Copy of a Wife
Are you sure I wont be in the way? Sarah asked, standing on my doorstep with a large shoulder bag and a slightly bewildered smile that Id never seen on her before. I do realise this isnt convenient. I really do.
For goodness sake, come in, Sarah, I said, stepping aside and holding the door open. The spare rooms free, Oliver doesnt mind. Everythings fine.
Oliver doesnt mind, Sarah repeated, and there was something in her voice I couldnt quite place. Not ironymore like surprise. As if the very words doesnt mind carried hidden importance.
He rarely objects to anything, I said, heading towards the kitchen. Shoes off, slippers in the basket on your left.
And thats how it all began.
I was fifty-two, Saraha friend from my university dayswas fifty-one. We hadnt spent proper time together in at least five years, though wed speak on the phone, or meet for coffee in town. I always assumed I knew Sarah well enoughwell enough to open the door to her without much thought. Shed just got divorced, her lease was up, paperwork for her new flat was dragging on. She only needed a few weekstwo or three at most, perhaps a month. Just enough time to get back on her feet.
We lived in Chesterfielda mid-sized city really, where the neighbourhoods all seem to blend into one another, and the shopkeepers know regulars by voice. My flat was three bedrooms, third floor, windows facing a quiet lane. Oliver, my husband, worked for a building firmnot a showy job, but well-paid. I lectured in economics at the local college. Twenty-three years of marriage, with our daughter now settled in a different city. The place was roomy, everything arranged just so, the way it gets when youve lived somewhere a long time and cant be bothered to change it.
Sarah arrived with a large suitcase and a cardboard box. She unpacked quietly, barely making a sound. For the first three days, she was almost invisible, leaving early, coming home late, hardly eating, talking even less. That evening, Oliver said simply:
How long is she staying?
A month, I replied.
A month, he echoed, in precisely the same odd tone Sarah had used on the doorstep.
I didnt think it mattered. Id never been one to dwell on small things. Or, at least, I told myself I wasnt.
The first sign that unsettled me came the second week. One morning I went into the bathroom and noticed my perfume wasnt where Id left it. Gardeniaa dark green bottle with a silver cap, which Id been buying from the same shop on High Street for three years. The bottle was sitting on the edge of the sink, not the little shelf to the left. I decided I mustve moved it myself, put it back, and forgot about it.
But in the third week, I noticed something else.
The three of us sat at breakfast together. I always made coffee a particular waya little cold water, then boiling but not scalding, or it turned bitter. Oliver knew and always praised it. That morning, I was delayed on the phone, and coffee duty fell to Sarah. When Oliver took a sip he said:
Thats good.
I watched how Alison makes it, Sarah said. She always does it like this.
I looked at her. Sarah smiled. It felt perfectly friendlyinnocent, even. I smiled back.
But something stuck with me, wordlessly, deep inside.
I got swept back up in worklesson plans, marking assignments, meetings. When I got home, the flat was always neat and peaceful. Sarah, it turned out, was quietly tidying, cleaning, reorganising. Oliver adapted to her being around much quicker than I expected.
She cooked tonight, he told me one evening, as if delivering good news. Bean soup. It was tasty.
I make bean soup, I reminded him.
I know, he said. It was similar.
I didnt ask whose was better. He didnt say.
Sarah was working remotely for a whilesomething with documents; I never asked much about her job. Shed be in the spare room all day with her laptop, emerging at lunch to make something, and by evening shed have changed clothes and styled her hair. Not just comfy clothes, but proper ones. I noticed because I always switched into old joggers and a battered sweatshirt, whereas Sarah looked ready for a dinner party, even in my own home.
One evening, Oliver and Sarah were watching something on telly together. I was in our bedroom, sorting through coursework. I could hear their conversation through the wall; relaxed, easy. I heard Sarah laugha laugh that sounded hauntingly like mine, only softer. I caught myself thinking that and brushed it away. So what if someones laugh is like yours?
But a few days later, I caught myself dwelling on it again.
