The Price of His New Life
Emma, I need to tell you something. Ive been thinking about it for quite a while.
Emma Harrington stood at the stove, stirring her soupjust your standard soup, with potatoes, carrots, and a bit of celery. She didnt turn around straight away. Something in Toms voice sounded differentnot his usual tone when talking about bills or work troubles. It was tighter, like it had been rehearsed.
Im listening, she said, continuing to stir.
No, youre not listening. Turn around, please.
She switched off the hob, laid down the spoon on the rest, and turned slowly.
Tom Harrington stood in the kitchen doorway. Fifty-two, tall, greying at the templesa look Emma once found dashing. He was holding his mobile. He wasnt looking at it, just holding it.
Im leaving, he said.
Emma felt something tighten under her left rib. Not pain, exactly, but a bracing for it.
Where? she asked, immediately knowing it was a foolish question. She couldnt think of another.
For good. Ive packed my things. My suitcase is in the hallway.
Tom.
Emma, dont. I dont want a scene.
Im not going to make a scene. She steadied herself with a speed that surprised her. Just explain. You owe me that.
He hesitated, switching the phone between his hands.
I cant do this any longer, he managed eventually. Im not ready to live with an invalid.
The silence was almost tangible. Outside, a car drove by. A door slammed somewhere. Something clattered in the pipes. In the kitchen, it was so quiet Emma could hear herself breathe.
What did you say? she asked, very softly.
I know it sounds harsh. But you asked. I cant spend the rest of my life looking at your scar, your medication, your sick notes. Youve changed, Emma. Youre not the same since the operation.
I gave you my kidney.
I know.
I gave you my kidney so you could live.
I know. He didnt avert his gazewhich was the worst bit. He didnt flinch. And Im grateful. You saved my life, and Ill always remember that. But gratitude cant tie me to a future with a person who
Who what?
Who isnt the same.
Emma walked slowly to the window. November outsidegrey, wet, the trees bare, puddles scattered across the tarmac. She looked at the view, not knowing how to feelshould she cry, scream, collapse?
Theres someone else, she said. Not a question. She just knew.
The pause was long enough to serve as a reply.
There is.
How long?
A few months.
She nodded. Still staring out.
Whats her name?
Emma, theres no need
Whats her name? she repeated.
Victoria.
How old is she?
Thirty-one.
Another nod. Somewhere in her mind, things clicked into place: his late returns, a new aftershave shed never bought, the way hed stopped asking how she was. Just stopped.
Are you leaving now? she asked.
Yes.
Alright.
She heard his steps in the hallway, the suitcase wheels on the wooden floor, the click of the front door. One clear click. That was it.
Emma stood at the window for another five minutes. Then she returned to the stove, switched it back on and picked up her spoon.
The soup needed finishing.
***
Three years earlier, when Tom was diagnosed with end-stage kidney failure, Emma hadnt hesitated. Shed offered straight away. The doctors checked for compatibility, she passed her tests, and in April two years past, they were both admitted to neighbouring beds in the same London hospital. She gave her left kidney. Her recovery was long, slow. Tom bounced back much faster.
For a few months after, she learned to live with one kidneyaches in her side, fatigue, diet, blood tests every three months. The scar on her left side never went, only softened, forever part of her now.
Meanwhile, Tom seemed to flourish. His cheeks pinked, he gained weight back, started going to the gym. Then a new suit appeared. Then new cologne.
Emma thought he was simply enjoying life again, making up for lost time. She was happy for himtruly.
She thought she was just a fool.
***
For the first fortnight after he left, Emma worked. It was all she knew to do automatically. She freelanced as a translator from homeGerman and English. Medical copy, legal, sometimes fiction. She sat at her laptop, translating other peoples words, relieved not to think of her own.
Her dinners were whatever would dobread, cheese, sometimes eggs. She turned in early; the silence in the flat was unbearable otherwise. Shed wake at four, lie there watching the ceiling until dawn.
Her friend Mary phoned every day.
Emma, have you eaten properly today?
Yes.
What did you have?
Oh, Mary, whats the point?
Im askingwhat did you eat?
Toast.
Thats not food. Im coming round tomorrow.
No need.
Im coming.
Mary Walker was her friend from university days. Both now fifty, Mary worked as a GP in a local surgery, remarried, looked after two grandchildren weekends and had a habit of speaking plainlyno frills, no softening.
Next day, she turned up and opened the fridge first thing.
