The pen hadn’t been worth taking. Nothing she ever took was worth it. She could buy one for pennies, probably. Still, she put it in the shoebox, its cheap plastic glittering in the lamplight of the bedroom. It nestled next to a tube of lip gloss, a small bouncy ball, a spiral bound notebook with lily-of-the-valley on the cover, a packet of face wipes, a protein bar, some chewing gum, some polos, a glossy magazine, a small ceramic dish, various palm-size cosmetics and a string of plastic beads. The beads had been the most challenging. They were so long, and so noisy. As she'd stood gathering them up into her hand, then let them slowly slither into her tote bag, she’d held her breath, waiting for the hand on her shoulder. But it hadn’t come. Not that day.
Now, Izzy placed the lid back on the shoebox and placed the shoebox back in the wardrobe, next to some other, identical shoeboxes, which mostly contained shoes. She closed the wardrobe door, left the bedroom, and made her way downstairs.
In the kitchen, she set about the business of making dinner. She enjoyed this bit of the day. She knew where she was with cooking. She had a meal planner up on the fridge where every Sunday she filled out each day’s meals for the next week. She did the big shop on Monday morning and worked through the ingredients almost perfectly in time for the next shop each week. She could always pop out, or Greg could pick something up on the way home, but they rarely needed to. She made soup for lunches on Sunday and Wednesday. On Saturday there would be enough in to make a salad or sandwiches. And on Sunday they had a late roast dinner, and then just picked at the leftovers.
This was what their week looked like. This was what their week had looked like for the last thirty two years. It worked for them. It kept her busy and it kept Greg trim. Now, she put the radio on - drive time, with Simon Mayo - and checked the planner. Lasagne with salad. She didn’t need a recipe for this, but she pulled down her little book from the shelf anyway, and opened it as the lasagne page. Her mother’s mother’s recipe. Which she knew by heart. The page was crinkled and had splashes of red sauce on it. How many times had she made it, she wondered? She smoothed the page and remembered her mum making it. A slightly simplified version, and a much bigger batch, of course, enough to serve all seven of them and any other waifs and strays that came by. Izzy made it for four. They only needed it for two. But of all the meals she ever cooked, she couldn’t do a lasagne for two. She once nearly bought a smaller dish in John Lewis, but she couldn’t do it. She had queued with it in her hand and got to the sales desk, and looked at the impossibly young woman serving, and then - and she didn’t even know why she did it - she just put it down and walked away. Noone tried to stop her. Why would they? Just another eccentric old woman. Next!
After that, Izzy had gone to the cafe on the top floor and got herself a coffee. She didn’t really drink coffee these days, but she had panicked and ordered a latte, and taken a huge slice of sponge cake. She sat looking out of the window, sipping at the milky drink and picking at the cake, which was a bit dry if she was honest. She could make better. She looked at all the people walking around down below her, little ants going about their business. What were they all doing, where were they all going? What was she doing? It was grey and drizzly and she imagined being somewhere else, she imagined sitting in a cafe in Napoli, outside in the warm sunshine, drinking a proper latte, nibbling on the little amaretti biscuit that would be lying in the saucer. She looked up and saw a woman staring at her. It wasn’t until the woman gave her a gentle, slightly questioning smile that Izzy realised she was crying. She looked away quickly and pressed a napkin to her cheek. She left without finishing the coffee or the cake.
It wasn’t long after that she’d started volunteering. She’d always meant to do something like that. The early retirement had seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, it was Greg’s idea, really. He was doing so well in work and her salary seemed pointless, really, he said. They didn’t need it, he said. What if I want it, she’d thought, but noone wanted to hear that. Her colleagues had been so jealous of her. You can do whatever you want! They’d said. Go to the cinema during the day! Spend hours gardening! Take art classes!
She hadn’t done any of those things. She’d just got old. But then she’d started her volunteering, helping out in the wee community cafe up the road. It was quite hard, at first. Stressful. Not that Greg understood. He’d laughed when she tried to tell him about her training, about learning how to make coffee, about struggling to use the till. It’s just a community cafe, he’d said. I wouldn’t worry about it, they’re lucky to have you. She shouldn’t have listened to him. Because at some point, she started to believe that, and now look what’s happened.
She now busied herself getting out all the ingredients she needed and began to chop an onion. She heated some oil in a pan and threw the onion in, hearing that familiar sizzle. She sliced some garlic thinly and added it, stirred them together. She tore open the packet of mince, lean, of course. She’d used to love going to the butcher as a child, getting the cold, greaseproof packages to carry home. Now it was all in the supermarket, ready on shelves, plastic packets, so much waste. She sighed and tossed the mince into the pan, stabbing it with a wooden spoon. She rinsed the plastic tray and put it into the recycling bin. Pointless, probably, but what’s the alternative?