Sarahs hairstyle changed. Her short, sharp cut was growing out, styled in the same soft wave I wore. I caught sight of the two of us in the hallway mirrorme closer, her a step behindand for a second, it looked like a photo and its more up-to-date copy.
You suit your hair like that, I said.
Really? Sarah checked her image, adjusted a strand. I thought Id give it a shot. Saw you do it and fancied it, too.
Again, you. Again, a hint of gentle mimicry. I smiled and headed for the kitchen. But it wasnt a happy smile, not really.
I rang my daughter that weekend.
Mum, hows it going?
All fine. Sarahs here, remember?
Oh right. Shes still staying?
Yestheres a delay with her paperwork.
Okay Hows Dad?
Good. He and Sarah get on well.
A pause.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? she asked.
Oh, its good, I said. But I spoke quietly, as if testing the ground beneath me.
By the fifth week, Sarah asked for my apple and cinnamon pie recipe.
The one you made last Sunday. Smelled amazing.
I dont have it written down. I go by eye.
Could you talk me through it? Ill jot it down.
So I gave her the details, talking her through my rough guesses. Sarah typed into her phone, thenthree days laterbaked the pie. Oliver had a slice and said, Nice, and I wasnt sure if he really liked the pie, or just didnt notice who had baked it.
That evening I opened the hallway cupboard, and there hung a light grey belted jacket. Nearly identical to mineSarah mustve bought it recently. I hung my own beside it and stood for ages just looking at the two jackets, side by side.
I didnt bring it up. Not out of fear, but because I couldnt think how to ask without sounding foolish.
Work was busyinspections coming upso I was buried in paperwork and long days. Oliver started spending more time in the living room. Sarah too. Through the shut door I overheard fragments of their conversations. If I pushed the door open and joined in, theyd include me, but only as a third person, not the main one.
Eventually, I voiced my feelings to Oliver. One evening, after Sarah had gone to her room.
Ollie, do you not think shes a bit copying me?
He looked up, genuinely puzzled.
Who? Sarah?
Yes. The hair, the jacket, recipes, perfume
Well, women do pick up little things from each other. Its normal.
Perhaps, I replied. Perhaps.
He was back on his phone, and the topic faded away.
I lay awake, thinking he was right. Friends imitate each other. Normal. I mustve copied something from Sarah years ago. Mustnt I? I repeated the word normal a few times, as if trying to make it stick. It wouldnt.
Over the next few days, I watched Sarah more closely. I saw what Id missed before. She tilted her head to the right when talking to Oliver, in the same way I did when listening intently. She stretched out exactly just like I did. She now drank her tea unsweetened, despite me knowing shed always used two spoonfuls of sugar. Always.
It wasnt coincidental. It was something more.
I rang my colleague Nina, who I could trust with non-work things.
Have you ever had someone start becoming you? I asked her. Copying you, your gestures, habits, even how you look?
Thats called quiet envy, Nina replied without missing a beat. People wanting your life, but not able to take it straight, so they pinch bits of it.
I said nothing.
Is someone doing that to you?
Im not sure, I said. But I already knew the truth.
The real conversation with Sarah happened by her own choice. One evening, sipping tea together in the kitchen, she said, Alison, you know, youre just so together. I look at you and think: thats how to do itflat, job, husband All in the right place.
It took me twenty years to get it in the right place, I replied.
I know. And you can feel it. She hesitated. Oliver too
She trailed off.
What about Oliver?
He appreciates you. He told me you two get each other. That it works.
I put down my mug.
You talk to him about me?
Sometimes. In conversation. He speaks well of you.
Thats nice, I said, but I felt the opposite.
I couldnt say why it didnt feel right. A husband singing his wifes praises to her friendnothing wrong with that, is there? And yet, something was off. I knew it. Womans intuitionusually a thing to scoff at, but not this time.
Near the end of the sixth week, Sarah asked to use my Gardenia perfume.
Mines run out, she said. Would you mind if I used yours a couple of times?
Of course, I said.
That evening, I opened the bottle. Less than a third remained, when I couldve sworn thered been over half the week before.