My God, Emma, she said quietly, eyeing the near-empty shelves, you hardly eat at all, do you?
I eat.
What?
Well. Stuff.
Stuff. Mary shut the fridge, turned to her. You look as though someones rubbed you out. Your face has disappeared.
Thanks.
Thats not a compliment. Look, I know youre struggling. Its normal. But you cant just fade away.
Im not fading.
You are. Mary sat at the kitchen table and gestured her to do the same. Tell me. All of it.
Emma sat, staring at the tabletop.
He said he doesnt want to live with an invalid. Thats all.
Mary was silent for a long time.
What a bastard, she said after a while, flatly, just stating a fact.
No. Emma shook her head. Dont start. That wont help.
You need some anger. Its healthier than this.
Ive tried to be angry. I cant. Its just empty. And cold.
Mary sighed. Got up, put the kettle on, began rummaging in Emmas cupboards.
Do you know what depression really is? Mary asked over her shoulder. Its not sadness. Its emptiness. Thats what youre describing.
I know.
You wont see a counsellor, will you?
No.
So tell me this: are you sticking to your meds and test routine?
Yes. Thats automatic.
Good.
Mary found a packet of lentils and put a pan on. She didnt ask. Just started cooking, as though it was her own kitchen and shed done it for years.
This made Emma cry.
Her first tears for two weeks. Not a pretty cry; ugly, the sort that hurts when you try to keep it in.
Mary didnt rush to hug her, didnt say it would be alright. She simply turned down the heat and placed a piece of kitchen roll in front of her.
Have a weep, she said. Its good for you.
***
December passed in a blur. January dawned just a little sharper. Work helpedtexts that needed focus, other peoples words leaving no space for her own.
In February, Mary started talking about a health spa.
Emma, you need to go.
Where?
Theres this spa near the Cotswolds. Willow Waters. Lovely placerehab, physio, good walks. Rest, fresh air, beautiful woods.
Mary, Im hardly an invalid.
Youre a person who needs rest and a change of scene. Youve been holed up here four months. Youll soon be talking to the walls.
I already do.
Mary glared.
Its a joke, Emma clarified.
Youre going. I checked, theres a place in March. Three weeks, booked through your GP as convalescence. Youre due it after being a donor, you knowannual rehab.
You made that up.
I didnt. Check online if you like.
Emma didnt bother. She knew Mary was rightshe was festering here, degenerating quietly, and needed to do something.
Alright, she said at last. Ill go.
***
Willow Waters was exactly as Mary described. An old Victorian building, modernised, set in a big park with pines and meandering gravel paths. Out from the window of her room she could see a pond, frozen over in March, its ice pink at sunrise.
The first two days, Emma barely left her roomtreatments, meals, her room again. She read books, did a bit of translation work, even though shed told all her clients she was taking a break.
The third day, she went out.
The park was almost deserted. A few older people on benches. Two ladies doing power walking with poles. A man with a dog.
Emma walked slowly, listening to the crunch of gravel, the sound of birds in the pines. Her mind drifted. It was good to have no thoughts at all.
By the pond stood a wooden bench. She sat and stared at the ice.
Mind if I join you?
She turned. A man about fifty, stocky, in a navy blue coat, gestured to the seat.
Please do, she said, shufflingthough there was plenty of room.
He sat. Looked at the pond too.
Beautiful, isnt it, he said after a while. Still frozen in March.
Yes.
Last year, they said, it thawed in February. Strange.
Its my first time here, so I wouldnt know.
My second. Last time was October. NowMarch.
She didnt ask why hed come. Around a spa, everyone already knew neighbours werent here for the fun of it.
When did you arrive? he asked.
Three days ago.
I got in yesterday. He stretched his left leg forward, cautiously, as if feeling it. The legs still not behaving. Hoping the physio will do the trick.
Emma noticed he sat unevenly, slanted a little.
Was it an injury? she found herself asking, surprising even herself.
Yes. Last September. Broken back. Not paralysed, thankfullyI can walk, as you see. But not quite right yet.
Im sorry.
He looked almost bemused. No need to be sorry. You didnt push me.
No. I justit must be tough.
It was. But I had a lot of time to think. He smiled faintly. Thats supposed to be good for you, apparently.
Emma caught herself smiling backawkwardly, a little forced, but a smile all the same.
Simon, he said, extending his hand.
Emma.
They shook. Briefly, businesslike.
