I was gasping too
Simon announced it on Sunday evening, just as Susan was sorting neat piles of freshly-ironed shirts. He wandered into the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, and said it as if he were reporting a leaking tap.
Sue, I cant breathe.
She didnt look up. One shirt down, another up.
Whats suffocating you?
All of this. The routine. Every single day on repeat. Get up, have breakfast, head out, come home, eat, and off to bed. Its like Groundhog Day gone wrong.
Susan precisely folded a sleeve, smoothed a collar. She was fifty-one, Simon fifty-three. Theyd lived in their semi in Primrose Road for twenty-six years, raised their son Tom, whod eked out five years in Liverpool now and only really rang on birthdays and Christmas.
So, what are you proposing? she asked, voice perfectly flat.
I want to leave.
Only now did she pause, but not because she was scared. She just looked up, studying him, like someone hearing news they clocked ages ago.
Leave where?
Get myself a flat. Be by myself. Get some air.
All right, said Susan, reaching for the next shirt.
Simon clearly expected something else. He leaned closer.
Do you not want to say anything?
Whats to say? Youre an adult, Simon. If you want to go, go.
Youre not going to kick off?
She finished the shirt, set it on the pile, and finally gave him a level stare.
No. But one condition.
Whats that?
Dont ring asking where stuff is, or how something works, or where I put your blue tie. If youre goingdeal with it.
He hesitated.
Thats it?
Thats it.
Simon wasnt sure what to do. Hed prepped for tears, for accusations, for being gripped by the sleeve while she recited their years together, their boy, and how civilised people dont just scarper. Hed even rehearsed his comebacks. Yet here she was, calmly ironing shirts.
Well then, he managed. I suppose Ill start packing.
Go on then.
He trudged to the box room wardrobe, pausing dramatically before the shelves. Then he stuffed jeans, t-shirts, and socks into a bag. Took a razor, his phone charger, and a book hed ignored for half a year. On his way out, Susan was rattling around the kitchen.
Im off, he called.
Good luck, she called back.
The door clicked shut behind him. He lingered on the landing a moment. Silence. No footsteps, no scurrying, just stillness.
He pressed the lift button.
***
It took him two days to find a flat, courtesy of a mate. A single-bed place in the next neighbourhood, fourth floor, windows peering into a shared garden. The landlord, a silver-haired gent with impressive whiskers, did the tour in five minutes, grabbed two months rent upfront, and dashed off. The flat boasted a battered sofa, a table, two chairs, an ancient fridge and gas hob dating to Queen Victoria, and curtains a colour best described as questionable Dijon.
Simon set his bag down and flopped onto the sofa, eyeing the emptiness.
Absolute quiet. No one clattering in the next room, no telly blaring, no whispered Dinners ready. He lay on his back, hands behind head, and thought: Well, this is what freedom looks like.
The first two days were passable. He got up when he pleased, ate what he fancied (which was really only what hed remembered to buy at Sainsburys), loafed around in socks, with no questions from anyone. At night hed ring his old friend Peter, and theyd have long, wheezy laughs. About time, mate, Peter would say. Shouldve done it years ago.
On day three, Simon discovered hed run out of clean socks.
He eyed the washing machine in his snuggly bathroom. Compact, with dials everywhere. Opening the door, peering in. Closing it. Opening again. Powder had to be somewhere: the landlord had mentioned something about beneath the sink. A small box emerged: Colours and Whites. He chucked some in what looked like the right compartment. Chose a setting on a hunch. Pressed Go.
The thing whirred. An hour later, out came his socks, sopping, pink-tinged, and not so much washed as traumatised. It took him a minute to realise hed bunged in a new red t-shirt.
He hung the socks on the radiator. Theyd need until next Christmas to dry.
On day four, he attempted grown-up cooking: chicken breast, potatoes, onions. Dug out a pan with suspicious scarring. Dumped the lot in: smoke erupted, chicken welded to the pan, potatoes peeled beyond recognition, onions had him weeping. End result: a charred, chewy, raw-in-the-middle pile.
