Emma, look at this colour! Lena now Emma Clarke swept her hand over the textured wallpaper of the hallway, laughing. I spent three days debating between buttery vanilla and ivory bone, almost drove the sales assistant mad. And now, stepping back into the flat, I finally feel mine. Exactly how I wanted.
Daisy Miller, Emmas best mate since school, nodded approvingly while nibbling a slice of homemade cabbage scone. The kitchen smelled of fresh pastries and strong tea, a cosy scent that had finally ousted the lingering whiff of cigarette smoke that used to cling to the walls like an unwanted guest.
Emma, youve really blossomed, Daisy remarked, setting her cup on its saucer. And this renovation? Its like a full stop after a long, greasy sentence. Im glad you didnt sell the flat back then and instead gave it a proper makeover almost like a skinrenewal.
Emma sighed, adjusting the napkin. It hadnt been easy. When Mark Turner slammed the front door and declared the marriage a swamp I was choking in, it felt like the end of the world. Twenty years together, an adult son, a settled life all collapsed for a fleeting taste of freedom and a young garage administrator hed met at his workshop. But a year and a half later, the tears had dried, Tomher sonhad been supportive, and a job at the building society kept her from drifting completely. Sitting in the revamped kitchen, Emma felt a surprising lightness.
Honestly, Daisy, I never believed it myself, she confessed. The first months were like walking through fog, waiting for the key to turn. Then, one morning, I realised silence isnt scary. Its just no one nagging about oversalted soup, no rogue socks, no one demanding a report on every penny spent.
Their chat was cut short by a sharp doorbell, far from the gentle chimes of a neighbours parcel or Aunt Veras occasional saltborrowing visits.
Emma and Daisy exchanged looks.
Are you expecting anyone? Daisy whispered.
No, Toms at his club, I didnt order a courier Emma frowned, rising from the table. Her heart gave a strange, betraying thump, and a cold premonition shivered down her spine.
She slipped into the hallway, smoothing the elegant linen dress shed finally bought no more the threadbare housecoat of the past and faced the door. Without peeking, she asked, Whos there?
A heavy pause hung in the air. Then a painfully familiar voice, the one that once made her knees wobble, now only sparked a dull wave of irritation.
Emma, open up. Its me.
Mark.
Emma froze, hand on the lock. Her fingers didnt shake a small miracle. Before, his voice would have sent her scurrying around, fixing hair, dusting invisible specks, trying to impress. Now she just wanted to get back to her scone and chat with Daisy.
She turned the latch slowly and opened.
Mark stood on the landing, looking almost cinematic. In one hand he clutched a massive bouquet of burgundy roses wrapped in crinkly craft paper; on his back a new coat that hung a bit baggily, and a scarf carelessly draped over his shoulder. Hed clearly rehearsed his entrance, pose, maybe even his speech.
Seeing Emma, his smile unfurled the same disarming grin that once worked like magic on her. A grin like a scruffy, charming mutt.
Good afternoon, Emma, he baritoned, stepping forward.
Emma didnt budge an inch. She stood in the doorway like a sentinel, one shoulder pressed against the jamb.
Good afternoon, Mark. What brings you here?
Mark looked a little taken aback, expecting tears, screams, a hug, an instant invitation to sit down. Instead he met a calm, scrutinising stare, the kind you give a pesky cat or a doortodoor salesman.
Well, he cleared his throat, lowering the bouquet a touch. I was passing by. Thought Id drop in. Were not strangers, after all. Twenty years, Emma, you cant just scratch that off.
Cant, she agreed, still unmoved. But you did say those twenty years were a mistake, a swamp. Forgotten? I remember it vividly.
Mark winced as if a toothache had struck.
Emma, whos remembering whats old? I was emotional, middleage crisis, didnt know what I was doing. Youre a clever woman, youll understand. Men are weak, impulsive creatures, you know.
He tried to step forward again, confident his usual charm would work. His shoe hovered over the new doormat.
Stop, Emma said quietly but firmly. Dont come in.
What do you mean? Marks eyes widened. Emma, whats the matter? Im standing here with flowers like a fool, the neighbours are watching. Let me in, we can talk. I see youve redecorated? New wallpaper pricey, I imagine?
He craned his neck, trying to peek behind her and gauge the investment.
Mark, were talking here. I have guests, Emma replied, not even pausing.
Guests? A jealous note slipped into his tone. Who? Some bloke? Found a quick replacement?
This is Daisy. And even if it were a bloke, it doesnt concern you. Were divorced, Mark. Officially, a year and a half now. You asked for freedom.
Mark exhaled, apparently relieved it was just Daisy, not a mythical rival. He switched tactics, smiling wider, eyes gleaming with a wet sheen.
Emma, stop being upset. I was wrong. Everythings been rethought lately.
Really? Emma crossed her arms. And what have you rethought? That a muse cant cook a proper stew? That a rented flat costs money while a garage salary isnt exactly elastic?
Marks mask cracked for a heartbeat. Rumours had floated about his young fling and some business troubles, but Emma felt none of that schadenfreude. She was simply indifferent, and that indifference frightened Mark more than hatred.
Is it about the stew? he snapped, shifting weight. He awkwardly grabbed the bouquet with his other hand. Im talking about the soul, the family. I realised theres no one closer than you. Weve been through so much Tomhow is he? He called last week, dry chat, didnt ask for money
Toms an adult, hes got his own head. He remembers you leaving, Mark. Remember how you shouted that we were dragging you down?
