The Door
Peter Harrison stared, bewildered, at the door before him. How had he ended up here? Lost in thought, hed unconsciously wandered to the threshold of the old flat where he and his wife had once lived together for almost twenty-five years. Now, he found himself standing and gazing in amazement at the familiar door just inches from his face. Ordinary enougha door just like so many others in the block of flats.
It was covered in burgundy faux-leather, stitched into diamond shapes with brass studs. Only one of the studs was silvera detail Peter remembered fixing himself some fifteen years ago when the original piece went missing, causing the covering to sag awkwardly. Hed meticulously repaired it, and now, amid a scattering of golden sisters, the single silver stud twinkled like a star. Peter stared at that silvery spot and felt no inclination to leave…
* * *
Peters life took a turn a year before, at a moment when he thought himself completely prepared. His joba placid, predictable affairwas oppressing him, and his home life stifled him like a thick, tepid swamp. He craved excitement, colour, emotion. He missed being truly alive.
Desperate, he sought the thinnest reed to pull himself toward freedomto somewhere filled with brilliant colours and cheerful, noisy company, where every day brimmed with festivity, not dreary routine, where he could feel alive and needed. That reed came to him in the shape of his secretary, Daisy.
Daisy was young and beautiful, bursting into Peters orderly world with raucous laughter, the waft of expensive perfume, and the fizz of champagne on her lips. He fell hard. Recalling the timid, gentle feelings hed once cherished for his future wife, Peter now saw those old emotions as faded and forgettable beside Daisys dazzling passion.
His wife, sensing with her heart that something momentousand gravewas on the horizon, became withdrawn, quietly searching Peters eyes for an answer to that age-old question every woman knows how to ask.
The affair surged forward with thrilling speed. Peter felt young again, important, loved. He devoted every available hourand poundto his new romance. Yet he hadnt been ready to leave his family completely. Habit called him back to his familiar bed, compelled himafter dinners of oysters and bubblyto hunt in the fridge for his wifes delicious homemade meat pies.
How long it might have continued, no one could guess. Yet one evening Daisy, weary of the mistresss part, showed up at the old flat, intent on speaking to his wife and whisking Peter away. At home were his wife and son, away at university. They listened in silence to Daisys composed speech, and as Peters wife clung to her heart medicine, their son swiftly packed Peters belongings into a large suitcase and quietly ushered both lovers out through that same familiar door…
* * *
So began Peters new life. It swept him along, breathless, through its ceaseless currentparties, restaurants, premieres, designer shopsa bright, dizzying whirl. At some uncertain point, he began to tire of it all. It grew harder to admit to himself that he was simply out of his depth.
He eventually declared a pauseliterally settling into an armchair, taking in his new surroundings. What he saw at first mildly surprised him; over time, it deeply annoyed him. For all of Daisys charm, she had absolutely no aptitude for ordinary life. She could neither keep house nor cook.
Worse, Peter discovered, was that conversation with Daisy was impossible. She was, astoundingly and hopelessly, shallow. Her world revolved around crisp notes, flashy wrappers, and admirers online. Initially, Peter tried to interest Daisy in something of substance. But he soon realised that even mild thought caused her great distress. He gave up trying.
Evenings, hed endure her awful tea, hastily made from a cheap bag, and think back on his former wife. How she could brew a proper pothe could still recall, eyes closed, the rich aroma and grassy notes of her tea. Her Sunday roastsher golden toad-in-the-hole! He found himself recalling their cosy evenings spent locked in gentle debate over a new book or perhaps a Ken Loach film.
Peter once tried returning to his old home. Not to stay, just to go. He couldn’t have explained why he visited that late evening. No one answered the bell and, standing in the chilly stairwell, he heard the soft sobs of his wife beyond the door. He turned and left, sitting for a long time beside the garden, gazing up at the windows that had once been his. He watched until the lights went out.
Time passed. The gulf of generationsoften dividing couples like themonly widened. Daisys childishness grated on Peter; his apathy infuriated her. They stopped going out together, began spending their evenings apart. And finally, one day, Peter found himself, by some unknown impulse, outside his old front door.
* * *
He stood, gazing at the crooked silver stud hed nailed in with his own clumsy hands, uncertain what to do. Turn around and leave? Where, to whom? He knew Daisy had long since become indifferent to the man shed once lured away. Remain? But would his old home accept him? Would he be forgiven?
Something about that bent, tarnished stud wouldnt let him leave. Peter reached out and touched its cool metal. The door unexpectedly swung open. The familiar, comforting scent of home wafted out; he closed his eyes, breathed it in deeply. When he opened them, his wife was standing in the kitchen doorway, her smile deepening the gentle lines at her eyes. Im home, Peter thought, stepping forward and gently closing the door behind him.
In life, it often takes losing what we have to realise its true worth. Sometimes the door we most need to open is the one we once closed in haste.