He ate half, binned the rest, and ordered takeaway from the chippy round the corner.
After a week, Simon tallied his spending on takeaways. Came to nearly what he and Susan used to fork out on groceries in a month. Decided to rein himself in. Bought supplies, made a pot of rice. The rice turned out edible. That cheered him up.
Yet home life was closing in: slow, relentless, like the Thames at high tide.
***
Breakthrough struck on day ten.
Simon was enjoying what passed for a shower when he noticed water pooling around his feet. He turned off the tap. The water sat defiantly. He prodded the drainnothing shifted.
He vaguely remembered Susan mentioning a trapas in, Needs a clean, else the waterll start collecting. Hed always nod and bolt to another room.
Simon crouched, peering under the bath. Pipes, more pipes, then a plastic joint. He twisted itit promptly came free, unleashing a gushing tide of distinctly unpleasant water.
Simon leapt up, slipped, grabbed a towel which promptly hit the floor. He tried reattaching the pipe. The water paid him no mind, streaming purposefully onto the bathmat.
Water-logged and irate, Simon scampered to the kitchen to find the valve, vaguely recalled from landlord instructions. He fumbled under the sink, turned something, water ceased.
He surveyed the damage: mat, towels, floor, all soaked. The drip persisted.
Defeated, Simon plonked himself on the hallway floor in soggy underpants, glaring into the void.
First instinct: ring Susan, shell know what to do. His thumb hovered over her name. Echoed the memory: dont call me about household things.
He put the phone down.
Eventually, he did ringhis mate Peter, not Susan.
Pete, mate, know how to fix a u-bend?
A what? said Peter, with muffled background chaos. No clue. I just ring a bloke. Want his number?
The plumber arrived the next day, fiddled for fifteen minutes, stuck a new washer in, and charged a sum so handsome Simon just stared.
That normal, is it? he asked.
Fraid so, the plumber replied, unmoved.
Susan never called out anyone for such nonsense. She adjusted, tightened, replaced things, nipping off to B&Q for washers. When, how, and why hed never known; that was just the way things workedlike weather.
***
Meanwhile, Simon hatched what seemed a clever plan.
He called Linda, a woman with whomsome two decades priorhed had what one would call something brief before Susan appeared. Linda had been divorced for years, according to the grapevine. Theyd crossed paths at friends birthdays, nattering about nothing and smiling politely.
Linda, hi, its Simon Browning.
Simon? She sounded more delighted than startled. My word, ages.
I, er, I live alone now. Fancy meeting up, maybe dinner?
A pause.
You live alone from whom?
From Sue.
Oh. Youre separated?
Sort of in the works.
Hmm, she said, voice growing more guarded but not unfriendly. Alright then, why not?
They met in a bistro in town. Linda wore a lovely coat, hair cropped smartly, a bounce in her step. He noticed she looked quite well. They sipped wine, dished about mutual friends, then she asked,
So, tell me, whatre you up to these days?
Building suppliessame as always. Head of procurement.
And now you live where?
Rented on Elm Lane.
Is it nice?
He wanted to lie but instead muttered, Its alright. The washing machines rubbish and the cooker sort of wheezes.
Linda gave him a look he instantly decoded: not romance, but clinical sympathy, the kind reserved for people whose lives were a bit make-do.
I see, she said quietly.
Conversation sagged. They swapped tales about their grown children, drained another glass, and she called it earlyUp at the crack of dawn tomorrow. At the door, they said goodbye.
He rode back to his flat. The fridge was a tundra, the shops shutting, so he microwaved a Pot Noodle.
Linda never called. He never called either.
***
Around the same time, he tried catching up with the lads. Peter suggested Friday, but only until eight, the wifes got a parents evening. Andy said, Maybe, but I need a lift home, promised the wife wed go see her mum Saturday so Ive to stay sharp.
The three of them met at a little pub near the station, had a couple of pints, talked football and work. Then Peter asked,
So hows batchelor life?