Ill carry on, he said, rising slowly. They say I must do at least forty minutes a day. Feels like a marathon at the moment.
All the best.
And to you.
He set off down the pathcareful, an uneven stride, but upright, unbent.
Emma turned her view back to the ice.
For the first time in four months, she just was. Not happy, not sad. Just present.
***
Next day, they ended up having breakfast together by chance. She chose the window tablethe only one freeand when Simon came in with his tray, she nodded.
If you want.
Thank you.
At breakfast, hardly a word was exchanged. He scrolled through his phone, she watched the birds. Then he set his phone aside.
Youre a translator, arent you?
She blinked. Why do you think so?
Saw you reading a German dictionary at lunch yesterday. Paper one. Unusual these days.
You noticed.
Im good at noticing, he said, not boastful, just matter-of-fact. So, a translator?
Yes. Medical, legal, sometimes fiction.
Fascinating. Im an architect. Or wasIm still working out what now.
Why not an architect now?
My hands are fine. Just my back. He shrugged slightly. Well see.
You cant not work?
Not so much physical, as he tapped his palm on the table. Its a way of thinking. About space. About the world. You see things differently. Itssurfacing, a need.
I understand, Emma said. Translations similar. You switch your mind into another language, another logic. If I dont do that, Im missing something.
Exactly.
They were silent. In a good way, not uncomfortable.
How long are you here for? he asked.
Three weeks.
Me too. Well bump into each other.
Seems likely.
***
While Emma was watching the icy pond with Simon and talking dictionaries and architecture, Tom Harrington was living a very different life.
He couldnt quite believe how well he felt. After three years of illness and dialysis, of resenting his own body, suddenly it worked. He could get up not thinking about medication first thing. He could have a glass of wine at dinner without worryingwell, almost. The restrictions now felt nothing compared to the past.
Victoria was part of that new lifethirty-one, blonde, her phone glued to her hand, brimming with energy Tom envied. She worked at a travel agency and seemed always to have plans.
Tom, look what I found! Shed show him photos on her mobilemountain trails, turquoise seas, cliffs. Montenegro, April. There are some easy hikes, stunning views. What do you think?
Brilliant, he replied. Because it really was. A year ago, hed thought hed never go anywhere again.
They moved into his flat. Victoria brought boxes, changed the furniture, hung new curtains. Tom didnt mind. They were nice curtains.
Now and then, rarely, he thought of Emma. Not regret, exactlysomething else, a sort of discomfort he refused to call guilt. Shed been good to him. Done something extraordinary. But living with someone whos illor who you see as illis different. It drags you down, he thought. He needed lifting up.
Thats how he justified it. And it worked.
At work, colleagues noticed.
Harrington! Swapped you for someone younger, have they? joked Alex from the stationery department, clapping Tom on the back. Nice trade.
Lifes looking up, Tom replied.
It really was. Montenegro in April. September, IcelandVictoria wanted to see the Northern Lights, Tom wanted to do everything hed missed.
Iceland was cold and windy. They rented a car, drove down empty roads. Victoria filmed everything, Tom felt wonderful.
He loved this pace, feared losing it.
***
Back at Willow Waters, days passedthe gentle routine of treatments, walks, meals. Emma slowly grew into habits: pine baths in the mornings, then breakfast, a long walk, a nap after lunch (the physio wore her out), evenings with a book or gazing out at dusk.
Simon kept similar hours. They often crossed paths in the park.
Managed thirty-six minutes today, he announced, flopping onto their bench on the fourth day.
Targets forty.
I know. Ran out of gas. He eyed the ice, where patches were now melting. Makes me cross with myself.
No need. Youre recovering from a broken back in five months. No reason to be cross.
He looked at her. You translate medical stuff. I can tell.
How so?
Youre realistic. No fussing. Most people overdo things or play them down. Well done, you!, Oh, youll be finewhatever. You just said what is.
I dont know if things will be fine, said Emma honestly. Im not your doctor.
He smiled. Honesty. Rare thing.
She thought he was right. In these last months, shed heard plenty of youll be fine and youre strong. No one said just, honestly.
How did it happen? she asked, and quickly added, You dont have to answer.
A building site, he replied simply. Site inspections are part of the job. The scaffolding failedI went with it, from the third floor.
And?
And survived. No drama, just statement. Odd, really. When youre laying there, everythings a blank, but then First, you realise youre alive. Then you realise you hurt. Then you start working out exactly how and how badly.
