Pack your things, Ive met my first love, my husband announced. Yet an hour later, it was him standing in the hallway with a suitcase.
James had just returned from his school reunion late Sunday evening. I, Susan, was finishing the washing up.
He seemed changed. Almost exhilarated. His face was flushed, like someone whod just been promoted or hit the jackpot on the lottery. I glanced at him, drying my hands on the tea towel, and thought, Clearly, they had a good time.
He said nothing. Got ready for bed and went straight to sleep.
The next morning, he sat at the kitchen table with the look of a man whod made a profound life decision. Like something out of a filmhands folded, eyes grave. I put his tea down, opened the fridge to sort out the leftover sausages. Thats when he spoke.
Sue. We need to talk.
Oh, no, I thought. The most dreaded phrase in any marriagethe prelude to disaster.
I met Linda last night. You remember, Ive told you about her. My first love.
Of course I remembered. Every few years, usually when James had had one too many glasses of wine and was feeling nostalgic, Lindas name would come up. We were so young back then The usual story.
We talked. For ages. And, Sue You should start packing your things.
I turned around. The plate of sausages sat, abandoned, on the fridge shelf.
What?
Weve decided to be together. Me and Linda. You see?
I just stared at him for a moment.
The flats mine, anyway, James added as if it was a small formality, in that tone men use when they want to say, thats that. Its best if you find somewhere else.
No fuss. I put the sausages back and closed the fridge door gently, careful not to knock off the souvenir magnet from Spain.
Youve made up your mind then? I asked.
He nodded. I went into the bedroom.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. On it hung a kitten calendar wed bought wholesale at the market last January, just because we needed a calendar and it only cost £1. January had long passed, as had February, but the kittens still hung therethe ginger kitten with the bow gazed at me, looking rather sympathetic.
So thats how it is, I thought.
Twenty years Id lived with a man now sitting in our kitchen, expecting me to start packing my suitcase. Twenty yearsa lifetime.
There was our first rented bedsit in Catford, where the tap leaked and the neighbour Paul wailed through thin walls all night. There was the bankruptcy, when James shuffled about grey and withdrawn and I pretended not to notice that he was drinking out on the balcony every evening. The time I drove him to A&E in the early hours with acute appendicitis, and the surgeon told me, Another hour, and it would have been too late. And there was the school leavers day, when I was still teaching English, and James showed up at the classroom door with flowers, bashful and so quietly proud. All of it. It all happened, and now, it counted for nothing at all.
I stood and walked around the room, opening the wardrobe.
On the top shelf, right at the back, were the documents.
James was still at the kitchen table, tapping on his phoneno doubt messaging Linda, as every now and then a shy, triumphant smile crept across his lips. The sort of look worn by someone whos just pulled off a great feat and is awaiting applause.
I sat opposite him and placed the papers on the table.
Packing your paperwork, are you? James asked, glancing sideways.
No. Theres something I need to show you.
I opened the folder.
Sue, not now
Be quiet, just for a moment.
I found the relevant document and handed it to him.
It was our prenuptial agreement. Fifteen years ago, when James first tried starting his building supplies business, the solicitor had insisted. James wasnt fussed. Sue, its just paperwork. Doesnt really matter, does it, were a family. I went to the notary alone, signed it, and brought the copy home.
James had said, Alright then, and shoved it in the back of the drawerwhere of course, Id carefully moved it to the wardrobe myself.
Im not a strategist. Just a tidy person.
Incidentally, the businessthe wholesale building supplies with its grand three-year forecastslasted exactly fourteen months before collapsing just as badly as only the most cockeyed ventures do.
The debts were considerable. That was the one and only time I suggested we sell the flat to pay it all off at once. James said we mustnt. Hed sort it. And to his credit, he didthough not in three months as promised, but six years, bit by bit. I worked one and a half jobs the whole time and didnt grumble.
James picked up the document and began reading.
I poured myself the cold, leftover tea. Drank.
Wait, James said eventually, his voice suddenly softer, uncertain. It says here
Yes, I replied.
That the flats yours if we split.
Yes.
But how
He looked again, then lowered the pages.
I let him be. Let him read, re-read. Fifteen years ago, he could have sorted this. Now hes finally reading it properly.
And the loans? he said.
The business debts are all yours. Says so in section four.
He said nothing. His phone screen flashedLinda, clearly, checking in. He didnt reply.
Sue, he said finally.
Yes?
Did you keep this on purpose? Just for this?
I considered. No. I just never throw paperwork away.
This was true. I kept everythingreceipts, guarantees, washing machine manuals for machines long dead, even old doctors notes. Im just that sort.
James stared at the paper, then out the window.
I got up, took the folder away, rinsed my mug. Then turned.
James. One of us does need to find somewhere else, I said. Youre right.