Fine, said Simon.
Susan doesnt call?
Nope.
Peter and Andy exchanged glances.
Not at all? said Andy.
Not a squeak.
Another look passed between them.
Mine rings three times a day if Im out the house, Peter muttered.
Susan doesnt, Simon repeated.
Its either a good sign or a terrible one, Andy mused.
What, terrible?
Means shes perfectly happy.
Simon nursed his pint. Hed been thinking that every day, but didnt want to admit it.
By half-eight, the lads checked watches, shook hands, and headed back to wives, kids, and in-laws. Simon stayed for an extra pint, sitting alone until closing.
***
Meanwhile, in Susans corner of Primrose Road, the first few days were more disorienting than shed expectedbut not from missing him. More like the walls had receded and there was suddenly too much space. Like the furniture had moved and she was still deciding if she liked it.
She rang her best mate, Jackie, on day two.
Hes left, said Susan.
Left? Whered he go?
Some flat. He reckons he was suffocating.
Jackie was quiet, then sighed.
Sue. How are you?
Honestly? Alright. Which is surprising.
Been crying?
No. Odd, isnt it?
Maybe itll hit you later?
Maybe. Well see.
Next it was Julia, her other old friend since NCT class twenty-five years ago. Julia was never one for tip-toeing.
Thank the Lord, declared Julia. SueIve been telling you for ten years.
Telling me what?
That youre living like a housekeeper, but with no salary.
Oh, Julia, really
No, honestly. When did you last do something just for you?
Susan had to think.
Had a haircut last year?
Exactly.
The following week, Julia dragged her to yoga. Susan first said no, then changed her mind. She squeezed herself into an ancient tracksuit (tags still on), discovering she bent like a garden gnome.
Its fine, smiled the instructor. Everyone starts like this.
After two weeks, she was slightly more limber. The classes became a fixture, three nights a week. Afterwards, theyd pop to a café, chat for ages. Susan realised how long itd been since she simply sat with a friend, not hurrying home to rustle up Simons supper.
In the evenings, she read. Before, books loitered on the bedside tableshed nod off after twenty pages. Now she read for hours, slow and easy.
One day, Tom rang.
Mum, Dad says hes living by himself now.
Yes, darling. Its true.
So how are you two?
It depends on the day, she replied. Im good though, honestly.
Tom was quiet.
Are you getting divorced?
I dont know. I havent thought about it yet.
Youre not upset?
Im surprised. Not upset.
Tom digested that. Hed always taken time to process things.
Okay. Ring if you want me.
You too, darling. Call me sometimes. Not just at Christmas.
***
There was one evening Susan just stood by the kitchen window, mug in hand, not moving.
She was washing up her morning cup, when it hit her: twenty-six years. More than half her adult life. Not all bad, even some lovely. Their first flat, decorating until their hands blistered. Tom with grass-stained knees. The time they went to Cornwalllaughed the whole weekend over goodness knows what. The laughter she remembered best.
Now that was just the past, like holiday snaps.
She let the feeling wash over, then fade away. Not at once; but in a few minutesit subsided.
Then she put her mug on the rack and got her kit for yoga.
***
Graham appeared entirely by accident.
It was Mrs. Bennett from downstairs, eighty if a day, sharp as a tack, and fond of chatting on the landing for half-hours at a go. She asked Susan to change a light bulbher son wasnt due for a week and she hated the dark. Susan obliged, stopped for a quick cup of tea, and thats when Graham arrivedMrs. Bennetts other son, the surprise variety.
He was about forty-eight, with a beard, good coat, and weary eyes belonging to men who work too much.
Mum, you exploiting the neighbours again? he grinned, seeing Susan with a bulb in hand.
Susan volunteered, Mrs. Bennett sniffed.
Graham turned to Susan. Thank you. I shouldve thought Mum was sitting in the dark.
No bother, she said.
They chatted in the doorway for ten minutes. Graham worked in construction too, different firm. She mentioned she was an accountant. He thanked her and left.
