Helen barely managed to hang up on her husband before she unexpectedly caught a womans voice on the line.
Helen stood by the window, staring blankly at the steadily falling London snow. Her phone call with her husband, George, was winding downone of those run-of-the-mill chats theyd had a thousand times over sixteen years of marriage. George was dutifully reporting from his business trip in Manchester: all terrific, meetings going swimmingly, hed be back in three days.
Alright, darling, speak soon, Helen said, moving to press the red button but pausing when something stopped her. A womans voicecheerful, young, and suspiciously familiarrang out on the other end:
Helens hand froze mid-air. Her heart did an impressive somersault before launching into a full track meet. She pressed the phone to her ear again, but all she heard was the dispassionate tone beeping back at herGeorge had beaten her to it, hanging up.
Helen slumped into a chair, suddenly feeling as though her legs were constructed from soggy rich tea biscuits. Her mind churned: Georgebath? What sort of business trip comes with a bubble bath? Her memory suddenly coughed up an unappetising buffet of recent oddities: all those extra trips, the late-night calls he took on the balcony, the suspicious new aftershave lingering in his car.
Her hands trembled as she opened her laptop. Logging into his email required no effortshed known the password forever, back when trust and honesty werent endangered species in their household. There they weretrain tickets, hotel bookings Honeymoon Suite at a swanky five-star spot in Central Manchester. Two guests.
There was, like some sinister party favour, a whole thread of emails. Emily. Twenty-six. Pilates instructor. Darling, I cant cope with this anymore. You promised youd leave her three months ago. How much longer?
Nausea welled up. Her mind conjured up their first datesGeorge, then a junior manager with the charm of a Labrador puppy, and she a rookie accountant. They scrimped for a wedding, living in a shoebox flat and counting pennies. Together they celebrated tiny victories and consoled each other through large defeats. Now he was an impressive commercial director, she the chief accountant at the same firm, and between them yawned a chasm: sixteen years deep and twenty-six years wide, courtesy of this Emily.
****
In a Manchester hotel room, George was pacing like an agitated sheepdog.
Why did you do that? His voice was practically fizzing with panic.
Emily lay sprawled on the bed, carelessly draped in a silk dressing gown. Her long blonde hair splayed out over the pillows.
Oh, whats the big deal? she yawned theatrically, cat-like. You said you were divorcing her anyway.
Ill decide, thanks very much, when and how things end! Do you realise what youve done? Helens not daftshell have clocked everything!
Oh, brilliant! Emily shot upright. Im fed up with being the secret you squirrel away in hotels. I want dinners out, I want to meet your mates, I want to be your wife, not yourlodging!
Youre acting like a child, George muttered, grinding out the words.
And youre a coward! Emily sprang to her feet, darted over. Look at me! Im young, Im attractive, I could give you children. What does she docount your money?
George seized her shoulders. Dont you dare speak about Helen like that! You know nothing about her, about us!
Oh, I know plenty, Emily jerked away. I know youre miserable with her. Shes buried herself in spreadsheets and grocery lists. When was the last time you had any fun? Took a holiday just the two of you?
George turned away, staring out into Manchesters glittering night. Somewhere up in snowy London, in the flat he used to call home, everything was collapsingsixteen years crumbling away at the careless voice of a reckless girl.
****
Helen sat in the kitchen dark, gripping a mug of cold tea as though it might anchor her to reality. Her phone had lit up with dozens of missed calls from George. She ignored all of them. What was there to say, after all? Darling, I heard your girlfriend inviting you into the bath?
Memory, ever helpfully cruel, played a slideshow: George presenting her with a ring, down on one knee right in the middle of an Italian restaurant. Moving into their first flat, a damp little two-bed in a dreary suburb, barely big enough for themselves and their dreams. Him holding her through the loss of her mum. Celebrating with takeaways and cheap wine when he got promoted
And then life crept inurgent work deadlines, unpredictable bills, leaking ceilings and broken boilers. When did they last really talk? Watch a film cuddled on the sofa, make plans for anything outside of groceries or curtains?
Her phone buzzed again. This time, a message: Helen, please, talk to me. I can explain.
What was there to explain? That shed got old, slipped into routine? That a young Pilates instructor understood him better now?
Helen drifted towards the mirror. Forty-three. The little lines gathering by her eyes, the stubborn grey hairs she heroically painted over every month. When had she started looking so tiredliving by the clock, chasing security like it was the last bus home?
****
George, where have you been? Emily greeted him with a frosty glare as he slouched back into the room after yet another failed attempt to get his wife on the phone.
Not now, he groaned, collapsing into a chair and yanking at his tie.
Nonow! I want to know whats next. You do realise you cant keep dodging it forever, dont you?
George peered up at herpretty, energetic, gloriously sure of herself. The way Helen had been sixteen years back. Good lord, how had he managed to make such a mess of it?
Emily, he sighed, rubbing his face, youre right. Weve got to face up to things.
Emilys face lit up. She darted over. Love! I knew youd see sense!
Yes, he gently moved her aside. We really do have to stop this.
What?! She recoiled as though hed slapped her.
This was a mistake, he said, standing. I love my wife. Yes, things are rough. Yes, weve drifted. But I cant I wont chuck away everything we’ve had.
Youyoure just a coward! Tears streamed down her face.
No, Emily. Cowards have affairs. Cowards lie to women whove shared every joy, disaster, and cheap bottle of prosecco with them for sixteen years. Youre rightI am unhappy. But happiness isnt something you find under the bed in a hotel suiteits something you blummin well build.
****
The doorbell rang around midnight. Helen knew who it washed obviously caught the earliest train.
Helen, please, open up, Georges voice was muffled through the door.
She opened it. He stood there, unshaven, suit crumpled, eyes guiltily swollen.
May I come in?
She wordlessly stepped aside. They walked into the kitchen, the place of tea, newlywed plans, and the odd tense silence that had lately stretched between them.
Helen
Dont, she cut him off. I know it all. Emily, twenty-six, Pilates instructor. I read your emails.
He nodded, uselessly searching for words.
Why, George?
He stared out at the sodium-lit street for some time.
Because Im weak. Because I was scared wed become strangers. Because she reminded me of youas you used to be, so bright, so restless.
And now?
Now, he said, turning to her, Now I want to fix things. If youll let me.
And her?
Its over. Completely. I realised I cant lose you. I dont want to. Helen, I know I dont deserve forgiveness. But could we try again? Go to a counsellor, spend timerelearn each other, become those people again
Helen looked at her husbandolder, perhaps wiser, unbearably familiar. Sixteen years isnt just a number; its inside jokes, dog-eared habits, holding hands through commutes and crises, understanding each others silences. And yes, forgiveness.
I dont know, George, she finally cried for the first time that night. I honestly dont know
He put his arms around her, gently, and for once she didnt pull away. Outside, the London snow was falling, softly erasing the citys sharp corners.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Manchester, a girl was learning an unglamorous truth: real love isnt all passion and grand gestures. Its a quest, a daily choice.
And here in the kitchen, two tired people began the slow work of gathering the broken pieces of their shared life. Ahead lay long talks, awkward silences, rainy afternoons in a therapists office, and the uneasy business of truly starting again. Sometimes, you have to risk losing something just to realise how much it was worth.