I put it away in the bathroom cabinet and locked it with an old suitcase padlock. Afterwards, looking at myself in the mirror, I thought: What kind of person hides perfume from a friend?
But I didnt unlock it.
Oliver came home that night in excellent spiritssomething that now happened more often when Sarah was around. He brought home a cake. No reason, just because.
Lets spoil ourselves, he said.
Sarah beamed, just as I would have done if Oliver brought home cake. Not more, not less. Just right. I watched the scene unfold from the kitchen doorwaySarah was just right at everything. She praised the coffee at the right moment, laughed at the right moment, did everything I did. Only she did it with a touch more enthusiasmno fatigue, no weight of twenty-three shared years.
And Oliver noticed it. Maybe he didnt realise it, but he did.
I walked in and ate a slice of cake. It was a good cake; we had a pleasant chat about nothing in particular, and from the outside, everything looked fine. But inside I felt an odd sort of displacement, like the things in my home were all present but somehow a few centimetres from where they should be.
Then, there was an unexpected trip for the collegea four-day training seminar in Manchester. I agreed to go. The thought of leaving Oliver and Sarah alone for four days nagged at me, but I told myself not to be ridiculous. We were all adults. I needed a break.
Before I left, I spoke with Oliver in the kitchen.
Ill be back Friday evening, I said. Sarah can help with suppersshes good.
Well be fine, he said. Dont worry.
Im not worried, I replied.
He looked calm. Ordinary. After twenty-three years, I knew every line of his face. He looked at ease in a way I hadnt noticed in a while, as if nothing weighed on his mind.
I left early Wednesday morning. On the train I worked through course material, drank coffee from a paper cup, watched the flat fields flick past outside the window. The seminar was dull but useful. At night, I rang Oliver:
All fine?
All good here. Weve eaten. Sarahs in her room.
Goodnight then.
Night.
No cause for suspicion in his voice. I went to bed in my hotel but slept fitfully, mind spinning between work, my daughter, the cracked mug at home, Sarah, the twin jackets, and the missing perfume.
On Thursday afternoon, the organiser called.
You dont need to come in for the repeat session tomorrowits a recap. Go home tonight if youd like, save your time. Well sign you off.
So I came home, arriving at half past nine in the evening. The train was early, the taxi made good time in the quiet traffic.
I let myself in quietly, not wanting to wake anyoneassuming Oliver might be asleep.
He wasnt.
There were candles lit in the living roomjust two, on the coffee table. Dinner plates out, wine glasses, small bowls of snacks. The scent in the room was Gardenia. Id locked my bottle away. Sarah must have bought her own.
Oliver sat on the sofa. Sarah was next to him, wearing a blue dress Id never seen, but with the exact cut and colour Id have chosen for myself. Hair in loose waves, hands folded in her lap. They were talking quietly, but both looked up the moment I entered.
There was a pause, maybe three seconds long.
Youre home early, Oliver said.
I can see that, I replied.
I put my bag down, hung up my coat, doing everything slowly and precisely.
Alison, its just dinner, said Sarah. We had a bite to eat, and
I see its dinner, I said. With candles.
Pause.
Romantic, I added. My voice, to my own surprise, was level.
Oliver stood up.
Theres no need to make
Oliver, I interrupted quietly. Please dont tell me what I dont need to do.
He fell silent. Sarah stared at the tablecloth.
I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drank, and glanced at the geranium on the windowsill. I remembered it should have been watered yesterday, while I was away, and it looked fine.
Sarah watered it, I realised.
Back in the lounge, I said, Sarah, will you be able to find somewhere else to stay tomorrow?
She looked up.
Alison, it just looks
Will you find somewhere to stay tomorrow? I repeated. Calmly, just a second time.
Yes, Sarah said. I will.
Good.
I picked up my bag, went into the bedroom, closed the doornot locking it, just shutting it firmly. Lay down fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. I heard the faint sounds of someone clearing the table. Then silence. Then the spare room door clicked shut.
Oliver didnt come to bed that night. I heard him settle on the living room sofa. That said it all.
