OLD HABITS
By
Kim Fleet
By
Kim Fleet
I sneak in while they’re on honeymoon. I do this from time to time – let myself into Stuart’s home to check up on him. I worry about him, worry that he’s looking after himself, that he’s happy, that he’s got over me. It’s been three years, but once you’ve loved someone totally and completely, with all your heart, you never stop caring about them, do you? Old habits.
I heard on the grapevine that Stuart and Lucy had married, and I need to know what she’s like, this new wife of his. Is she kind to him, does she make him laugh, does she put enough pickle on his sandwiches? It’s been a few months since I last checked up on Stuart, and I’m keen to see what changes Lucy has made. I notice at once that they’ve redecorated. The pale green I loved has gone and the hall and stairs are now painted a warm blush colour. The carpet I chose has been ripped up and the floorboards stained a deep brown, with a scarlet runner linking the front door and the kitchen. It’s cosy and tasteful: I sigh my approval.
There are more changes in the sitting room. The big abstract painting that Stuart and I bought on our honeymoon has been swapped for a seascape. I admire it for a while: the brushstrokes capture the power and mystery of the sea so perfectly I can almost hear the boom of the waves as they crash against the stone pier. In the corner of the painting is a tiny signature: Lucy. Tasteful and talented.
The kitchen has a lot more utensils and pans than before, and there’s a new shelf of cookery books. Not the sort you leave lying about on a coffee table projecting an aura of glossy living; these books are well-thumbed, some of them evidently handed down from Lucy’s grandmother, and there are little scabs of flour on the bindings where Lucy has turned the page mid bake. I like the way she’s cut out recipes from magazines and glued them to the inside covers. Stuart’s obviously going to be well fed.
So far so good, but I always think that the bedroom is the most revealing room in the house. It’s where people hide their secrets, where they show their true selves. Stuart cleared out my side of the wardrobe soon after I’d gone, and for a long time it echoed with the clang of empty hangers. Now the hangers are full of cream blouses, navy linen trousers, a well-cut black wool suit. Simple and elegant. So different to my pinks and leaf greens and yellows. I hope Stuart hasn’t swapped a butterfly for a moth, but no, at the back of the wardrobe is the most exquisite midnight blue gown, its bodice sparkling with hundreds of tiny gems. On the dressing table there’s a photo of Lucy wearing the gown on stage, her violin tucked under her chin and her dainty face glowing with the rapture of the music. I know from previous snooping that she’s a music teacher and a talented violinist. Not a moth but a skylark.
Lucy has kept my side of the bed, but the bed itself is new. I don’t blame her: I’d insist on a new bed, too, if it was me. She has a pile of books on her bedside cabinet: Thomas Hardy, a biography of Mozart, and a book of love poems with a charityshop bookmark poking out half-way through. I deduce she’s intelligent, romantic and kind, this woman Stuart has chosen. Sporty, too, judging by the photos of a mud-splattered Lucy astride a mountain bike, fells rearing up behind her. There’s also a picture of her and Stuart leaning against a stile, walking poles in their hands, and there are two pairs of walking boots in the cupboard under the stairs: one well-loved and battered, the other pair larger and newer. Evidently she’s got him into some new hobbies, getting out into the fresh air and looking after himself better. The knot of tension I’ve been holding onto for far too long starts to unravel.
I’ve never stopped caring about Stuart. Every day I think about him, and pray that he’s OK and moving on with his life now we’re apart. My leaving didn’t come out of the blue. It loomed over us for months beforehand, months when we talked and cried together, angry and helpless against the inevitable.
“You’ll forget me,” I’d said, my fingers plaited in his.
“Never.”
“Now listen,” I said. “We’re both young. I want you to move on, find someone new. Someone nice, who makes you laugh. Someone kind.” I squeezed his hand. “Promise.”
He grumbled and protested but eventually he gave me his word.
“And make sure you don’t leave photos of me lying around,” I added. “Hide them in your sock drawer.”
He’d laughed at that, but it was a laugh etched with pain, and a few days later I was gone. I’ve popped back a few times since to check on him. The journey isn’t easy, but it’s worth the effort to know how he’s doing. It’s been bittersweet, over the years, watching his life change without me, seeing him gradually move away from our life together and forge a life on his own. It’s what I’d told him to do, but still it hurts. It’s about time, I remind myself. Three years is a long time to be lonely.