No, I didnt shout! Mark snapped, then reigned himself in. Emma, enough with the lecture at the door, like a schoolboy. Seriously, let me in. I come in peace. Look, your favourite flowers, right? Roses. Burgundy.
Emma looked at the roses. Beautiful, expensive. In the past she might have wept at such a gesture. He only gave flowers on big occasions or when he was truly sorry. Now they seemed out of place, like a Christmas tree in July.
Thanks for the flowers, but I dont need them, she said evenly. I dont have a vase for that, and Ive long stopped loving the scent of roses. I prefer tulips now. Or just some greenery.
Stopped loving them? Mark blinked, bewildered. How can you stop loving roses? Youre talking nonsense just to wound me.
At that moment Daisy peeked from the kitchen, wanting to see if Emma needed a hand. Seeing Mark with his bouquet, she snorted and leaned against the hallway wall.
Oh, Mark! Showed up without dusting off the porch, did you? she announced loudly. Were having treats here, no need for you.
Hi, Daisy, Mark muttered, irked by the witness. Tell your friend to let her husband in.
Exhusband, Daisy corrected. And this is her house, she lets in whoever she wants. By the way, have you lost weight? You look… saggy. Not feeding the young lady?
Mark ignored Daisys jab and refocused on Emma, realizing his usual tricks were failing. He needed a bold move.
Emma, listen, his voice softened, earnest. I made a monstrous mistake. I tried this freedom thing its all glitter, nothing real. I want to go home. To you. Maybe we could start over? Ill help finish any leftover repairs. My hands are still good for it.
Emma saw not the confident husband of two decades but a weary, roadworn man seeking a quiet harbour to ride out his storm. He didnt need her; he needed comfort, a tidy home, a decent dinner, the sense of importance shed given him over the years.
Mark, she said, her tone gentle yet edged with steel. Theres nothing left to finish. Everythings done the flat, my life.
But I changed! he stammered.
People dont change, Mark. They just adapt for a while. You left because it got boring. Youre back because its miserable elsewhere. And where do I fit in? Im not a spare runway for your adventures.
What runway? Im a family man! Im my sons father!
You were. Then you chose another path. You made that choice, and I accepted it. You know what? I liked my new life. Without you.
Mark stood, stunned. Hed expected a tirade, a hiss, a dramatic outburst he knew how to handle those. A calm, reasoned no pierced his armour. He realised the woman in the stylish dress at the threshold of a bright, refreshed flat was no longer his wife. She was a stranger, and the threshold wasnt just a wooden plank but an unbreachable line.
Are you serious? he asked, voice hoarse. Youre just going to throw me out? Not even a cup of tea?
I wont pour you tea, Emma replied. I only serve it to those who value me, not use me. Go home, Mark to the woman you burned bridges for, or to your mum, or wherever. This isnt your home any longer.
She began to close the door. Mark instinctively stepped forward, blocking it, but when he met Emmas icy stare, he withdrew his foot. In her gaze there was no fear, only a weary resolve, ready to call the police if he turned violent.
Youll regret this, Emma! he shouted, his mask finally shattered. Wholl kiss you at fortyfive? Ill find someone else; men dont just lie around on the road! And youll weep into your pillow!
Ive already wept, Mark. Two years ago. All the best.
The door shut with a solid, confident click of a quality lock. The bolt slid home.
Mark lingered on the landing, his own words echoing emptily in the stairwell. He stared at the massive bouquet, thorns pricking his fingers through the paper. It was heavy, absurd, utterly useless now.
He raised his hand, ready to fling the flowers to the floor, to smash them, but then simply let his arm fall. No energy for theatrics. He turned and trudged down the stairs, shoulders weighed down by defeat. He didnt even call for the lift.
Behind the door, Emma pressed her forehead to the cool metal, closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, exhaled. Her hands still trembled faintly, but only a little. It wasnt love or pity, just the release after hard work.
Did he go? Daisy asked from the hallway.
Emma turned. Her face was pale, yet her eyes sparkled.
He went, Daisy. And you know what? I dont even feel sorry for him. Not at all.
Good, Daisy said, pulling Emma into a tight hug. No point in mourning him. He had his chance and blew it. At least the flowers were nice, right?
Forget the flowers, Emma waved, smiling more confidently. My violets on the windowsill are fine. Lets go, our tea is getting cold and we havent finished the cake.
They returned to the kitchen. Emma switched on the kettle, the sun streaming through the new light curtains, casting lacelike shadows on the table. The flat settled back into peace, but now it felt different not an empty calm, but a sturdy tranquility that had withstood a siege.
Hey, Daisy said, spreading jam on a bun. Maybe we should pop to the theatre this weekend? New play, looks good. Then off to that café with the amazing desserts.
Emma glanced at her friend, then at the sunbeam dancing in her teacup, and laughed light, bright, genuinely free.
Lets do it! Ill wear my new dress. No point dressing up for exhusbands anyway.
Below, the heavy entrance door of the block thudded shut. The old car in the courtyard sputtered, revved, and rumbled away. Emma didnt hear it. She poured fresh tea, made plans for the weekend, and left any trace of the past firmly behind her.