As the mince cooked, she tossed a knob of butter into a second pan and turned the gas on under it. She gave the mince a stir. It was satisfying, multitasking like this. She had it down to a fine art. She liked to imagine she was presenting a cookery show on television, how she would explain what she was doing, what order to do things in, how to make it look so easy. They don’t do it themselves, of course, they have help, don’t they? Nothing’s real, these days.
She took a flour shaker out of the cupboard and sprinkled just enough into the butter. If she was presenting a cookery show, she’d have to use a measuring spoon and be precise, she couldn’t just say you’ll just know when it’s enough even though that was true. She stirred the butter and flour together, feeling her arm muscles fire into action. She had good arms, Izzy thought. Everything else was in decline, or that’s what it felt like. But her arms were strong, useful. She still had that.
She’d stolen the spatula she was using for her roux. She was proud of that one. She didn’t often take useful things. Mostly just tat, bound for the shoebox. But there were a few items that didn’t make it to the box. The spatula had been an early one. She’d held that in her sleeve while buying an apron as a gift for Maria. She’d been sure someone would notice, but that was before she’d realised that not only did they not notice that, they barely noticed her at all. She was invisible. And that was the start of it all. When she’d just thought, well, fuck them. She’d never sworn in her life! But the thought was deafening. And later that day, as she retrieved the spatula from her sleeve, she’d said it outloud. She’d said fuck them and she’d felt her face grow hot and she’d said it again and she’d laughed and laughed. And then, she just couldn’t stop saying it. She said it all the fucking time.
It was almost always prompted by something, a snooty sales assistant, an unsatisfactory answer to something, a security guard not holding the door open. A perceived slight. A rudeness. Izzy wasn’t having it anymore. She just wasn’t, she didn’t deserve it and she'd had enough. So, she started to take things from them. It was harmless. But it was like it flipped a switch in her brain. She couldn’t stop. And then everything got a bit blurred. And now this had happened.
She went to the fridge to get the milk but she didn’t open it. She leaned her forehead against the cool silver and closed her eyes. What on earth was she going to tell him? Perhaps she didn’t have to tell him anything. Lindsay had said she wouldn’t take it any further. Which was very kind of her. More than she deserved. Perhaps Greg could never know? But imagine he found out from someone else. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Focus on the task at hand, Izzy told herself. She opened the fridge, took the glass bottle of milk from the door (semi skimmed these days, unfortunately) and poured from it into the roux, stirring hard. She turned up the gas. She gave the mince another stir, then took out a carton of passata, opened it and emptied it into the pot. She sprinkled in some salt and pepper and turned up the heat. She took out the packet of lasagne sheets, a packet of basil, some parmesan, mozzarella and ricotta cheese. She pulled off some basil leaves and grated some parmesan onto the chopping board. She hadn’t paid for the parmesan. She’d left it in the trolley when she’d paid for everything else and noone noticed. Noone was looking. She could probably have just walked out with the full trolley and noone would say anything. But the reason she didn’t do stupid things like that was because if she got caught, they might call Greg. He was supposed to avoid stress, what with his heart. Izzy stared at the pile of parmesan as it went in and out of focus, her own heart thumping. Maybe she didn’t have to tell him.
The mozzarella and ricotta were reduced fat. But the parmesan was just parmesan. You couldn’t compromise with parmesan. She plopped a handful of the grated cheese into the thickening white sauce and popped a smaller handful into her mouth. She closed her eyes as the salty goodness melted on her tongue. For a moment she was on the Amalfi Coast, drinking aperol, a salty breeze hitting her face as she leaned back, nothing to do but relax and consume. She opened her eyes and stirred the sauces, taking a quick taste of each. Perfect. It had to be perfect, tonight. It had to be.
She ladled some of the meat sauce into the lasagne dish and layered some pasta sheets over it. Then methodically spooned white sauce, then meat sauce, a sprinkle of basil and some pieces of buffalo mozzarella and teaspoons of ricotta, and more lasagne sheets until she reached the top of the dish. Then she poured over the last of the cheese sauce, and topped it with the rest of the grated parmesan, before putting it in the oven. The amounts had all been perfect. She put the timer to 45 minutes, before starting to clear up. She washed both the pots before putting them in the dishwasher, adding all the other bowls and chopping boards, knives and spoons. She wiped down the counters. She would make the salad later. Greg liked it fresh.
