Dear Diary,
This evening I found myself standing at the kitchen sink, ladle in hand, as the steam rose from a pot of rubyred borscht. The scent of fresh parsley, garlic and a rich broth filled the little flat on Holloway Road, promising a cosy family supper. Yet a single name, spoken in a casual tone, shattered that warmth and turned the room into a cold vault of memories.
Claire. My first wife. A legend in my mind, her phantom has lingered in our flat for two years now, ever since I married Ethel.
David, Ethel tried to keep her voice steady, though hurt clenched her throat, Im making the borscht exactly as my grandmother taught me. You loved it when we first had it a week ago, you even asked for extra seasoning. Whats changed?
I shrugged, tore a slice of crusty wholemeal bread and chewed lazily while the telly droned on.
Nothings changed, Ellie. I just remembered how Claire used to sprinkle a pinch of sugar into the soup. It gave the broth a different depth. She had a light touch with the spices, an instinct for balance. Its a talent you cant learn. Im not upset, I see youre trying. Just a fact, loveeat, itll cool down.
Ethel set the ladle back into the pot, appetite vanished. She took her seat opposite me, eyes tracing the line of my silverthreaded temples, my broad shoulders, the confidence that once seemed so perfect three years ago when we first met. Divorced, childless, serious, and a bit of a DIY enthusiast, Id spoken little of that past marriage: We just didnt click, Id said, and shed accepted it.
Who could have guessed how stubborn a past could be?
The first six months after the wedding were blissful. Then, as if a hidden valve had opened, memories of Claire began to seep out. At first they were occasional offhand remarks Claire had the same vase, She loved that film. I brushed them off as normal, but the comparisons grew more frequent and, terribly, never in my favour.
The shirts badly pressed, I noted the next morning, standing before the mirror, eyeing the crooked collar. Claire always used that special spray and her steamiron. Her trousers always had perfect creases. This one looks countrysideready.
Ethel, who rose at six to prepare my breakfast and iron my shirts, felt a lump form in her throat.
David, I only have an ordinary iron. I press it the way I know. If you dont like it, you can take the clothes to the dry cleaners yourself.
I stared at her reflection, a hint of irritation flickering. Why are you getting defensive? Im just sharing a tip. Maybe you should buy that spray? I just want you to improve. Claire always cared about the little things. Her house was spotless.
I do care about cleanliness, Ethel replied quietly, remembering the two hours shed spent scrubbing the bathroom the night before. And I work fulltime just like you.
Claire worked too, and managed everything, I retorted. I have to gomums in trouble with a leaking tap, Ill be late.
The door slammed. Ethel was left alone, watching me pull out of the car. Claire, Claire, Claire, the name looped in her mind like a broken record. If Claire truly was an angel in the kitchen, a culinary genius and a tidy fairy, why did we divorce? I always mumble something about people change or the routine got stale.
That night I skipped dinner. There was no point in cooking when the result would inevitably be not as good as Claires. I bought readymade cabbage rolls from the supermarket, heated them, and settled down with a novel.
I returned home around nine, hungry and irritable.
Mum says hello, I grunted, slipping off my shoes. Mrs. Hawthorne was asking why you never use the cake recipe she suggested. She says Claire always baked on Sundays, filling the house with the smell of sweet pastries. Our place always reeks of takeaway.
Ethel closed her book, her composure slipping.
Mrs. Hawthorne can bake herself if she wants. Im not into dough.
Exactly! I snapped, raising a finger. A woman should love creating a home. Claire
Enough! Ethel erupted, the chair skidding back as the book thudded onto the floor. I hear her name more often than my own. Claire cooked, ironed, cleaned, breathed perfectly! If she was so flawless, why didnt you stay together?
I was taken aback. Well there were reasons. She was hardheaded, liked to give orders.
So Im just easygoing, huh? Silent, patient, tolerating your nagging about her virtues. Im fed up.
