My dear, you know, I feel weve grown apart, John says, buttering his slice of toast without glancing up from the kitchen table. Lifes just eaten away at us. Ive been thinking maybe we should try living apart for a while. See how we really feel.
He says it so flatly, as if choosing between white or wholemeal for his sandwich, not about to upend two decades. Margaret stands by the stove, the heat from the kettle stinging her wrist, but she doesnt flinch. Her ears ring, the world buzzing like a hoover on full blast.
What do you meanapart? she asks, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounds. She sets the kettle down, afraid shell drop it.
Not a work trip or anything, John mutters, finally glancing up. His face is drawn, weary; he looks at her with the exasperation of a teacher repeating himself for the tenth time. I mean a break. To find out if theres anything left. The sparks gone, Mags. Home feels stifling. Its all just the same, every day. Work, dinner, telly, bed. I need to know: is it love, or just habit?
Margaret sinks into the chair opposite. Twenty years married. Two kidsgrown up, at universityliving far from home now. The mortgage had only just been paid off three years ago. Theyd spent weekends stripping wallpaper and patching the living room wall themselves. Stifling?
And where are you planning to stay during this experiment? she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Ive rented a place, just for a bit. A studio, near the office, so Im not stuck in traffic. He spits it out quickly, rehearsed. Ive started packing, my things are in the bedroom.
So this wasnt a sudden thing. While shed been planning which roses to plant out the front this spring, choosing him a jumper in the sales, hed been flat-hunting. Signing contracts. Paying the deposit. And saying nothing.
What about my opinion? Am I just supposed to nod and wait? Margaret studies him, searching for the young man she married. But opposite her sits a stranger, stomach rounding, eyes flickering.
Dont make it a drama, love. John lays his spoon down. Im not saying divorce. Not yet. A timeoutits perfectly normal. Loads of people try it. All the magazines say its healthy. Maybe well realise we cant do without each other and have a second honeymoon. Or maybe well, at least wed split honestly.
He stands, napkin tossed carelessly onto the table, and heads upstairs. Margaret listens to the wardrobe doors open and the rustling of bin bags. She sits staring at the half-eaten stew on the tablehis favourite, with dumplings, made how he likesfeeling an immense, cold emptiness blooming within her.
The rest of the evening is a blur. John shuffles about collecting bags, hauling them to the hallway. He grabs his laptop, the posh coffee machine her team at work bought her (though he was its main user), some jumpers.
Im off then, he says at the door, zipping up his jacket, his face caught between pride and guilt. Dont call me for a bit. Lets do a month of quiet, for the purity of the test.
What if a pipe bursts? Margaret asks, instantly hating how weak it sounds.
Call a plumber. Youll cope. Ill keep my keys, just in case I need to pop back for something. See you round. Dont pine.
The door slams. The bolt turns. Silence collapses in on her, the house vast without him.
For three days, Margaret barely moves. She only gets up for a glass of water or the loo. Her head spins, flicking through memories, hunting for some mistake. Was she too grumpy about his muddy shoes? Had she let herself go? Become dull?
On day four her sister, Susan, bursts in, bringing bags of shopping and a bottle of wine. She takes one look at Margarettear-stained, robe askew, hair unwashedand sighs.
Right. This wont do. Up, shower. Ill sort the cheese board.
An hour later, at the kitchen table, Margaret finds herself telling Susan everything. Her sister listens, narrowing her eyes.
A test of feelings, eh? Susan scoffs. He says its stifling? Open your eyes, Mags. Youre the sharpest accountant I know, can sum numbers in your head, but you cant see two plus two here. Hes seeing another woman.
Oh dont be daft, Margaret protests. Hes fifty-two, has sciatica, can barely manage a curry nightwhod look twice?
Please. Sciatica never killed lust, especially during a midlife panic. Studio flat? No calls for a month? Classic. He wants to try things with her but keep you as a safety net, just in case she cant cook or doesnt do his ironing. If she doesnt work out, hell be back with chocolates, swearing youre his one true love. If she does hell want a divorce.
Susans words hit Margaret like stones. She fumbles to defend John, but inside, she knows. The pieces fit: the phone passcode he changed, his late nights at work, that smart new shirt he finally chose himself, despite hating shopping.
So what do I do? Margaret asks, frustration bubbling over her grief.
Live! Susan raps the table. Get your hair done, buy yourself something nice, and stop waiting for miracles on the phone. Whose names on the deed?
Mine. Inherited from Mum and Dad. The response is automatic. Hes still registered at his mothers. We always meant to sort the paperwork.
Perfect. That means you hold all the cards. Dont mope about. He expects you to be sobbing and waiting. Surprise him.
After Susan leaves, Margaret paces around the house with every light blazing. She fetches his forgotten shaving cream and hurls it in the binthe thud sounds like the first shot in a war.
The next fortnight is odd. She drags herself to work; colleagues assume her weight loss is just lack of vitamins. Slowly, she discovers the quiet is cleansing. The house stays tidier. No trails of crumbs or socks under chairs. She only needs to shop once a week, has salad for dinner, discovers she doesnt even miss cooking. She finds her old knitting basket, and settles on the sofa with a new TV drama, shuffling wool between her fingers. The silence, at first oppressive, now feels healing. Nobody blares the news at her or steals the remote during a film.
Yet the doubt niggles: Maybe Susans wrong. Maybe John is just alone, missing her.
Everything crystallises one Friday evening. Margaret, on her way home, pops into the shopping centre to buy more wool and, riding the escalator, spots him.