Was it a long recovery?
Long. He watched the pond. Did a lot of thinking, as I said.
What about?
All sorts. He paused. That Id built homes all my life yet never had a proper one myself. That I hardly spoke to my son lately. That maybe it was all for the besta jolt.
Some jolt.
Cant argue there. Life isnt stylish.
Emma laughed. Softly, surprising herself.
Havent heard you laugh before, Simon said.
Weve been acquainted three days.
Exactly. Not once before that.
She let the silence hang, watching a black puddle form on the ice.
Are you married? he askedno flirting, just straight.
I was. Not anymore.
How long?
He left four months ago. Pause. After I” she almost stopped there, but decided to continue, I gave him my kidney. He left after, well, after, because he said he didnt want to live with an invalid.
Simon didnt speak for a long while. She waited. People usually said things. How dreadful. Unbelievable. How could he?
That must have hurt, was all he said. Quietly.
Yes, Emma replied. It hurt.
***
By mid-March, the ice had vanished. The water turned slate grey, then blue on warm days, mist rising at dawn.
They walked together by unspoken agreement. Ten oclock each morning, after breakfast, at the entrance.
Simon walked slowly, as needed. Emma fell into his pace and found it suited her too. No hurry.
They talkeda lotabout work, architecture, languages, how your sense of space changes after injury, how the body adapts. Emma spoke of her scar, initially too painful to look at, then just another part of her.
Thats how it should be, said Simon. The bodys more honest than we are. It adapts, no fuss.
Do you look at your scar? she asked.
Its on my back. Hard to see. But I feel it every day.
What does it mean to you?
He thought a moment.
That Im here. That something happened, and Im still here. Thats enough.
Emma pondered that in the evenings, sitting at her window. Something happened, and Im here.
It was different to Toms philosophy. Tom wanted to forget what had happenedto start fresh, with a new body, a new woman, a new life.
Simon, with his uneven stride, said simply: being here is enough.
Emma didnt know what she thought of that yet. But it was something to consider.
***
On the second week, they began having tea in the evenings. The lounge had soft armchairs and a little table. Emma brought biscuits Mary had sent; Simon paid for tea from the vending machine.
Tell me about your son, Emma asked one evening.
Anthony. Twenty-six. Lives in Manchester, a programmer. Married last yearnice girl, Ive met her once. We havent fallen out, reallyjust drifted. I was always busy. He more or less raised himself.
Did you talk after your accident?
He came, when I was still in hospital. Sat with me. Pause. Lifes odd. It can take a crisis just to get two people talking.
I know. She wrapped her hands round her mug. I have a daughter. Kate. Twenty-three. When Tom left, she wanted to come up. I wouldnt let her.
Why not?
I didnt want her to see me then. Didnt want to be pitied, not by her. Im her mum. Mums supposed to be”
To be what?
Herself. Not someone to be pitied.
He nodded. Pride or self-defence?
Both, probably.
Does she know youre here?
Yes. We call often. She wants to visit at weekends. Ill think about it.
Let her.
Emma looked at him.
Why?
Because she cares. Not out of pitylove. He set down his tea. I stopped Anthony coming for a long time, thought I could manage alone. I couldbut when he came, it was better than struggling alone.
You werent afraid of seeming weak?
I was. But sons see it anywaychildren always know more than we imagine.
Emma nodded. Didnt reply. But next day, she phoned Kate and said she could visit next weekend.
***
Tom was looking at a volcano in a travel advert, daydreaming about how beautiful it would be.
Victoria, look, he said, offering her the brochure. Acatenango, Guatemala. We could climb that.
She studied it. Four thousand metres, Tom. Youve never hiked in the mountains before.
I never did anything before. Its different now.
But the doctor said”
He said moderate exertion. Walking counts. Its just a trek, not alpine climbing.
She deliberated, then nodded. Fine. When?
Autumns the best season. October.
Ill look at tours.
She scrolled on her phone. Tom picked up the brochure, gazed at the volcanoperfect cone above the clouds. Beautiful.
He thought of Emma only occasionally now. When mutual friends called and didnt know what to say, or at the chemist, seeing his immunosuppressants and remembering how Emma used to sort his tablets into a weekly organiser. Shed just produced the box one day. He did it himself now.
That, it turned out, he could do alone too, after all.
He no longer needed antidepressants. No gloom. His body was ticking along fine. Results normal. His nephrologist, Dr. Williams, always seemed to expect worse and was happily surprised.
