The Door
Peter Covington stared blankly at the door in front of him. How had he ended up here? Funny, he mused, his thoughts wandering, and somehow his feet had carried him to the threshold of the old flat where he and his wife had spent nearly a quarter of a century together. Now he stood, somewhat dazed, gazing at the door that had suddenly appeared right under his nose. It was an ordinary door, really, just like every other in the hallway.
Padded with brown leatherette and studded with shiny brass tacks arranged in diamonds. Only one of the tacks was silvery; Peter still remembered, fifteen years back, when the original had gone missing and a bit of the leatherette had sagged awkwardly. Hed fixed it himself, and ever since, amidst its golden sisters, that single silver star had winked out at him, a reminder of his clumsy handiwork. Now he found himself looking at that tack, not quite ready to leave…
* * *
Peter Covingtons life had changed a year agoright at the moment he was, inconveniently, ready for it. His job, so predictably steady, had grown suffocating; his marriage, tranquil and stagnant, like a warm bog, seemed to pull him down, sapping the vibrancy and excitement he longed for. He was missing somethinglife itself, perhaps.
Like a desperate man searching for even the flimsiest of reeds, he reached for anything that might pull him free, somewhere vibrant, where days spilled over with laughter and noise and he could feel aliveneeded, at least by himself. That reed arrived in the form of his secretary, Daisy.
Young and striking, Daisy burst into his world with thumping club music, the electric scent of designer perfume, and the taste of prosecco on her lips. Peter fell headlong into infatuation. His gentle old love for his then-wife faded into a pale daydream, beside the dazzling fireworks Daisy brought with her.
His wife seemed to sense, somewhere deep inside, that change was creeping in, that someone else was threading her way through their marriage. She turned quiet and withdrawn, often searching Peters eyes for the answer to that eternal question that all women seem to ask.
The passionate whirlwind with Daisy swept Peter up. He felt young, wanted, adored. He flung all his time and pounds at this new affair, delighted to lose himself in it. And yet, he still wasnt ready to leave homethe draw of familiar sheets and late-night fridge raids for his wifes perfect homemade meatballs tugged at him, even after oysters and dessert at elegant restaurants with Daisy.
Who knows how long that might have gone on? Not forever, as it turned out. Daisy, restless and tired of waiting in the wings, appeared at the flat one afternoon, determined to make her claim. At home were his wife and university-aged son. They listened closely to Daisys bold pronouncement; while his wife fumbled for her heart pills, his son efficiently packed his fathers belongings into a large suitcase and unceremoniously escorted the lovers out the door…
* * *
So began Peters new life, tumbling him along in a relentless current that wouldnt let him catch his breath. One event after anotherdinners, exhibitions, shopping spreesblurred past in a garish, noisy rush. Hard to say when he began to feel the weight of it, harder still to admit to himself he simply couldnt keep up with Daisys wild pace.
So, Peter decided to take a breakin the truest sense. He settled into an armchair in their rented flat, surveying the unfamiliar rooms, trying to find his bearings in a life that didnt feel like his own. It was odd, at first, what he discovered, but annoyance gradually crept over him. Paradise-bird Daisy was wildly unsuited for the day-to-day. She couldnt keep house or cook a thing.
That wasnt the worst of itthere was simply nothing to talk about with Daisy. Her mind was filled with the rustle of new notes, glossy packaging, and the endless parade of admirers online. Peter attempted, at first, to fill her head with even a smidgen of useful or clever knowledge but soon realised any kind of thinking caused Daisy visible agony. He surrendered.
No longer bothering to change her, he patiently endured grim, tepid tea made from cheap teabags, while his thoughts returned to his ex-wife. She could brew tea like no otherhe could almost taste the warm, herbal aroma now, simply by closing his eyes. And her casseroles, her legendary meatballs. His ex-wife really had been the perfect homemaker. He caught himself drifting to memories of those evenings, holding each other close, enduringly debating the latest novel or a Polanski film…
Peter once tried to return home. Not to stay, precisely, butjust because. He wouldnt have been able to explain it to himself: this strange pull to the old flat on that late winter evening. No one opened the door. Standing in the chilly corridor, he heard his wifes quiet weeping through the wood. He turned away, spent an age sitting in the courtyard, watching the windows he once called home, until the last light there went out.
Time marched on, and an inevitable gulf of years widened between him and Daisy. Peter found her childishness ever more grating, while Daisy grew annoyed by his meandering pace. Gradually, they stopped leaving the flat together, and each passed evenings alone. Thenby some odd twistPeter found himself, without any memory of walking there, in front of his old door once more.
* * *
He stared at the crooked silver tack hed hammered in so haphazardly, uncertain what to do next. Turn and go? But whereand to whom? Hed known for some time that Daisy had grown indifferent to him, the woman for whom hed traded everything away. Stay? But would they take him back? Forgive him? Let him return?
That wonky tack gnawed at him somehow. Peter reached out and lightly touched the cold metal with his fingertip. To his great surprise, the door swung open without resistance. A rush of warm, familiar air, scented with home, washed over him. He shut his eyes, drawing in the comforting smell. When he opened thema figure waited in the kitchen doorway, his wife, with tiny creases fanning from her eyessmiling. Im home! Peter thought, stepped quietly forward, and closed the door behind him.