John stands outside a jewellers, his arm linked with a woman half his age in a bright red coat. He flashes her the boyish smile that once belonged to Margaret. He gestures at a bracelet, she giggles, tossing her hair. They look effortlessly happy.
Margaret shrinks behind a burly stranger. Her heart pounds, echoing in her temples as she watches her husbandwho claimed he needed space and time alonewrap his arm around another womans waist and lead her outside.
Something in Margaret dies in that moment, replaced instantly by a hard, cool calm.
She doesnt follow, confront, or stalk them. Instead, she heads straight home.
Back at the flat, she digs out the property deedsher name, her mothers signature, proof she alone owns it. John had always shrugged off the paperwork: Dont fuss, love, Im registered at Mums, we live together anyway.
Margaret googles a locksmith.
Hello, I need to change the locks urgently. Yes, I have all the papers. When? In an hour? Thats fine.
The tradesman arrives quickly, asks what kind of lock she wants.
The best youve got, she replies. So whoevers old key is useless.
Got it. Anti-pick, anti-drillyour ex wont get a look in.
The drill whirs, metal shavings pile up, and with each clatter, she feels something heavy drop away. When handed a set of shiny new keys, Margaret bolts the door four times. Four turns, four fortified walls.
She gathers Johns remaining belongings: winter coats, boots, fishing rods, toolscarefully packed into black bin bags. There are five hefty bags by the time shes done. She places them in the hallway, just outside the door.
Another week passesradio silence from John. The experiment with his new girlfriend, it seems, is in full swing. Margaret feels at peace. She files for divorce online. Turns out, its easier than she thought.
Saturday morning, the doorbell rings insistently.
She peers through the spyhole. Its John, slightly rumpled, clutching a bag of groceries and a bunch of carnations.
Margaret doesnt open the door. She leans her head against the cold metal and waits.
He fumbles for his keys, unsuccessfully tries to unlock the door. Again and again. The key scrapes, doesnt turn.
Margaret! he shouts. You in there? Whats wrong with the lock?
Silence from her.
Come on! I know youre in! Your car’s outside!
He bangs his fist.
What is this, a joke? Ive come back! With flowers! We said one month, but I missed you!
Margaret takes a breath and replies clearly through the door, Your stuffs in the black bags to the left. Take it and go.
A hush. Then, the sound of shifting bin bags.
Have you lost your mind? Hes shrill now. Open the door! This is my home!
This is my flat, John, she replies steadily. Youre not on the tenancy. You wanted to live separately, so go aheadlive separately. Forever.
You changed the locks? How DARE you? I could call the police! Propertys half mine!
Go ahead. Show them your ID. Tell them about your little test of feelings. Im sure the officer will love it.
What woman? Thats rubbish! I lived alone!
I saw you in the shopping centre, John. At the jewellers. Red coat. Stop pretending. Experiments over. Results: negative.
He curses, kicks the door, tries a few bags, perhaps tries to see whats in them.
“You’ll regret this, you sad old cow! Who’ll want you now, at forty-five? I was ready to come back and you throw me out. I’ll take you to court for the car and the garden!”
Well split what needs to go through the lawyers, properly. But the flats not yours. Leave nowor Ill call the police and say a strange mans trying to break in.
He rants and raves for another minute, boots the bin bags, and flings down the flowers. The elevator dings. He drags his black bags away.
Margaret slides to the floor, legs shaking. Tears streak down her cheeksnot of grief, but of release.
She sits a while, then gets up and washes her face. In the mirror, a tired woman stares back, but her chin is high.
Her phone beepsSusan: Seen Johns car out front. Any drama yet?
Margaret grins and texts back: Gone. Locks work perfectly.
Brilliant! Susan replies instantly. Youre a star! Ill be round with cake laterwell celebrate your new life.
Margaret heads to the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the carnations strewn outside. Good thing she never opened the door. Carnationstwenty years together and he never remembered she hates them. She loves tulips.
A month later, the divorce goes through swiftlygrown up kids make things easier. The garden gets sold, the car goes to John, and he pays her out for her share (she spends it on a seaside holiday).
Turns out, Johns muse left him as soon as he lost the comfort of Margarets flat or hopes of an inheritance. He could no longer afford the rented studio, ending up back at his mothers cramped bungalow on an estate outside town.
Margaret hears all this from mutual friends. She realises she doesnt care. Shes just back from Spain, having travelled alone for the first time in ages, sun-kissed and in a new bright dress. She even had a harmless flirtation with a charming Germannothing serious, just enough to remind her shes still an attractive woman.
One evening, on her way home, she hears her name.
Margaret?
John stands beside a bench, gaunt and in a worn anorak, looking battered.
Hi, she says, barely slowing.
Can we talk? He steps closer. I was a fool. I made a mistake. Mums driving me mad. I miss our house your cooking could we start over? You cant just erase twenty years.
She looks at him, surprised to feel nothingno anger, no regret, not even pity. Just emptiness.
You cant erase twenty years, she agrees. But the pasts the past. Im building something new nowwithout old mistakes. Without you.
Ive changed! I get it now!
I have, too, she smiles warmly. Ive learnt its not stifling to be aloneits freeing.
She takes out her new, shining keys and walks to the entrance. The intercom buzzes, the door swings shut, closing out John and his afterthoughts.
In the lift, she thinks: Time for new wallpaper in the hall. Something bright, peach perhaps. Maybe a comfy new chair for her knitting of an evening. Life, at last, is all hersand the keys are in her hand.