But in the sitting room I find a photo of me. It was Stuart’s favourite – me in a new party dress, bright red with a long floaty skirt, blowing him a kiss. I stare at it for a long time. He’d promised: no photos on view to haunt his new wife.
It takes every ounce of my strength to pick up the picture in its silver frame, carry it upstairs, and bury it at the bottom of his sock drawer. I must lose track of time because I’m shaken from my reverie by the sound of voices outside and the scrape of the key in the front door.
“Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?”
“Don’t you dare!” A bright, giggling voice, honeyed with love.
I freeze as they bustle inside and Stuart’s footsteps come up the stairs. He stops dead when he sees me, his mouth working silently. He looks fit and tanned, all the gaunt anxiety melted away. A rush of mingled love and relief hits me in a wave. Underneath, a tiny smudge of sadness reminds me I’m no longer the one making him happy. He’s moved on, it’s what I always wanted for him, but it still smarts.
“Ava,” he says at last. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” Understandably. What bridegroom does expect to come home from his honeymoon to find his dead wife riffling through his sock drawer?
“You promised,” I say, pointing to the picture of me in the red dress.
“Lucy doesn’t mind.”
“I do,” I say. “It’s not fair on her, and from what I’ve seen, she’s lovely.” I mean it: Lucy is perfect for him and I know the two of them are going to make a solid marriage together.
He pauses and I see he’s struggling not to cry. “I can’t believe you came back.”
“I wanted to check you were OK.”
“You always said you would.”
I nod and swallow down grief. When I was diagnosed with leukaemia and knew I only had months to live, I’d often told him I wouldn’t ever be far away, that I’d always keep an eye on him.
“Stuart?” Lucy skips upstairs. She’s petite and pretty with dark hair in a pixie cut that makes her even prettier, and I see how Stuart’s face lights up when she comes into the room. She wraps her arms round him and he kisses the top of her head. “Who are you talking to?”
He’s a kind man, Stuart, so he replies with neither, “No one,” which would hurt me, nor “Ava,” which would hurt Lucy, and instead he says, “It’s wonderful to be home.”
I mouth “Be happy” to him and fade away. He won’t see me again; it’s not fair on him or Lucy. I’ll still pop in, every few years or so, just to check that all is still going well for Stuart, and that he’s happy. I’ll never stop caring. Like I say, old habits.
THE END
I heard on the grapevine that Stuart and Lucy had married, and I need to know what she’s like, this new wife of his. Is she kind to him, does she make him laugh, does she put enough pickle on his sandwiches? It’s been a few months since I last checked up on Stuart, and I’m keen to see what changes Lucy has made. I notice at once that they’ve redecorated. The pale green I loved has gone and the hall and stairs are now painted a warm blush colour. The carpet I chose has been ripped up and the floorboards stained a deep brown, with a scarlet runner linking the front door and the kitchen. It’s cosy and tasteful: I sigh my approval.
There are more changes in the sitting room. The big abstract painting that Stuart and I bought on our honeymoon has been swapped for a seascape. I admire it for a while: the brushstrokes capture the power and mystery of the sea so perfectly I can almost hear the boom of the waves as they crash against the stone pier. In the corner of the painting is a tiny signature: Lucy. Tasteful and talented.
The kitchen has a lot more utensils and pans than before, and there’s a new shelf of cookery books. Not the sort you leave lying about on a coffee table projecting an aura of glossy living; these books are well-thumbed, some of them evidently handed down from Lucy’s grandmother, and there are little scabs of flour on the bindings where Lucy has turned the page mid bake. I like the way she’s cut out recipes from magazines and glued them to the inside covers. Stuart’s obviously going to be well fed.
So far so good, but I always think that the bedroom is the most revealing room in the house. It’s where people hide their secrets, where they show their true selves. Stuart cleared out my side of the wardrobe soon after I’d gone, and for a long time it echoed with the clang of empty hangers. Now the hangers are full of cream blouses, navy linen trousers, a well-cut black wool suit. Simple and elegant. So different to my pinks and leaf greens and yellows. I hope Stuart hasn’t swapped a butterfly for a moth, but no, at the back of the wardrobe is the most exquisite midnight blue gown, its bodice sparkling with hundreds of tiny gems. On the dressing table there’s a photo of Lucy wearing the gown on stage, her violin tucked under her chin and her dainty face glowing with the rapture of the music. I know from previous snooping that she’s a music teacher and a talented violinist. Not a moth but a skylark.
