Chapter 7
THEN
Roxanne started staying for dinner.
I’m not sure when it became a pattern rather than a rare thing.
One night she was still at the house when Daniel got home, and I invited her to join us because it seemed rude not to.
She accepted with that warm, grateful smile that made refusing feel impossible.
The three of us ate pasta in the kitchen, and she was funny and engaging, asking Daniel about his work with genuine interest, laughing at his stories in a way I hadn’t in months.
It was strange, eating in the kitchen. Daniel and I usually took meals to the dining room – the long walnut table that seated twelve, the view over the back yard to the pool house. But Roxanne had set up in here, casual and intimate, so it felt churlish to move everything.
After she left, Daniel said: ‘She’s nice. I can see why you like her.’
A week later, she was there again. Then twice in one week. Then it was assumed that if Roxanne came round in the afternoon, she’d stay until evening, and I’d set three places at the table instead of two.
The shift was so gradual I didn’t notice it happening until it was too late.
At first, I was relieved. Having Roxanne there eased something in my marriage I hadn’t known needed easing.
With her present, Daniel and I talked more, laughed more, touched each other with the casual affection we’d lost somewhere along the way.
She acted as a buffer, filling the silences that had grown too comfortable between us.
She asked questions that prompted conversation.
She noticed when one of us went quiet and drew us back in.
She made our marriage feel like it was working again.
But then the balance started to tip.
It was small things at first. The way Roxanne would arrive earlier each time, before I’d finished my work for the day.
How she’d make herself snacks without asking, moving around my kitchen like she belonged there.
The way she knew where we kept the cookies, which mugs were whose, how Daniel liked his coffee.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked once, already halfway through making a pot. ‘I feel so at home here.’
And what could I say? That yes, actually, I did mind her treating my house like her own? That would make me sound petty. Unwelcoming. The sort of person who couldn’t share her space with a friend in need.
Because that’s what she was. A friend in need. Still between places, still looking for work, still wearing that same jacket that didn’t fit properly. I told myself I was being kind. That this was temporary. That soon she’d get back on her feet and these constant visits would taper off naturally.
Except they didn’t taper off.
They intensified.
One evening I came downstairs after a work call to find Roxanne and Daniel on the couch, both laughing at something on his phone. They looked up when I entered, still smiling, and Daniel patted the couch beside him.
‘Come see this. Roxanne found a hilarious video.’
I sat. I laughed at the appropriate moment. But something felt wrong about the scene – the two of them already mid-conversation, me joining late, the sense that I was interrupting rather than participating.
‘I should start dinner,’ I said, standing.
‘Already done.’ Roxanne gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I hope you don’t mind. You were busy, and I was here anyway, so I just threw something together.’
She’d made a curry. Using ingredients from my fridge, pans from my cupboards, the recipe I always used that I must have mentioned once in passing. It sat bubbling on the stove, filling the house with the smell of home cooking I hadn’t done myself.
‘That’s… Thank you. That’s really thoughtful.’
‘It’s nothing. I like cooking. And you’ve been so good to me, it’s the least I could do.’
Daniel smiled at her. ‘You’re a lifesaver. Kelly’s been swamped with work lately.’
Had I? I didn’t feel swamped. I felt like I’d been working normal hours, coming downstairs at normal times, doing everything I always did. But apparently I’d been absent enough for Roxanne to step in. To fill the space I’d left.
We ate dinner with Roxanne serving, dishing out portions like she’d cooked a hundred meals in this kitchen.
She’d even opened a bottle of wine – a 2005 Margaux from Daniel’s cellar.
Three hundred dollars, uncorked for a nothing kind of evening.
I winced a little, as on ‘nothing’ evenings we simply took from the wine fridge.
‘This is delicious,’ Daniel said. ‘Easily the best homemade curry I’ve had.’
He meant it as a compliment to Roxanne, but I felt it like a criticism to me. My curry wasn’t good enough. Hers was better. She could do this – domestic, nurturing, effortlessly capable – in a manner I apparently couldn’t.
After dinner, Roxanne insisted on clearing up. I tried to help, but she shooed me away.
‘You cooked all week. Let me do this.’
