for her new place was dragging on she needed a few weeks. Two or three, max a month, to get herself sorted again.
We lived in Reading not too small, not massive, where every neighbourhood sort of blends into the next and the people behind the supermarket tills know you by voice. Our flat was three bedrooms, third floor, windows over a quiet street. David, my husband, worked for a construction company, nothing glamorous but solid. I taught economics at the local college. Twenty-three years married. Our daughter left for Manchester long ago. The place was settled and familiar, the kind of home where you never want to move the sofa, because its just right.
Jane turned up with one large bag and a box. Settled in quietly so quietly I barely noticed her existence for the first three days. She was out early, back late, barely ate, barely spoke. On Janes first night there, David just asked:
How long for?
A month, I answered.
He echoed, A month, his tone exactly the same as Janes had been on the doorstep.
I ignored it. Im not one to overthink, or so I tell myself.
But the first little niggle came in week two. One morning, I found my perfume in the bathroom a bottle of Gardenia, dark green with a silver cap, the kind Id been buying for three years from the little chemist on Queens Road. But instead of its place on the left-hand shelf, it sat on the edge of the sink. I assumed Id just left it there. Put it back. Forgot.
In the third week, something else happened.
We were all eating breakfast together. I always made coffee my way: a splash of cold water first, then top up with hot but not boiling, otherwise its too bitter. David knows that and always says something nice about it. That day, though, Jane made the coffee while I was stuck on my phone and David, after a sip, said, Mmm, nice.
I do it how Sarah taught me, Jane replied brightly. She always does it like that.
I looked at her. She smiled, sweet as anything. I smiled back. All perfectly innocent, but something unsettled me. Something hard to put into words.
Work kept me busy and I let it go. Id come home to a flat that was quiet and tidier than before. Jane managed to clean or sort something every day and David seemed to adjust to her being around far quicker than I did.
She cooked tonight, he mentioned once, like hed brought home some wonderful news for me. Bean soup. It was really nice.
I always make bean soup, I replied.
Yeah, he agreed. Tasted pretty similar.
I didnt bother asking whose was better. He didnt say.
Jane was working remotely, something to do with documents I never really pinned it down. She spent days in the spare room on her laptop; sometimes shed fix us a quick lunch, and in the evenings shed come out looking like shed just come home from the office: proper clothes, hair done. Not like me, who spent evenings in baggy joggers and an old jumper. Without meaning to, Jane always seemed a bit more put together than me in my own house.
One evening, I was sorting marking in the bedroom, and David ended up sitting with Jane watching a film. Through the wall I could hear their voices: chatting, laughing, easy together. Janes laugh even sounded a bit like mine only softer somehow. That snagged in my mind. I brushed it off at first, then kept thinking about it.
Jane changed her hair, too. Shed always had a sharp little pixie cut suddenly she was growing it out, styling it in loose waves off her face. Just like I do. I first realised when we stood together in the hall mirror: my reflection close, Janes a step behind. And we looked oddly similar like those old family photos you try to recreate.
That really suits you, I said.
Do you think so? Jane adjusted a strand, checking us both. I noticed it looked good on you so thought Id try.
There it was again I saw it on you. That subtle, almost unnoticeable copying. I smiled and walked away. Didnt smile inside, though.
That Sunday I rang my daughter.
Mum, hows it all going?
Fine. Janes here, remember?
Oh, shes still there?
Yeah, waiting on paperwork.
All right Hows Dad?
Hes fine. Seems to get on well with Jane.
A pause. Is that a good thing or not?
Its good, I lied. All good.
Afterwards I sat by the window with cold tea, thinking about that turn of phrase they get on well. Neutral. Only I hadnt said it neutrally.
Week five, Jane asked me about my apple and cinnamon cake.
You know, the one you made last Sunday.
I dont have a recipe I just guess.
Can you talk me through it? Ill try myself.
So I explained, step by step, the way you do when youre used to teaching. She typed it into her mobile. Three days later, she baked it. David ate it and said Nice, and I couldnt tell if he meant the cake or just didnt notice it wasnt mine.
That evening I saw, in the hallway, Janes new coat hanging beside mine pale grey, with a belt. Practically identical to mine. She mustve bought it herself, but still. I stared at the two grey coats hanging side by side for a long time.
I didnt mention it. Not because I was afraid of the answer, but because I didnt know how to ask the question without sounding mad.
Work was full-on. The college was preparing for an inspection, so I ended up working late a lot. David spent more and more time in the living room, Jane often with him. Id catch fragments of chat as I moved about. Sometimes Id come in and theyd change the subject a bit, include me, but I felt like I was being allowed in as an afterthought.