Howre you feeling?
Great, Doctor.
Physical activity?
Nothing excessive.
Alcohol?
Minimal.
Still keeping to your diet?
Doing my best.
Good man, Dr. Williams would say, though his look held a note of concern. The transplants settled, but dont take things for granted.
I wont.
***
In the end, they didnt make it to Guatemala. Victoria found a Moroccan trip for Octobercities, markets, the desert. Camels.
Not a trek, but itll do, she said.
Agreed.
Morocco was hotthirty-five degrees. They wandered the souks, bartered, bought trinkets. Dinner was spicy lamb at a long table, washed down with mint tea.
Tom felt tired, but blamed the heat and travel.
On the third day, he ran a temperature.
Must be something I ate, he told Victoria.
Or heatstroke.
Probably.
A day in bed, then he was up again. Back to normal. Except a dull ache in his sidethe right, where Emmas kidney now sat.
Whats up? Victoria asked.
Just my side.
See a doctor?
No need. Probably the walking.
Back in England, the pain eased. Something residual remaineda shadow Tom refused to call anxiety.
***
Kate came to Willow Waters on Saturday. Tall like her father, but her mothers facedark hair, light eyes, bold brows.
She hugged Emma at the entrance, fiercely, for a long time.
Mum.
Kate.
They drank tea in the lounge. Kate spoke of work, her new flat, her boyfriend. Emma listened, struck by how her daughter had grown; shed become an adult, almost unnoticed.
How are you? Kate asked, straight to the point.
Better, Emma replied. It was true.
Is it nice here?
Yes. Quiet, and the woods are lovely. So are the people.
Kate gave her mother a lookreading between the lines.
What people?
A pause.
Theres a man. An architect. Recovering too. Hes decent.
Decent, Kate echoed, a glint in her eye.
Dont.
Mum, Im not saying anything.
Your tone says enough.
Im glad, if youre finding someone interesting, Kate said simply. Really glad.
Emma looked at her daughter.
Youve grown up.
Thats about time, dont you think?
Simon came into the lounge late afternoon as Emma and Kate chatted. He looked to be passing by, then turned and nodded.
Hello.
Hello. Kate, this is Simon. Simon, my daughter.
Pleasure, he said, shaking Kates hand. You like it here?
Its lovely. The woods are beautiful.
Yes. His glance lingered on Emma. Ill leave you to it. See you tomorrow.
See you.
When hed gone, Kate was quiet for a while.
Mum, she said eventually.
Yes?
Nothing. Just She smiled. Its good.
***
The final week at the spa was slow and gentle. The snow gone, the park showing the first flush of green, birds making such a racket that Emma woke before her alarm, but didnt mind.
She walked daily with Simon. His steps grew steadierforty minutes became an hour, then eighty minutes. He didnt crow about it, just noted his progress.
Hour and twenty-seven today. Nearly no stops.
Good.
Legs behaving now. Physio says three or four more months and Ill be back to normal.
Thats great news.
Yes. He paused. Im thinking of visiting Anthony in Manchester. Not for any special reason. Just to see him.
Just because?
Exactly. He looked away out at the trees. You were right about Kate. She came out of love, not pity. I could see it, when she arrived.
Youre very observant.
Its my job. Architects are more interested in the space between things than the things themselves.
Emma turned this over. Thats beautiful.
Its practical. But he smiled. Emma, can I be bold?
Depends how bold.
When were home, may I ring you?
She stopped. So did he. They stood in the path, pines and new green shoots around, the pond gleaming through the trees.
Yes, you may.
Good, he saidnot thrilled, but steady, as if this was important and deserved no less.
They walked on.
***
She returned home late March. The flat was the same but not, somehow. Or she was different.
First thing, she flung all the windows openit was chilly, but Emma wanted fresh air. Made a shopping list and went out, came back ladenchicken thighs, greens, tomatoes, all the bits for a proper meal.
Cooked, radio on.
Mary rang at eight.
Well? Back, then?
Yes, back.
Go onhow was it?
Really good. Authentically good.
I can tellyour voice is different. Whats happened?
I met someone.
Long pause.
Details, please, Mary demanded, adopting a new tone.
Emma told her, brieflyname, age, architect, injury, slow walks in the park, evening tea.
Will he call?
He said he would.
Good, said Mary. And, softer, Good.
Simon rang the next evening.
***
They started datingslowly, if any word fit best, it was slowly.