Dont exaggerate, I waved off. Whats for dinner? More readymade? Claire would never let a husband eat supermarket food. She cared about my stomach.
Ethel slipped away to the bedroom. That night sleep eluded her; a plan formed, one that could either end our marriage completely or save it. I refused to live with three peopleme, Ethel, and Claires ghost.
Saturday arrived, the day traditionally set for chores and shopping. My motherinlaw, Mrs. Hawthorne, called just after breakfast.
Ethel dear, hello, her voice was syrupy with hidden venom. David and I are going to the cemetery tomorrow for my fathers service. We need the garden fence painted. Could you make some meat pies for the road? No cabbageDavid gets heartburn. Thin crust, like we used to do.
I stared at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Mrs. Hawthorne, Im working tomorrow, deadlines looming. I cant bake, but I can buy pies from the bakery near the tube. Theyre good.
Working on a Sunday? Thats sinful, Ethel. Letting David go hungry is a sin too. Claire never slacked for the family. Shed even rise at night to flip pancakes if David asked.
Let Claire bake then, I snapped, surprising myself, then hung up.
David, hearing the tail end of the call, emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth.
Youre being rude to your mother? Shes old, he muttered.
Im drawing a line. Im not Claire, David. I wont be baking pies at midnight.
Sure enough, he spat, spitting toothpaste into the sink. Youre all about paperwork, no femininity. Claire could run a career and still pamper me. You youre nothing.
He hurled a kettle onto the stove, and I felt a cold resolve settle over me. Each remark about Claire struck like a hammer on a crystal vaseour relationship was already cracked, and this was the final chip.
I walked to the bedroom, opened the large wheeled suitcase I kept for emergencies, and laid it open on the bed.
Whats this about? A business trip? David asked, chewing on a toast.
I said nothing, instead pulling out his shirts, trousers, sweaters, sockseverything hed ever owned.
What are you doing? he asked, panic flickering in his eyes.
Im helping you, David, I said calmly, folding his favourite jumper. Ive realised Im not good enough. I cant add sugar to borscht, I cant iron a perfect crease, I cant bake pies at night. Im a poor housewife, not the ideal you keep recalling. I cant compete with a phantom.
What phantom? he shouted, trying to snatch a shirt. Stop this circus!
Dont interrupt. Ive thought this through. You live under constant stress, tolerating my acidic food and my laziness, while you pine for the days with Claire. I dont want to be the source of your suffering. I love you, and I want you happy. Your happiness seems locked in that past marriage.
I gathered his underwear and tossed it into the suitcase.
So I propose the only sensible solution: go back to Claire.
Silence hung heavy. The clock ticked, his breath grew shallow.
Youre mad, he whispered. Which Claire? We divorced five years ago! Shes married now or maybe not I dont know!
It doesnt matter, I replied, zipping the suitcase. You mention her so often, describe her virtues in detail, that Im convinced she still loves you. Shell welcome you back, feed you that perfect borscht, iron your shirts with a steamiron, and youll live happily ever afterwithout my readymade cabbage rolls.
I placed the suitcase on the floor, pulling the handle out.
Everythings packed, even your toothbrush and razor. You can leave right now. Mrs. Hawthorne will be thrilled to hear youre back together, reminiscing about the saintly Claire while Im a mistake of nature.
David stared, mouth open like a fish out of water. Hed always expected me to be soft, compliant, to answer his grumbles with meek apologies. He never imagined I could take such a step.
Enough, Ethel, he stammered, trying to laugh. Its ridiculous. Why pack a suitcase? This is childish! He forced a smile that fell flat. Lets just sort everything out. I wont go to the cemetery, Ill stay and help you with the report.
I shook my head, fatigue, not anger, in my eyes.
No, David. This isnt a nursery. Its selfrespect. Ive endured a year trying to be perfect, learning new recipes, striving to meet a ghosts standards. A living person can never beat an imagined ideal. I wont be secondrate in my own home.