And I went to the bedroom.
James stayed in the kitchen for maybe twenty minutes more.
Maybe half an hour. I didnt check. I was in the bedroom, doing the sorts of things anyone does when their life is falling apartnothing remarkable. Gathered up a stack of books thatd lain by the bed. Moved the geranium from the window sill to the bookcase. Dusted the wardrobe. When your hands are busy, your head makes less noise.
James appeared at the door.
Sue.
I turned around. He was clutching the prenup like it was some lifeline document, a last hope.
Sue, just wait. Cant we talk like normal people?
All right, I said. My voice was flat, no emotion. Lets talk.
That prenup that was so long ago. We didnt think
Didnt think what?
He was silent, apparently out of ways to finish the sentence. That wed never split? That paperwork like this doesnt crop up? That one simply doesnt think?
Its all signed, witnessed, I said. Its fully legal. I checked.
When?
About five years ago. You know, just in case.
James looked at me as though realising for the first time that hed been seriously underestimating things for years.
Were you planning this?
I shook my head. No. Im just careful, thats all. Thats just me.
Again, it was simply the truth. Five years ago, Id rung the notary for something about Mums inheritance. And on a whim, Id asked about the prenup. All valid, dont worry, the solicitor said. I nodded and forgot all about it, until this morning.
James returned to the kitchen. I could hear him pacing. Then he grew quiet, then pottered about, opening and closing cupboards.
I peered in.
What is it youre doing? I asked.
Thinking.
About what?
He didnt answer.
I put the kettle on.
James, I said, Did you ever stop to think about where youd go?
He looked at me.
Nothing.
I see, I said.
Id read James righthed imagined this scene went differently. Hed declare it was over, Id sob, stomp out, and hed have the flat to himself. Linda would move in. Simple.
That I might have an old, nearly forgotten document was not in his script.
The kettle boiled. I made tea.
Im not going anywhere, I told him. This is my flat. Ill stay right here.
He said nothing.
And where am I supposed to
To Lindas, I reminded him. You did say you were going to be together.
I felt no anger towards Linda at that point. Honestly, not much of anything. She was from his world of champagne-soaked nostalgia, first loves and misremembered pasts. In that world, I was just the obstacle.
It happens, I suppose.
She James began, then tailed off.
What?
Shes not quite sure yet. We havent really sorted that part out. Its not all concrete. Shes not exactly ready.
I set my mug down.
James.
What?
Did you seriously just tell me to leave, when you havent even discussed with Linda where exactly youre supposed to go?
He was silent. His face said it all.
Some men love grand gestures. Its the practicalities where theyre lacking.
I got out the brown weekend holdall and set it on the kitchen table.
There you go, I said. Take what you need.
Sue
James. Youve made your choice. Ive listened. Now follow through.
He stared at the bag. And at that moment, something inside him seemed to give way.
He went off and started packing.
I stayed in the kitchen, listening to the shuffle and scrape of drawers, his shoes bumping about, the click of his razor against something. Twenty years. And all his belongings fit into one overnight bag.
An hour later, James came to the hallway, bag in hand, wearing the look of a man who maybe didnt regret, but certainly hadnt reckoned on it being quite like this.
Sue, he murmured. Ill call you.
Fine, I replied.
Well need to sort the paperwork the divorce.
Ring me, well arrange it.
He hung about a moment, clearly waiting for tears or pleas or shoutingsomething to reset the old order. But there was nothing.
James opened the door and left.
Three weeks later, I heard from Margaret, a retired colleague who knows everything about everyone, that things with James and Linda hadnt panned out.
Linda lived with her sistera cramped council flat, sisters husband, two kids. Hardly romantic territory. James didnt move there. Instead, he rented a room somewhere in Lewisham from an elderly landlady who hated smoking and insisted guests were pre-approved.
When Linda found out he didnt have a flatand never would haveher enthusiasm cooled. Dramatically. The image of a man hurling his past away for love was more alluring than the reality of him, with just one bag and outstanding debts. First loves, it seems, always look better in soft focus. Up close, theyre different.
I listened, nodded, made Margaret a cup of tea.
How are you then? she asked, with that subtle look which says: Ill sympathise for as long as you need.
Im alright, I replied.
And that too was true. In those three weeks, Id finally signed up for the massage class Id always wanted. Called my old friend Sallyhadnt seen her in three yearsmet for coffee, chatted for hours. Bought a swimming pool pass. Little things. Life, really, in all its minutiae.
Sometimes, on quiet evenings, I thought of James. Not with anger, just matter-of-factly. At some point, I realised it was better hed opened that door himself. I might have spent years letting it fester.
The kitten calendar still hung on the wall. January, February, and that ginger kitten in a bowall still there. I looked at it, thought I should really flip it to the right month.
Then decided it could wait.