Two weeks later, they met at a small restaurant near his flat in central London. Simon lived alone, divorced years ago, before the injury. His ex-wife was in Birmingham now, new family.
We parted fairly, he said. No bitter words, just wanted different things.
What did she want?
Stabilityme home at six, office work. I lived on sites, off on jobs, all over.
Did Anthony live with her?
Till sixteen. Then tried with me, then moved north for university. He tore some bread. Wasnt a bad father. Justdistant. Its different.
A bit different, Emma agreed.
They ate. Rainy April outside, streetlights on wet tarmac.
Theres something you ought to know, he began.
Emma looked up.
Dont know what pace Ill manage, generally. Im slow. Even slower now. If you can live with that, wonderful. If not, thats okay.
I can, she replied. Im not fast either.
I noticed. In the park, you werent hurrying. Its good. Means you know where youre going.
Emma thought it was the strangest, but also the truest, compliment shed ever received.
***
They saw each other once a week, sometimes twicewalks, dinners, talkinghis projects, her work. His medical appointments, hers. Sometimes, theyd wait for each other at the surgery and go for a coffee thereafter.
In May, Simon invited her to an exhibitiona small architectural biennale, in a converted warehouse. Models, drawings, photographs of buildings.
This one, he stopped at a model of a small house. My last project before the accident.
Tell me.
He didabout the design, the light the windows should bring at certain times. He was so intent she didnt want to interrupt.
Is it built?
Getting there. Id like to visit, come autumn.
Take me?
He turned. She realised shed just called him you, informal now.
I will, he said, informally too.
Something gentle and important changed in that moment. Quietly, no fanfare. Just a word.
***
That summer, Tom Harrington felt things begin to slip.
It started with blood results. Dr. Williams called himselfunusual.
Mr Harrington, Im a bit concerned about your latest results. Id like a chat.
What exactly?
Slight drop in kidney function. Maybe a rejection event starting. Well adjust your medication.
Rejection? Tom didnt believe it.
Early signs. Were on top of it. Stick to the plan, chances are itll settle. But theres a caveat
Whats that?
Your activity. What have you done these last few months?
He told himMontenegro, Iceland, Morocco. Dr. Williams pressed his lips together.
Mr Harrington, a transplanted kidney isnt your own. It functions, but in a foreign body, managed by medication you mustnt skip. Heat lowers their effect. Altitude, too. Abrupt climate changes challenge the immune system.
You did warn me?
I did. Did you listen?
Tom said nothing.
I wont scold you, said the doctor. But you need to get this. Youre not a healthy man living life to the fullyou’re a transplant patient. Its different.
Tom left the surgery, sat in his car for a while.
Two people, young and laughing, walked by with shopping bags.
He felt something he didnt want to feel.
***
Victoria was mindful after the test results, for a few days at least. Then she started to get a little short-tempered. She didnt say it, but Tom could tell.
Victoria, I have to adjust my routine. Doctor says, less activity, for now.
Of course, she said, folding things into her wardrobe, not turning. Get better and well get back to it.
Its not the flu. Its
I know what it is. She faced him finally. Im not saying anything bad. Just have some rest, get better, and things will be fine.
And if theyre not?
She looked at him.
They will be, she said. No need to be dramatic.
He realised he wasnt being dramaticjust asking.
***
That autumn, there was no Guatemala trip. Or anywhere, actually.
Tom stayed in, read a lota habit that felt unsettling. After three years of illness, hed wanted nothing more than to move. Being housebound again frightened him.
Victoria started coming home later. Sometimes didnt come at all, rang to say she was at a friends and staying over. He didnt check. Didnt want to know.
In November, they arguedover New Years plans, but it was about something else.
Tom, you have to understand I cant do this, she saidnot cruelly, but tired. Youre ill, youre anxious. I try talking, but youre not really here.
Sorry.
Thats not it. The truth is She stopped.
You expected something else?
Pause.
I dont know what I expected, she admitted. But not this.
He understood.
Oddly, his first thought wasnt about Victoria.
He thought of Emma.
How shed spoken to him after the operationcalm, matter-of-fact. How sorting tablets was just like sorting the weather. How being unwell near her felt normal.
He tried to shove that thought away.
***
By Christmas, Emma knew she was happy. It was quiet, a little surprising knowledgenot tempestuous, not exuberant. But she woke each day glad for it.
She and Simon met almost every day by then. Simon was fully mobile again by Octoberno more limp. He joked about how he still slowed up out of habit.