Except I hadn’t cooked all week. She’d been here three nights out of five, and she’d cooked twice before this. But correcting her would sound defensive, so I let it go and went to sit with Daniel in the other room.
‘She’s settling in well,’ he said, scrolling through his phone.
‘Settling in?’
‘You know what I mean. Getting comfortable. It’s nice, having her around.’
‘You really think so?’
He looked up, surprised by my tone. ‘I thought you liked her.’
‘I do. We just never have time alone any more, you and me.’
‘We have plenty of time alone. She doesn’t live here, Kelly. She just visits.’
But her visits were stretching longer. Arriving at two in the afternoon, staying until ten at night. Eight hours of Roxanne in my house, in my space, with my husband. Eight hours where I felt like a guest in my own life.
‘Maybe we could have a few evenings just us,’ I suggested. ‘Like we used to.’
‘Sure. Of course.’ But he said it absently, still looking at his phone. Like it wasn’t important. Like he hadn’t even registered what I was really asking for.
From the kitchen came the sound of Roxanne humming. A tune I didn’t recognise, cheerful and unbothered. She was washing up, making herself useful, being the perfect guest who’d somehow become more than that.
The next week, she started bringing things.
Small items at first – a bottle of wine to share, cookies for tea, flowers for the table.
Thoughtful gestures that made me feel ungracious for resenting them.
Then bigger things. A throw blanket she’d seen in a store that she thought would look nice on our couch.
A set of kitchen knives because ours were ‘so blunt, Kelly, you’ll never cut anything with those’.
A framed print for the hallway because ‘that wall looks bare’.
Each gift was accompanied by that same apologetic smile, that same insistence that it was nothing, just something small, don’t make a fuss. But my house was slowly filling with her taste, her choices, her stamp on our space.
Daniel thought it was sweet. ‘She’s just trying to contribute. She feels bad about being here so much.’
If she felt bad, why didn’t she come less often?
But I didn’t say that. I smiled and thanked Roxanne and arranged her flowers in a vase and hung her print in the hallway. I was gracious and grateful and everything a good friend should be.
And I watched her move deeper into my life.
It was the laughter that got to me most. The sound of it – bright and frequent and easy – drifting up from the living room where Roxanne and Daniel would sit after dinner, talking while I cleaned up or finished work or found excuses to be elsewhere.
When I did join them, the conversation would shift, including me in an unnatural way.
Like they were being polite rather than genuinely wanting me there.
‘Tell Kelly the story about your colleague,’ Roxanne would prompt, and Daniel would tell it, and they’d both watch me to see if I laughed as much as I should have. I always did. I performed being included, being part of things, the wife who didn’t mind losing her husband to one of her own friends.
One night I went to bed early – genuinely tired, not making a point – and woke at midnight to voices still murmuring downstairs.
I crept to the landing and peered over the banister.
The living room light was still on, throwing warm shadows into the hallway.
I could hear them talking but couldn’t make out words.
Just the rhythm of conversation, easy and flowing, punctuated by soft laughter.
They’d been talking for five hours without me. Without noticing I was gone or thinking to check if I was all right or wondering if maybe it was time for their guest to leave.
I went back to bed and lay awake until I heard the front door close, then Daniel’s footsteps on the stairs. He came into the bedroom moving quietly, clearly thinking I was asleep.
‘I’m awake,’ I said.
He startled, though only a little. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘What were you talking about? You and Roxanne.’
‘Just stuff. Work, mostly. She’s thinking about retraining, maybe going back to college.’ He got into bed, still talking. ‘She’s smart, you know. Really smart. Just hasn’t had the opportunities we’ve had.’
‘It’s midnight.’
‘Oh?’ He checked his phone, genuinely surprised.
‘Lose track of time, did you?’
‘Come on, Kelly. She’s just good company. Easy to talk to.’
Easier than me, apparently. But I didn’t say that either. I just rolled over and listened to him fall asleep within minutes while I lay there thinking about my friend who’d stopped being just my friend.
The following Tuesday – our usual coffee afternoon – I suggested we go to the café like we used to. Just the two of us, away from the house.