Lucy has kept my side of the bed, but the bed itself is new. I don’t blame her: I’d insist on a new bed, too, if it was me. She has a pile of books on her bedside cabinet: Thomas Hardy, a biography of Mozart, and a book of love poems with a charityshop bookmark poking out half-way through. I deduce she’s intelligent, romantic and kind, this woman Stuart has chosen. Sporty, too, judging by the photos of a mud-splattered Lucy astride a mountain bike, fells rearing up behind her. There’s also a picture of her and Stuart leaning against a stile, walking poles in their hands, and there are two pairs of walking boots in the cupboard under the stairs: one well-loved and battered, the other pair larger and newer. Evidently she’s got him into some new hobbies, getting out into the fresh air and looking after himself better. The knot of tension I’ve been holding onto for far too long starts to unravel.
I’ve never stopped caring about Stuart. Every day I think about him, and pray that he’s OK and moving on with his life now we’re apart. My leaving didn’t come out of the blue. It loomed over us for months beforehand, months when we talked and cried together, angry and helpless against the inevitable.
“You’ll forget me,” I’d said, my fingers plaited in his.
“Never.”
“Now listen,” I said. “We’re both young. I want you to move on, find someone new. Someone nice, who makes you laugh. Someone kind.” I squeezed his hand. “Promise.”
He grumbled and protested but eventually he gave me his word.
“And make sure you don’t leave photos of me lying around,” I added. “Hide them in your sock drawer.”
He’d laughed at that, but it was a laugh etched with pain, and a few days later I was gone. I’ve popped back a few times since to check on him. The journey isn’t easy, but it’s worth the effort to know how he’s doing. It’s been bittersweet, over the years, watching his life change without me, seeing him gradually move away from our life together and forge a life on his own. It’s what I’d told him to do, but still it hurts. It’s about time, I remind myself. Three years is a long time to be lonely.
But in the sitting room I find a photo of me. It was Stuart’s favourite – me in a new party dress, bright red with a long floaty skirt, blowing him a kiss. I stare at it for a long time. He’d promised: no photos on view to haunt his new wife.
It takes every ounce of my strength to pick up the picture in its silver frame, carry it upstairs, and bury it at the bottom of his sock drawer. I must lose track of time because I’m shaken from my reverie by the sound of voices outside and the scrape of the key in the front door.
“Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?”
“Don’t you dare!” A bright, giggling voice, honeyed with love.
I freeze as they bustle inside and Stuart’s footsteps come up the stairs. He stops dead when he sees me, his mouth working silently. He looks fit and tanned, all the gaunt anxiety melted away. A rush of mingled love and relief hits me in a wave. Underneath, a tiny smudge of sadness reminds me I’m no longer the one making him happy. He’s moved on, it’s what I always wanted for him, but it still smarts.
“Ava,” he says at last. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” Understandably. What bridegroom does expect to come home from his honeymoon to find his dead wife riffling through his sock drawer?
“You promised,” I say, pointing to the picture of me in the red dress.
“Lucy doesn’t mind.”
“I do,” I say. “It’s not fair on her, and from what I’ve seen, she’s lovely.” I mean it: Lucy is perfect for him and I know the two of them are going to make a solid marriage together.
He pauses and I see he’s struggling not to cry. “I can’t believe you came back.”
“I wanted to check you were OK.”
“You always said you would.”
I nod and swallow down grief. When I was diagnosed with leukaemia and knew I only had months to live, I’d often told him I wouldn’t ever be far away, that I’d always keep an eye on him.
“Stuart?” Lucy skips upstairs. She’s petite and pretty with dark hair in a pixie cut that makes her even prettier, and I see how Stuart’s face lights up when she comes into the room. She wraps her arms round him and he kisses the top of her head. “Who are you talking to?”
He’s a kind man, Stuart, so he replies with neither, “No one,” which would hurt me, nor “Ava,” which would hurt Lucy, and instead he says, “It’s wonderful to be home.”
I mouth “Be happy” to him and fade away. He won’t see me again; it’s not fair on him or Lucy. I’ll still pop in, every few years or so, just to check that all is still going well for Stuart, and that he’s happy. I’ll never stop caring. Like I say, old habits.
THE END