Three days later, Graham knocked. Came with groceries for his mumand a box of chocolates for Susan. Just a little thank you.
Oh, thats not necessary! she protested, but accepted anyway.
Can I pop in a minute? he asked. Wanted to ask about your Simon. Mum says he did procurement; Ive got a question about suppliers.
Susan paused.
Simon doesnt live here anymore. But I can give you his number.
Ah, said Graham. Whether he was surprised or knew all along, she couldnt tell. Never mind then.
He left. The following week he rang again to say hed sorted the supplier himself and would Susan like to grab a coffee, just as neighbours. She hesitated, then said yes.
They went to a new spot on the high street. Talked jobs, his mum, the neighbourhoods slow evolution. He was easy to talk to, a good listener, laughed at his own jokes.
So, youve been married long? he asked, idly.
Twenty-six years. Or, I was. Not sure what it is now.
Happens, he replied, simply.
She appreciated the lack of nosiness.
They met again, and again. Graham never hurried her, or made suggestions, just called now and then to see how she was. Susan liked the lack of expectations; after two decades of musts and shoulds, it felt like flinging open a window in a stuffy house.
***
Simon, meanwhile, started noticing things about himself he hadnt before.
Like the fact that he couldnt stand waiting. Before, things just happened: dinner appeared, clean clothes reappeared, breakages un-broke themselves. Now he waited for washing to dry, for water to boil, for the plumber to turn up. Waited for a cold to pass, alone in his bed, dosing up with tepid tap water, sweating in the same sheets for days.
Or that he didnt know how to eat in silence. For twenty-six years, someone had been at the table. Tom, once. Then just Susan. Shed talk or shed be silent, but it was living silence, the human kind. This new quiet just echoed.
He started eating with the telly on. It helped, a bit.
By week three, he called Tom.
Hi, son.
Hi, Dad. How are you?
Alright. Still in the Elm Lane flat.
Mum told me.
Hows she?
Toms pause was a fraction too long.
Shes good. Says shes taking up yoga. Seeing friends.
Simon digested that.
Shes not lonely?
Dad, said Tom, very carefully, did you ring me to ask if Mum misses you?
No, I just wondered.
Shes alright, Dad. And you will be too. Thats good.
Simon set down the phone. Sat a long while on the sofa, feeling not exactly hurt. More like that feeling going into a room and forgetting why youre there.
***
On day twenty-three, Simon bumped into his neighbour in the lift, a thirty-something woman with tidy hair, whom hed nodded to a handful of times. Im Karen, she volunteered.
Youre the new bloke? she asked.
Just temporary, Simon replied.
Oh, split up, have you?
He blinked at her directness.
Yeah.
Happens, she said breezily. Which flat are you? Mike, the singer, used to live on three.
No, Im on four. With the dodgy mustard curtains.
Oh, thats Dan the landlord. Only ever lets to single chapssays families drive him mad.
They exited the lift. Karen lived below, worked in a vets, boasted a cat and a forest of windowsill plants.
He once helped her lug bags upstairs. She rewarded him with tea. Her flat was cheerful and smelled of cinnamon. She was sharp, warm-eyed. But watching her tidy space, all he could think was: look how spotlessand what a state my own kitchen is in.
Theyd bump into each other at the letterboxes, chat a few minutes. Nothing happened nor could it: he felt like half a sentence, something begun but never finished.
One evening Karen asked,
Are you here for long?
I dont know, he answered truthfully.
You look like a man who hasnt decided where hes headed.
Probably true.
I got stuck myself for two years after my divorceregret every week of it, now.
He remembered that.
***
On day thirty-one, Simon went to the market and bought flowers. Not for anyone, not for an anniversaryhe just eyed some glorious white chrysanthemums and thought, Susan always preferred them over roses. Less pressure, she said.
He bought a bunch, paid in pounds, and hopped the tube to Primrose Road.