In the morning I got up first, brewed coffee, stared out the window as the city woke slowly. Friday. A woman walked a labrador past the building. Pigeons shuffled along the gutter.
Oliver appeared at eight.
We need to talk, he said.
Yes, I agreed.
There was nothing going on between Sarah and me.
Maybe not.
Not maybe. Nothing happened.
Oliver, I replied, still gazing at the city. You dont get it. Im not talking about what did or didnt happen. I mean what I saw last night, and over the past month and a half.
And what did you see?
I turned to face him.
I saw someone move into my home and gradually become me. My haircut, my perfume, my jacket, my recipes, my gestures. And a husband who likes it. Because its me, without the exhaustion. Without the weight of twenty-three years.
He said nothing.
Thats not a question, I added. Just what Ive seen.
Youre overreacting, he eventually said.
Perhaps, I nodded. But Im off to work. When I get home, I dont want any of her things in our spare room.
Alison
One more thing, I said as I put on my coat. Perhaps I trust too easily. I trusted both of you too much.
I left. The door clicked quietly behind me.
At college I taught two classes, did the register, drank tea with Nina in the break. She didnt ask, but gave me a look that meant there was no need.
Back home, the spare room was immaculate, Sarah gone without a trace, except for a small plastic hairbrush on the bathroom shelf. I picked it up and threw it away.
Oliver was in the living room, scrolling his phone.
Shes gone, he said.
I see.
What next?
I hung up my coat and drifted to the kitchen, busying myself by the stove, not knowing what to cook yet.
Alison, its been twenty-three years. We cant just
We can, Oliver. Please. Give me a few days.
How many?
I dont know. I need to think.
A few days stretched into a week. We lived side by side like polite strangers who happen to share a roof. Separate meals, different rooms. Occasionally Oliver tried to talk; I replied briefly. Not from anger, just not ready to say the things piling up inside me. I worried I might let out something I couldnt take back.
I thought about how it all started. How I let Sarah in so easily, as you do for a friend in trouble, because thats what decent people do. Because its normal, isnt it? I thought about when Id first noticed something was off, and why Id refused to name it. Quiet envy, as Nina called it. Someone borrowing bits of your life, bit by bit. Through the perfume you wear, the pie you bake.
What hurt more was not Sarah, but Oliver.
He could have not noticed. He could have noticed and said something. He could have rejected this better version of me, as Id started thinking of it. But he played along. He fetched cake. He sat and laughed beside her. He set up candlelit dinners while I was away. Maybe without thinking. Maybe just not thinking at all.
Midway through the next week, I phoned my daughter.
Mum? You sound different.
How do you mean?
Justyour voice. Is something wrong?
I think your dad and I may split up, I said. The first time Id said it aloud.
A long pause.
Because of Sarah?
Not just Sarah. She was more a sign of things. Of what was already there.
What was there?
Im not sure how to put it. Wed got used to each other. Didnt really see one another anymore. Sarah came along, became a newer, brighter version of me, and he liked it.
Mum
No, dont worry. Im fine. Im not crying. I just want to be clear about things.
Will you be on your own?
For a while, yes. Thats all right.
I said all right, and this time it felt true. Because I chose it.
The final conversation with Oliver happened on Sunday evening.
I think its best if we live separately, I said. Plainly, no fuss.
He was quiet for a long time.
Is that final?
I dont know. I just need space to see who I amoutside this flat, outside you, outside all of it.
Because of the candles? Alison, it was just dinner.
Its not the candles, Oliver. They were just the last bit. Its all the things beforethe things I saw and kept quiet about. I kept saying its normal, but it wasnt.
I dont understand what I did wrong.
Nothing in particular. You just stopped noticing me. Someone else became me. If youd really seen me, youd have noticed.
He had no answer. There was nothing to say.
Well have to sell this place, or Ill buy you outlater, not now. Well sort it.
Where will you go?
Ill find somewhere. Maybe here in town, maybe elsewhere. Well see.
Starting again at fifty-two he said, with a tone I couldnt readpity, for him or for me, I didnt know.