I pushed the suitcase toward the hallway.
Leave. Stay with your mother, think it over, or try to win Claire back. But Im not holding you here any longer.
David tried for ten minutes to turn it into a joke, then into anger, then into pity. I stayed firm, opened the front door, and waited. Finally he grabbed the suitcase, muttering, Youll regret this, you fool, and bolted onto the landing.
I locked the door twice, slipped down the hallway, and let the tears falltears of relief. The flat finally quieted; Claires spectre seemed to have fled with him.
A week later David was staying with his mother. Mrs. Hawthorne called daily, alternately cursing and begging me to take him back. I let the calls go to voicemail. I cooked what I likedlight salads, steamed cod, ordered pizza. No one nagged about underseasoned rice or dust on the cupboards.
On Thursday evening, returning from work, I saw a familiar car outside the block. David sat behind the wheel, head resting on the steering wheel. He jumped out, shirt slightly rumpled, threeday stubble, eyes weary.
Ethel, we need to talk.
Speak, I said, not inviting him inside.
I I was an idiot. Ive finally understood.
What did you understand? That Claire wouldnt take you back? I smiled.
He blushed, eyes dropping.
I called her, just to check how she was. I thought maybe
And?
She sent me away. Said I was a nag, a tyrant, that shed moved on with a husband who never bothers about a speck of dust. She said Id ruined five years of her life with my complaints.
I laughed, a genuine, loud laugh. The puzzle clicked.
So Claire was just a figment of your imagination? You created her to avoid seeing your own flaws, to justify perpetual dissatisfaction?
Probably, he admitted, shifting his weight. Living with Mum is impossible. She nags me from dawn to duskwrong cup placement, snoring loudly. She also idealises her late husband, though they fought daily. Im stuck.
David, I said thoughtfully, Im not sure I want you back. Ive grown to enjoy my solitude. No one compares me to anyone else. No one critiques my cooking.
Please, Ethel! Ill change! Ill iron my shirts myself! Ill learn to cook, I swear! Give me a chance. One chance.
I stared at my shoes, considering forgiveness. People err, but if I let him back now, the same cycle would repeat in a month.
Fine, I finally said. One chance, but with conditions.
Anything! he said eagerly.
First: the name Claire is banned in this house. Hear it once and the suitcase will be waiting at the door, and you wont be welcome back. Second: stop comparing me to anyoneyour mother, a neighbour, anyone. I am me. If you dont like it, look elsewhere. Third: weekends we either cook together or order in. Im not a chef.
I agree! I agree! he shouted, nearly losing his head.
And finally, go to the florist right now and buy me the biggest bouquet they have. Not Claires favourite, but what I love. You remember what flowers I adore?
He froze, a bead of sweat forming on his brow as he rattled through names.
Lilies? You get a headache from them. Roses? Too common Tulips? You like white tulips, dont you?
A faint smile tugged my lips.
Peonies, David. I love peonies. Tulips will do if theyre fresh. Youve got an hour.
He bolted to his car, floor it, and the tires screamed. I watched him disappear, uncertain how long his enthusiasm would last. Perhaps in six months hed start complaining again, but I knew one thing: I had changed. I would never again allow myself to be measured against ghosts. The suitcase would stay on the shelf as a reminder, not a weapon.
When David returned with a massive bundle of soft pink peoniesapparently sourced from a boutique far out of townI let him in.
That night we ate pizza. He devoured it as if it were ambrosia, praising the crust.
Delicious, he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You pick the best delivery every time.
I smiled. Claires phantom, finally dispelled, melted into the scent of peonies and pepperoni. The next day Mrs. Hawthorne called, asking whether I still needed her pie recipe. I told her, No, mum, Im making a splendid tiramisu instead.
Life settled back into a gentle rhythm. Ive learned that selfrespect is the foundation you must never let crumble, even for the greatest love. If it does, youll always know how to pack a suitcase in fifteen minutes.