People in the carriage eyed himsome with smiles, some indifferent. He rehearsed what hed say, pictured her opening the door, being surprised, glad even. After all, it was still twenty-six years. Still him.
At the door, he pressed the bell. It was a new bell, he noticedSusan must have changed it.
Footsteps approached. Then murmured voices: female firsthers, then a mansnot his.
He froze.
The door opened, not all the way, just the chain. Susans face peeped out. She eyed the bouquet. Her gaze was level.
Simon.
Sue, Ive come
I can see.
I er brought
She just looked at him, kind, dry-eyed, very unlike anything hed pictured.
I cant let you in, Simon.
Why not?
Changed the locks.
I gathered. But why?
A shadow passed behind hermale, unmistakably.
Whos that?
Its not your business, Simon, she replied gently, matter-of-factly.
Hang on, Sue. I Ive done a lot of thinking.
What have you figured out?
He opened his mouth, shut it.
I had it good with you. I didnt appreciate it enough. Leaving was a mistake.
She was silent. Looking at him through the gap.
Simon, she said at last, quietly, softly. Youve figured out it was good. But I dont think you know why it was good. You think its me youre missing. What youre missing is someone who irons your shirts.
Thats not fair, he mumbled.
Maybe not. But its true.
Suetwenty-six years.
I know. She gripped the door. Those years happened. There were good ones in there. But I dont want another twenty-six.
You wont give me another chance?
She regarded him, long and thoughtful.
Want to know the truth? Im breathing again, too. Seems I was suffocating, only I never said it aloud.
He stood in the hall, chrysanthemums drooping.
Susan
Off you go, Simon. Give Tom a ring, chat to him. Not about me. Just ring, wont you?
The door closed, gently. Lock clicked.
Simon stood there. The bouquet slowly wilted towards the floorstill fresh, still oblivious.
The block was silent. Next doors telly mumbled away.
He walked to the lift.
***
He pressed the button. The lift came at once. His reflection in the lift mirror: a man with flowers, smart coat, slightly crumpled, the look of someone for whom everything had just endedor maybe just startedor maybe, curiously, both at once.
He walked into the street. Night had fallen, streetlamps glimmered, the odd person shuffling home. He walked towards the tube, clutching the bouquet.
Then he stopped.
On a bench near the station, an old lady fed pigeons from a wrinkled paper bag. Pigeons swarmed her feet.
Simon placed the chrysanthemums beside her.
For you, if you want them, he said.
She examined him, then the flowers.
Lovely flowers. Not wanted, eh?
Not wanted.
Happens, she replied, and resumed feeding the birds.
Simon walked on. The street looked ordinary; houses stood as they always had, life trundled forward. Somewhere behind him, Susan shut the door and returned to her new, rather fitting, life.
Tom, somewhere, was heading homeSimon should ring him, just have a natter.
There were dirty dishes waiting in the flat, under those acutely mustard curtains.
Simon took his phone from his pocket.
***
On the tube, he stared at the black window, which showed nothing but his own blurred reflection.
Strange thing, he thought, no particular words; juststrange thing, this life.
Stations slid by, one after the other. Carriagefuls of faces: young, old, worn, cheerful, absorbed in bags, books, or phones. No one gave a fig for him, his flowers, his twenty-six years, or his closed door.
He got off at his stop, walked out into the biting air that carried just a hint of first snownot fallen yet, but hanging about expectantly.
Simon stood awhile, gazed skywards.
The sky was dark. As usual.
Then he walked home.
***
That night, half two, he couldnt sleep and lay glaring at the ceiling. Flat was same as ever: dodgy mustard curtains, a fridge that groaned at intervals, everything dull as dishwater.
He suddenly remembered an eveningeight, nine years agowhen he and Susan went to her parents place. They sat on the porch, drinking tea, the garden steeped in dusk, sound from the woods beyond. Susan said nothing. Neither did he. But it was good silence. Living silence.
He remembered thinking: This is all right.
And hed said nothing, just thought it, then forgot.
He tried to remember the last time hed had that thought. Couldnt.