Yes, I replied. Starting over at fifty-two. Some people start even later.
I headed for the kitchen but stopped by the bathroom cabinet. I took out the locked Gardenia bottle, considered it a while. Then, in the hallway, I set it in the binnot tossed, just stood it carefully down. Something I no longer needed.
Back in the kitchen I put the kettle on.
I acted methodically over the next days. Rang an estate agent about the flat, called a solicitor about the paperwork, dropped in on Nina and told her the short version. She didnt fuss or ask many questionsjust said yes in that way only good friends can, when it means I understand.
We sat in her kitchen.
Are you angry with her? Nina asked.
With Sarah? I thought. Not much. More with myself, for not seeing the obvious. For calling it normal when it wasnt.
Youre not to blame for trusting people.
Blindly trusting, I said. Thats me.
Not blindly. Just trusting. Theyre different.
Maybe.
What about Oliver?
I am angry with hima quiet sort of anger. Itll pass.
What will you do?
Get a new flat. Change my hair. Try a different perfume, I said. Probably not Gardenia this time.
Sounds wise.
And maybe figure out what I actually like. Whats really minenot just what Im used to.
That takes time.
Ive time now.
Nina poured more tea. Outside the window, rain fella gentle autumn drizzle. I looked at it and thought that just weeks before, my life had seemed so well formed: the flat, Oliver, work, routines, the perfume bottle in its proper place. Now, in place seemed less solid than ever.
But I didnt feel what I expectedno emptiness, no disorientation. Just an unfamiliar sensation, almost awkward. As if Id taken off a coat Id worn for years, only to discover it had been too tight for ages and I simply hadnt noticed.
You know, I told Nina, for the first time in years, I honestly dont know what comes next. And its bearable.
Bearable, Nina nodded and smiled. Good word.
Another week passed. I found a one-bed flat in another part of Chesterfieldsmall, bright, with a view over the park. Pricey, but manageable. At the viewing I walked the rooms, listened to the floor creak, and thought: I can live here.
Ill take it, I told the elderly landlady.
How long?
Not sure. Start with a year.
She nodded.
Back at homestill home for a few more daysI began sorting things. No dramatic clear-out, just quietly separating what was mine. Some things I gave awaya blouse Id not worn in three years, my old grey jacket, replaced now with a navy one of a different cut, nothing like Sarahs.
I didnt see or ring Sarah. She sent a message: Alison, I know I hurt you. Forgive me if you can. I read it, left it unanswered. Not because I hadnt forgivenjust not ready, or perhaps I didnt want to. I havent decided the difference.
Oliver stayed in the old flat. We spoke when we had to, civilly enough. There was a sadness in that, but also a relief. I saw he didnt quite know how to bring back what had been lost. Maybe he never understood what, exactly, it was.
On Friday, before moving, I went to buy perfume. I stood for ages, smelling the testers. The young assistant was patient, suggested a few. I settled in the end on Silver Cedara woody, warm scent, not what Id have worn before. Perfect, for that very reason.
Lovely choice, said the assistant.
Well see, I replied.
The move took half a day. Nina helped with the boxes. Oliver offered, and I didnt refuse. He worked quietly, no drama. Once everything was in the new flat, I arranged things as I likedby myself, for myself.
When I was finally alone, I uncapped the Silver Cedar, dabbed a little on my wrist. The scent was unfamiliar, but pleasanta sign of something new. I closed my eyes and breathed it in. Thought: perhaps Ill get used to it. Or perhaps I wont. And that would be all right too.
Outside, November was stripping the last leaves from the park trees. The street lamps glowed on early, as they do at this time of year. I filled the kettle, found an unchipped mug in a box, and settled by the window to watch the night.
My phone rangmy daughter, checking in.
Hows it going, Mum? Settled in?
Getting there.
Are you scared?
I glanced out at the lights.
No, I said. You know, Im really not.
Thats what I learned: When old certainties fall away, youre left with yourselffor better or worse. You choose what comes next. And thats good enough.
