Chapter Sixteen
Two months later, on a cold January afternoon, I moved out of the marital home.
It was most peculiar walking away from everything. Well, almost everything. Apart from the stripped beds, the house had otherwise appeared occupied. It certainly hadn’t looked unloved or neglected, like some places did when the inhabitants left.
Robin had insisted on everything being left in its place, just as it had been before he’d suddenly found himself living in Sexy Samantha’s tiny flat. Therefore, our cutlery remained in the kitchen drawer. Likewise, the cups, saucers, plates and glasses. They remained in the cupboards. Even the larder continued to hold its usual stock of tinned goods. Long life milk. Tubs of gravy and custard. A jar of instant coffee. Even a large box of PG Tips.
The bulk of Robin’s shoes – of which there were many because there had been no room in Samantha’s supermarket freezer – had continued to languish in the cupboard under the stairs. Robin had even insisted the vacuum cleaner and ironing board be in their usual place. And they were.
In my opinion, I thought it somewhat weird. Not, maybe, from Robin’s perspective. My husband was a stickler for the familiar – apart from keeping his wife, of course. But surely it was odd from Samantha’s perspective?
But then I’d dismissed the thought. I didn’t care if Robin – after being catapulted into the unknown – now craved the familiar like a security blanket. Nor did I care if Samantha dumped everything in the skip that had turned up on the drive. All I had cared about was leaving the house in immaculate order.
I’d given in to a strong urge to deep clean the place before Samantha’s arrival. Consequently, every cupboard and drawer had been emptied out, cleaned, then neatly repacked or stacked.
China and glassware had gleamed. The hot cupboard’s shelves had been left with freshly laundered towels and bedlinen. The larder had been forensically taken apart and tidied.
Much had ended up in the dustbin. How was it possible to have tins of food dating back to the Covid years? And what about that box of fancy herbal tea? It had still been in its cellophane packaging. But the Best Before 2011 date had seen it joining the detritus.
I’d also forked out and paid to have the oven and hob professionally cleaned. The fridge and freezer, too. The freezer had been quite a challenge due to not being defrosted for some four years. Yes, slobby. But at least I’d been able to call myself out, rather than have Samantha do it. Afterwards, all the appliances had positively sparkled.
Whatever hadn’t been thrown out, had gone to the charity shop. I’d dramatically streamlined my wardrobe. Several coats and shoes had been culled. Also, jeans – how many in the cupboard? – along with sweaters, t-shirts, skirts and dresses. Some garments hadn’t been worn in years.
I’d emptied the bookcase of my old romance novels and psychological thrillers. All the photo albums had gone to the dump. Robin hadn’t wanted to keep them. Not even of our wedding day.
I’d laboriously photographed everything with my phone. I didn’t know if I’d ever bring myself to look again at those pics. But at least I knew the option was there for a digital trip down Memory Lane. When my heart had healed.
Perhaps, in a year from now, I’d tap into my phone’s library. Scroll back, back, back. Look at the day I’d married Robin. Regard impartially the professional shot of us laughing as confetti whirled through the air. Maybe I’d feel completely detached as I studied the young bride looking adoringly at her new husband. The git.
After the dustmen had been, I’d gone to town on the bins and recycling boxes. They’d been left to soak in bleach, then scrubbed vigorously. I’d even mown the lawn, wiped down the mower, then stowed it neatly in the garage.
No way was I having Sexy Samantha walk into my house – well, hers now – and run a manicured finger over surfaces as she checked for dust. That couldn’t happen. I was not prepared to give her the smallest chance in trashing either my housework or standards. Even though my ego had clamoured to leave the place messy and grubby, my pride hadn’t let me.
Just before completion, Robin and Samantha had requested to visit the house together. Robin had given some ridiculous excuse. Something about his young girlfriend needing to know the precise measurements of certain windows.
As they’d stepped into the hallway, I’d been aware of a tension between them. As they’d gone into the lounge, I’d offered them both a cup of tea. Leaving Samantha wielding a metal tape measure like a sword, I’d gone off to the kitchen.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, I’d overheard Samantha raising her voice to Robin. I hadn’t been able to hear her every word, but my ears had captured enough to understand the gist of her agitation.
‘…armchairs are hideous… don’t care if they are only two years old… don’t like them… not staying… black leather sofa… John Lewis… yes, expensive… it’s called class .’
Oh dear. Good luck with that, Robin.
On the day of completion, I’d posted the keys through the letterbox in accordance with Robin’s instructions. I’d then loaded Cindy’s basket into the rear of Octavia, along with a suitcase and two boxes that contained all my worldly goods. Cindy had hopped into the front, and we’d set off to Lisa’s tiny ground floor maisonette in Longfield.
I’d cried all the way.