‘Oh.’ Roxanne’s face fell. ‘Actually, I was going to ask if I could come earlier today. I wanted to try that new recipe for chicken, and I thought I could have it ready when Daniel gets home. Surprise him.’
‘Surprise him?’
‘Well, both of you. But I know he’s been stressed with work, and I thought something nice for dinner might cheer him up.’
She knew he was stressed. She knew things about my husband’s state of mind that I should have known but somehow didn’t. When had they talked about his stress? During one of those long evenings? During conversations I wasn’t part of?
‘That’s thoughtful,’ I heard myself say. ‘But maybe just coffee today? Like normal?’
‘We can have coffee here while I cook. That way we’re not rushing.’
She had already decided. My suggestion hadn’t been a suggestion at all – just a speed bump she’d smoothly navigated around.
So we had coffee in my kitchen while she chopped vegetables and seasoned chicken, moving around the space with increased confidence. She knew where everything was now. Didn’t need to ask. Just opened drawers and cupboards like they were hers, and I sat at my own table feeling like I was in the way.
‘You know what you should do?’ she said, sliding the dish into the oven. ‘Go have a bath. Relax. I’ll finish up here and keep an eye on dinner.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Kelly.’ She sat across from me, reaching for my hand. ‘You look exhausted. When’s the last time you did something just for you? Let me handle this. It’s what friends do.’
Her eyes were so earnest. Her grip on my hand so warm and genuine. She meant well. Of course she did. I was being paranoid, possessive, ridiculous.
So I went upstairs and ran a bath I didn’t want, lowering myself into water that was too hot, and listened to Roxanne humming in my kitchen. Heard the front door open, Daniel’s voice calling hello. Heard Roxanne’s bright reply, her explanation about dinner, his pleased surprise.
I stayed in the bath until the water went cold, putting off the moment when I’d have to go back downstairs and sit at my own table eating food someone else had cooked in my kitchen for my husband.
When I finally emerged, they were already eating.
They’d waited, Daniel insisted – only just started, I hadn’t missed anything.
But their plates were half-empty, and they’d clearly been talking for a while, some conversation I was interrupting by arriving.
How dare I, right?
‘This is amazing,’ Daniel said. ‘Roxanne, seriously. You need to open a restaurant.’
She laughed – that bright, easy laugh that seemed to fill every corner of the house. ‘Hardly. But I’m glad you like it.’
‘Better than amazing. Kelly, you should get the recipe.’
I should. I should get the recipe for the dish cooked in my kitchen with my ingredients by my friend for my husband. I should be grateful. I should feel lucky to have someone so generous and thoughtful in my life. That’s what was expected of me.
Instead, I felt like I was disappearing.
Like Roxanne was slowly replacing me – better cook, better company, better everything – and neither she nor Daniel had noticed.
Or maybe they had noticed but didn’t care.
Maybe this new version of our household worked better for them. Maybe I was the problem.
After dinner, I excused myself early again. Work to finish, I said, though I had nothing pressing. I just needed to escape the living room where they’d settle in for another evening of easy conversation I wasn’t really part of.
From my desk upstairs, I could hear them. Not words, just sounds. The rise and fall of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. The comfortable rhythm of two people who enjoyed each other’s company.
I tried to work but couldn’t focus. Tried to read but the words blurred. Finally, I just sat there in the dark, listening to my husband and my friend being happy without me, and wondered when exactly I’d lost control of my own life.
It was past eleven when the front door finally closed. I heard Daniel’s footsteps on the stairs, heard him pause outside my study.
‘Kelly? You still working?’
‘Just finishing up.’
He pushed open the door. ‘You okay? You’ve been quiet tonight.’
‘Fine. Just tired.’
‘Maybe you should see the doctor. You’ve been tired a lot lately.’ He yawned, already turning away. ‘Don’t stay up too late. You need rest.’
Then he was gone, off to bed, and I sat in my dark office thinking about how he’d suggested I see a doctor rather than asking what was wrong. How tiredness was a medical problem to be fixed rather than a symptom of something deeper.
How I was fading from my own marriage, and nobody seemed to notice.
Nobody except me.