Eventually I said something to David, quietly, one evening after Jane had gone to her room.
David, doesnt it seem like shes I dont know, copying me a bit?
He looked genuinely surprised. Who, Jane?
Yes. Her hair, the coat, my recipes, even the perfume.
“Women always pick up things from each other,” he said, glancing at his phone. “Thats normal.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe.”
He never thought of it again. I did.
In the days after that, I started watching, consciously looking for it. Jane tilted her head to the right when David spoke just like I had the habit of doing. She now said Exactly, stretching the e in the same tone as me. She drank her tea without sugar, though I knew for a fact shed always taken two sugars before moving in.
It wasnt chance. Not anymore.
I rang my friend Helen from work we sometimes shared more than just college gossip.
Hel, have you ever had someone just turn into you? Like, actually copy you?
How do you mean?
Little things. Looks, gestures, recipes.
Thats called quiet envy, Helen replied instantly. Read about it. Someone wants your life but cant take it all, so they take little pieces.
I paused.
Someone doing that to you?
I dont know, I lied. Maybe not.
But I did know.
The Jane conversation happened without planning. One evening, we were alone drinking tea in the kitchen and she blurted out:
Sarah, youre just so together. Im always thinking, Thats how you should live husband, job, nice flat Youve got it all just so.
It took me twenty years to get just so, I said.
She nodded. You can tell. David too. He appreciates you. He was telling me everythings good between you two. That you get each other.
I put my mug down.
You talk about me with him?
Sometimes, just in conversation. He always says nice things.
Thats nice, I said, but felt anything but.
I couldnt explain to myself why it bothered me. Husband saying nice things about his wife to her friend whats wrong with that? Nothing. And yet, something was. It was a gut sense womens intuition, maybe and I couldnt put it into words yet.
At the end of week six, Jane asked if she could borrow my Gardenia perfume.
“Mines empty, and I wont have time to nip to Boots can I use yours a couple of times?”
“Of course,” I said.
That evening, I picked up the bottle and realised it was down to a third, though I was certain it had been more than half-full last week.
I put it away, locked it in the medicine cabinet with one of those tiny suitcase padlocks from a forgotten holiday. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Youre actually hiding your perfume from your friend. Good grief.
But I didnt unlock it.
David came home in a buoyant mood that night hed started being livelier when Jane was home, Id noticed. He brought back a cake, no reason, just because.
A treat for us, he said.
Jane was as pleased as I wouldve been, exactly as pleased, not more, not less just right. I watched them from the kitchen door, seeing Jane do everything right. The right praise, the right laughter, the right way to tilt her head, the right note of surprise. She did everything I did, only she did it more enthusiastically, more energetically. Without years of habit, without the weariness.
David noticed these things, maybe without knowing. But he noticed.
I joined them, ate cake, chatted about nothing much, and everything looked normal. But inside, I felt a strange discomfort, as if someone had moved everything in my home a tiny bit not much, just enough to feel off.
The business trip came up suddenly the college needed someone to go to a training course in Bristol, four days. The head asked me Friday, I said yes on Monday. As I agreed, I thought: Im leaving David and Jane together for four days. Then I told myself off for even thinking it. Adults, after all. Nothing will happen. I just need a break.
Before I left, I said to David, Ill be back Friday night. Jane can help with dinner shes good at that.
Well manage, he replied. Dont worry.
Im not worried, I said.
I looked at him carefully; he seemed calm, normal. Twenty-three years of this, I knew his face. That night he seemed lighter somehow. Like things were easier.
I left early Wednesday. On the train, I read course notes, drank coffee out of a cardboard cup, watched fields scroll by. The lessons were duller than expected, but necessary. I phoned home in the evenings; the chats were brief.
Hows it going?
All fine. We ate. Janes home.
Okay. Goodnight.
Goodnight.
No odd notes. No drama. But I tossed and turned that night anyway, thinking of Jane and the twin grey coats and the gardenia perfume.
On Thursday, around four in the afternoon, my head of department called.
Sarah, tomorrows session is all recap, you already know it. You can head back tonight if you want dont waste your time.
I got home around half past nine; train was early, the cab made good time. I used my key rather than ring the bell, thinking David would be asleep.
He wasnt.
There were candles in the sitting room. Two, on the coffee table. Plates, wine glasses, little bowls of nibbles. The room smelled of dinner and perfume Gardenia. Id locked mine away; Jane must have bought her own.
David was on the sofa. Jane sat beside him in a blue dress, a cut I liked but not hers, in a blue I always picked. Hair waved just so, hands in her lap. They were talking quietly. When I came in, both looked up.
Three seconds of silence.
Youre early, David said.