Outside, the first traces of snow began drifting downuncertain, hesitant.
The flat was still. Quiet.
***
In the morning, he put the kettle on and decided to buy proper mugsthose too-thin, rim-chipped affairs in the cupboard were a hardship.
He thought hed call Tom.
Then remembered the looming work deadline. That quarterly report was getting rather behind.
He also remembered what Susan had saidshe was breathing again. Hed never known she was, too, out of breath. Or, he had, but it hadnt seemed important. Shed always just handled things, been present, keeping life ticking, and hed never asked: did she want this? Did she even like it? Hed assumed she was fine, part of the furniture of a life he now found too crampednever suspecting she might have felt caged, too, only from the ironing board.
The kettle whistled.
He poured tea into the chipped mug and sat at the table.
Out the window, the snow had started properly now, settling soft and white on the sill.
Simon picked up the phone, scrolled his contacts, found: Tom.
Then he put the phone down.
Then picked it up once more.
Tom, hi. Dad here. Just calling, nothing urgent. Are you busy?
No, Dad, Tom said, a bit surprised. Not busy.
How are you?
Im good. Working. Youve got snow down there?
Just started.
Ours too.
They were silent a moment. Good silence. Living silence.
Dad, Tom said. Are you alright?
Simon looked out at the steady snowfall, knowing very little for sure just yet.
Im figuring it out, he said.
All right, Tom replied. Call if you want anything.
I will. You too. Dont just wait for Christmas, best ring me sometimes.
Deal, said Tom.
They said their goodbyes. Simon drank his tea. It wasnt bad tea.
Snow filled the window.
***
Over in her own warm, softly-lit flat, Susan was watching the snow too. Coffee in hand; Graham had already left for the day, not one for staying overa quiet agreement, no hurry in these things.
She found herself thinking of Simonnot with pain or joy, just as you do about someone whos woven through half your life. She pictured him at the door, daftly large, clutching flowers, wearing the stunned look of someone whom life has finally taught a lesson.
She wasnt angry anymore. The angersoft and backgroundhad surprised her at first, but vanished over time, leaving a firmness in its place.
Hed grown bored of the routine, but shed done all the chores, set the routines, given up thinking about whether she was bored as wellno time for that.
Now the anger had gone, replaced with calm.
She messaged Jackie: yoga tomorrow? Jackie replied almost instantly: Was waiting for you to ask. Yes.
Susan smiled, set down her mug.
It snowed outside her window, too.
***
That evening, Simon rang the landlord to extend the lease a couple more months.
No trouble, just cash upfront, came the reply.
He went to Wilko, bought three brand-new mugs with perfect rims. (Why three? Who knew.) Stopped at Tesco, bought proper groceries: chicken stock, onions, carrots, potatoes. Followed a recipe found on his mobilefour steps; the last one said season to taste.
He stood over the pot pondering what to taste even meant. Added some salt, tasted, added more. A tad salty, but edible enough.
He ladled soup (not into the mug, found a bowl in the cupboard), sat down.
Quiet. Soup tasted just fine.
***
Life carried on, as it does: no announcements. Susan kept up with yoga, sometimes saw Graham, an easy-going presence who knew not to hurry her. Simon soldiered on in Elm Lane, made soup, called Tom now and then, saw Peter and Andy for the odd pint.
They didnt file for divorcenot out of a conscious decision, just general inertia born of tiredness.
Once, Susan saw him in Waitrose on Primrose Road, mulling over a bottle of kefir with the gravitas of a doctor deciphering charts.
She came up behind.
Simon.
He turned. They looked each other over. He seemed okaythinner, maybe a little more awake.
Hi, Sue.
Hi. You look alright.
So do you.
Pause.
Getting kefir? she nodded.
Yeah, cant decide.
This ones good, she indicated a brand.
Thanks.
He took it. She grabbed her own and moved on. Their queues at the checkouts ran side by side. They finished at the same time.
So, he said. Bye.
Bye, Simon.
She turned right. He turned left.