Then she took a glass out of the cupboard, took a bottle of chianti out of the wine rack, and poured herself a generous measure. She took it out to the garden. She had a nice garden. It was very big and very neat. She had had to force Greg to get a gardener to help out, she just wasn’t managing it and it was becoming very stressful and he wasn’t helping, and then of course his heart happened so he couldn’t mow anyway even if he’d ever planned to. But after that, he agreed. So then Tony started coming every other week to weed and mow and trim and prune. Izzy always fed him and sent him away with tupperware full of treats. He was a lovely young man. She wanted him to stay forever but she knew he wouldn’t. He had his whole life ahead of him. He’d go eventually. They all did. And then it would just be her and Greg, again. It was always just them, their big house, and their loud silence.
When Greg’s heart went, Izzy had thought he might die. She’d not experienced anything like it. The white terror. Heat then ice, noise then stillness. She could barely breathe. But as she sat in the hospital corridor, waiting, she had let her mind wander. When she went home to the empty house, she imagined other possibilities. Other worlds. And then, when the nurse with the kind face told her he would be okay, and she stood up in slow motion, and the words of relief and gratitude fell from her mouth, she was shocked to feel something else poke at her. Amongst it all, all the correct things that were washing over her, was a tiny, tiny stab of disappointment. And then shame. And she’d never quite shaken either.
She sipped her wine and thought again of her mother, of her mother’s mother. They didn’t get to sit and have a big glass of wine while they waited for the lasagne to cook. They didn’t get to stop at all. They never stopped doing things for other people, and then they died. Izzy would like to have things to do for people, or people to do things for, but her people was just Greg, and that was that. That was life. She was sure her mother and her mother’s mother would have liked things other than what God provided for them, but they just got on with it, didn’t they? We don’t get to choose, is what they would have said. And so that’s what Izzy said. It’s not always what she felt. But noone else needed to know that.
This garden was too big, really. The house was too big. They should probably move. They considered it when Greg had his episode, but it hadn’t been mentioned since. Izzy had never really liked the house, if she was honest, but she’d got used to it now. And everyone admired it, envied it. They were very lucky, she knew that much. But there was just so much space, and so much cleaning, and so much quiet. When they’d bought it, all those years ago, that was not what they’d imagined. But they’d just kept going and here they were. Maria, the only sibling who was still alive or functioning enough to visit, had asked her once, if they were happy. And Izzy hadn’t known what to say. What a question! They didn’t talk about personal things like that. So she’d laughed. And then she’d nearly cried, but she managed to swallow it down. Maria had said it was important, Isabella, we only have one life, but Izzy batted it away. Silly talk. Of course she was happy, she said eventually. But that wasn’t enough for Maria who wanted to talk about choices and freedom and times changing. Izzy got quite annoyed, although she didn’t let on, and later that day after Maria had left to go to her pilates class, she popped round to the local chemist and bought a bubble bath and stole a lipstick.
Lindsay had been very kind. Izzy felt sorry for her, really. Her pained expression, her huge belly. So young, her whole life ahead of her, this job was just a stopgap really. She didn’t want to be having that conversation with Izzy. Well, Izzy didn’t want to be having it either. It was a mistake. She wasn’t even entirely sure what had happened. She couldn’t explain it. She’d seen people taking bus fares and petrol money and well, she just walked there so she didn’t get anything. And that was fair, she knew it was. But that switch that had flipped, it wouldn’t go back. She knew it was a bad thing to do, and she knew she would get caught but she started and she just couldn’t stop. She didn’t even spend it. It was all in a shoebox in the bedroom.
They’d loved having her there, Lindsay had said. They’d miss her, she’d said. They wouldn’t involve the police, but she had to leave. They didn’t have a choice, she was sure Izzy would understand. Izzy understood that all too well. She’d thanked Lindsay and left the building as if it were any other day. As she turned the corner onto the busy road she’d been walking up and down for thirty-two years, something bubbled up inside her. She couldn’t stop it. She opened her mouth, and she screamed.
The timer rang out. Izzy drank the last of her wine and went back in. She took the lasagne out of the oven. She went to the fridge and took out a bag of salad leaves, some vine tomatoes and a cucumber. She preferred more adventurous salads but Greg was traditional. And on his silly diet. She put it all in a bowl, added some salad servers and put it on the dining table. She put out olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper, and a mat for the lasagne. She popped two dinner plates in the now turned-off oven. She gazed at the wall clock as it slowly ticked to six o’clock. As it did so, she heard the key in the door. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.