So I see, I replied.
I put my bag down. I hung my coat up deliberately; its easier to feel in control when your hands are busy.
Sarah, its just a meal, Jane started. We ate, and
I can see its supper, I said quietly. With candles.
Another pause.
Romantic, I added, with a tone so calm it surprised me.
David stood up. Dont make this into
David, I cut in, almost whispering. Dont tell me not to make something of it.
He fell silent. Jane stared at the tablecloth.
I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and looked at the geranium in the window, the one I always water on a Wednesday. Except I wasnt home Wednesday. It looked fine.
Jane watered it, I realised.
I went back in. Jane will you find somewhere else to stay from tomorrow?
Jane looked up. Sarah, I know how this looks
Will you find somewhere? I repeated, level, without raising my voice.
Yes, she whispered. I will.
Good.
I took my bag to the bedroom. Closed the door, not locked, just closed. Lay on top of the bed in my clothes and stared at the ceiling. I heard noises as they cleared supper away, then the creak of the guest room door. David didnt come in that night; I heard him settling on the sofa. That said everything.
Next morning, I got up first. Made coffee, drank it at the window. Watched the usual morning an old lady with a dog, pigeons on the neighbours ledge. Just another weekday.
David came in at eight, stood in the kitchen doorway.
We need to talk, he said.
Yes, I agreed.
Sarah, theres nothing going on between me and Jane.
Maybe so.
Not maybe. There genuinely isnt.
David youve missed the point. Im not talking about an affair. Im talking about watching someone arrive and gradually become me. My hair. My perfume. My recipes. My coat. My gestures. And my husband, who sees it and almost prefers it. Because its me, but less tired. More attentive. Without twenty-three years of baggage.
He said nothing.
This isnt a question, I added. This is just what Ive seen.
Youre overreacting, he said eventually.
Maybe, I said quietly. But when I get back from work, Id like her things gone from the spare room.
Sarah
And another thing, I said as I got my coat. Blind trust, thats always been me. I trusted too much. Both of you.
I shut the door gently. No need to slam.
Work was routine taught two classes, took the register, drank tea with Helen who didnt ask but gave me a look that meant she knew enough not to ask. Good people know how to do that.
When I got back, the spare room was empty and pristine. No sign Jane had ever been. Only her small white plastic hairbrush left on the bathroom shelf. I tossed it in the bin.
David was sat in the living room, scrolling his phone. When I appeared, he looked up. Shes gone.
I see, I replied.
What now?
I hung up my coat, went to the kitchen, started cooking just for something to do.
He followed me. Weve been together twenty-three years. You cant just
I can, I said. But not permanently. I just need time.
How much?
I dont know. A few days, maybe more. I need to think.
A few days became a week. We co-existed, politely, like people forced into flatsharing by circumstance. We ate separately, slept in different rooms. David tried a couple of conversations but I was distant, not angry, just unsure what to say. The words stacked up inside me, and I felt if I started letting them out I wouldnt be able to stop.
I spent that week turning it all over. How Id let Jane stay with barely a thought, like any friend would. How Id ignored my doubts, told myself it was all fine. Quiet envy, Helen called it. Someone needing your life so much they take it in bits: the scent of your perfume, your cake recipe.
What hurt most wasnt Jane. It was David.
He could have noticed. He could have told me what was happening. He could have ignored Janes little upgrades. Instead, he seemed to welcome them. Bought cake. Laughed. Played host. Did he realise? Maybe not. Maybe he just enjoyed it.
Into the second week, I phoned my daughter again.
Mum, you dont sound yourself.
No? Well, your dad and I may split up, I said. First time Id said it aloud.
A long silence.
Because of Jane?
Not just Jane. Jane was more of a trigger, really showed up what was there under the surface.
What was there?
Wed fallen into being used to each other. We stopped seeing each other. Jane came and became a fresher me, and he liked that.
Mum
Its all right. Im not crying. Im just explaining.
Will you be on your own?
For a while, yes. Thats fine.
I said it, and this time the word fine actually stuck. Because I meant it.
I spoke to David that Sunday evening. I think we should separate, I said simply.
He was silent, long enough I thought he might not answer.
So thats it?
I dont know. I just need space, to figure out who I am, without this flat, without you, without everything.
Its because of the candles? That meal wasnt
David, it isnt the candles. That was just the last straw. There were things before, I saw them, said nothing, kept telling myself it was normal. It wasnt.
I dont know what I did.
Nothing really. You just stopped seeing me. Didnt you notice someone becoming your wife? If youd really seen me, you might have.
He had nothing to say, because there was nothing.
About the flat, I continued, we should sell, or Ill buy you out when I can. Not now, later. Well work it out.
Where will you go?
Ill let a place. In Reading or maybe further. Well see.
Starting over at fifty-two, David said, and there was a strange emotion in his voice pity for himself, for me, who knows?
Yes, I nodded. At fifty-two. People start again later than this, you know.
I stood to make tea, passing through the bathroom, and noticed my hidden Gardenia bottle. Picked it up, held it a while, then carried it to the kitchen bin and set it inside gently, not tossing it, just placing what I no longer needed.
Then I put the kettle on.
Over the next few days, I got on with things. Rang an estate agent, got some advice. Spoke to a solicitor. Dropped in on Helen, gave her the basic version; she didnt act shocked, just listened, saying yes in the right places, in that way that means youre really heard.
Helen and I sat in her kitchen.
Are you angry at her? she asked.
At Jane? I considered. Not really. Maybe for not seeing the obvious, but mainly for not calling it what it was. Trusting too much.
Thats not your fault, said Helen. Trust and naivety arent the same.
Maybe.
And David?
Im a bit angry at him, but its a quiet sort of anger. Itll go, I suppose.
So what next?
Let a flat. Change my hair. Try another perfume. I paused. Not Gardenia.
Good idea, nodded Helen.
And just work out what I actually like whats mine, not just familiar.
Itll take time.
Yeah. Luckily, Ive got time.
Helen made more tea. It was raining outside, autumn drizzle, not cold but very grey. I watched and thought that a few weeks back, Id have described my life without a second thought: neat flat, David, work, routines, recipes, my perfume on the left. Everything in its place. But maybe that in its place was not so secure.
But I didnt feel empty, or lost. It was more like finally taking off a long-worn coat and realising it was tight across the shoulders and youd just grown used to it.
You know, Helen, I said, for the first time in years, I have no idea what happens next. And I think thats bearable.
Bearable, echoed Helen, smiling. Good word.
A week later, I found a one-bedroom flat in another part of Reading. Bright, with a view over Palmer Park. Dear enough, but manageable. Arranged a viewing, went, wandered around the empty room. The parquet floor squeaked in one corner, but it felt liveable.
Ill take it, I told the owner, an elderly lady with tired eyes.
For long?
No idea. Lets start with a year.
She nodded.
Back at what counted as home, I began to quietly sort my possessions. No drama, just separating mine from not-mine. Books, dishes, clothes. Threw a few useless things out even a blouse Id kept just in case. Gave away the grey coat; bought a new one, dark blue, different style. Put it on and looked in the mirror: nothing like Janes. Good.
Jane didnt contact me, except for a single message Sarah, I know I hurt you. Forgive me if you can. I read it, put my phone down, and didnt reply. Not because I hadnt forgiven her. I just wasnt ready, or maybe I didnt want to. Difference isnt clear yet.
David stayed in the old flat. We spoke when needed, civilly, lightly. There was a sharp edge under it, but also a relief. I could see he didnt really know what hed lost.
The Friday before my move, I went shopping for perfume. Stood ages at the counter, sampling testers. The assistant was so patient. I turned down everything she offered, then I found one called Silver Cedar. It wasnt floral a woody, gentle scent, completely different. That was exactly why I chose it.
Good choice, the girl said.
Well see, I replied.
The move took half a day. Helen helped with boxes; David offered as well, which I allowed. No tension, just work. Once my things were in the new flat, I arranged them however I wanted.
When everyone had left and I was alone, I took out the Silver Cedar, sprayed a little on my wrist. The scent was odd, unfamiliar, not bad, just new. I breathed it in and thought: Ill either get used to it or I wont. Both are fine.
Outside, the park was almost bare; November was stripping the last leaves off the trees. The street lamps came on early as they always do this time of year. I boiled the kettle, found a mug the one with no hairline cracks and stood at the window, looking out.
My phone pinged: my daughter.
So? Are you all settled, Mum?
Getting there.
A bit scary?
I looked out at the amber lamps. No, I said. Actually, its not scary at all.There was a beat, then another.
Good, my daughter replied. Because you sound a bit more you.
I smiled at the window. The flat was echoey, the silence different to beforebrighter, somehow. A space with possibility, not loss.
I opened another box, took out my old college photo. Me and Jane, arms slung around each other, grinning at the edge of the Cherwell. We looked almost like sisters then. I studied my own face, searching for some clue to the woman Id become, and for the first time I found herunmistakably myself, imperfect but entire.
I set the photo down on the sill. The scent of cedar still hovered on my skin, sharp and clean. The world outside was quiet, waiting.
I took another breath, let it fill the new rooms, and stepped forward to meet my lifemy own, at lastwithout looking back.