Stop dawdlingyou walk fine! Emma said one day.
Force of habit, he said. I walked slow for so longit stays with you. Maybe its not bad.
That October, they went to see the house hed designed near Marlow, on a quiet estate. The builders were finishing up. Simon walked the floors, peered from windows, checked some invisible things.
Emma stood by the upstairs window, looking at the garden and trees.
Its wonderful, she said.
Yes, he said beside her. Im happy with it.
He stood close, shoulder to shoulder.
Emma, he said.
Yes?
Id like you to live here one day. If you want.
She was silent a long time.
One day, she said at last.
That an answer?
Its an honest one, she smiled. Im not quick.
I know, he smiled back. Neither am I.
They watched the gold leaves in perfect autumn light.
***
In January, Mary rang.
Emma, have you heard?
About what?
Tom.
Emma felt a jolt, an old reflex shed nearly forgotten.
Whats happened?
Hes in hospital. Kidney complications, Mary spoke carefully. I heard from Sarah, his colleagues wife. It sounds serious. And that Victorias left him.
Emma stood by the window. Grey January outside.
Thank you.
For telling you?
Yes. I needed to know.
And how are you, Emma?
Im fine. Honestly, Mary. Im fine.
She put down the phone and watched outside for a while. Something moved inside her, a complicated feelingnot gloating, not pitysomething steadier, like deep understanding.
She phoned Simon.
Hi. Just wanted to hear your voice.
Youre hearing it, he said, smiling.
Are you free tonight?
Yes.
Come over. Ill cook something proper.
On my way.
***
Tom was discharged in February, thinner, his face changednot older, exactly, just different, as if reality had pressed down on him too long and hed stopped pretending otherwise.
He was aloneVictoria had taken her things before he got home. Theyd parted politely, almost sadly. Not angry, just two people realising their mistake.
His flat was silent. Her curtains still hung there; he meant to change them, but didnt.
He thought about Emmaat first, rarely; then more and more. Eventually, she took over whole hours.
He realised he wasnt really thinking about how shed felt, but about what shed donehow well she could be there, not resenting it. How she sorted his tablets, talked calmly about difficult things.
He realised that was exactly the sort of person he needed. Now, he saw it clearly.
He found her number in an old mobile. Stared at it for a long time.
Dialled.
She picked up on the third ring.
Tom, she said. Not a question. Just a statement.
Emma. Hi.
Hi.
How are you?
Im well. You?
Youve probably heard
I have.
Pause.
May I come round? To talk.
A pause.
Alright. You can come.
***
He rang the bell on Sunday at four. Emma opened at once, as if expecting him.
He looked older. Not in yearsjust, altered. Life-worn.
Come in.
Thanks.
He stepped inside. Looked around. The place was the same, but different. New books on the shelf. A floral scent.
Sit. Tea?
Please. Thank you.
She went to the kitchen. Tom sat in the living room, glanced at a photoKate, very young. Emma, laughingthirty-five, maybe.
When Emma returned with tea, he hesitated.
Emma, I know Ive no right to ask
Tom.
No, let me say it. I understand now. I was wrong. What I said, what I didthat was
No need to explain.
There is. He swallowed. Emma, I want to ask if we can start again. I know how it must sound. But Ive changed. I know what I want. Who I want.
Emma put her cup down, looked at him intently.
Who exactly do you want, Tom?
You.
Meor a carer?
He hesitated.
Isnt that the same thing?
No. Her voice was steady, not unkindcalm, as though shed pondered this many times. Youre here not because you missed me, but because you cant bear being ill alone. Because you now know you need someone who wont flee at the first sign of trouble. And you remembered I was that person.
Emma
Let me finish. Im not angry, Tom. I want you to know that. Its been a year and a half, and Im not angry. Im better, actually. Because Ive found what you destroyed.
What did you find?
Me. She paused. And, someone new.
He looked at her, taken aback.
Theres someone? Not a question.
Yes.
Since when?
Since spring. She took her cup. Hes a good man, Tom. Hes been ill. He knows what its likenot in theory, but deep down.
Tom said nothing, staring at the table.
You should have hated me, he said softly. More than you do.
I told you. I wasnt angry. I was empty. It passed, eventually.
How?
Its not a thing you do alone, she said quietly. People helpedMary, the spa, time. And someone who stayed, not ran.
I ran.
Yes.
Because I was frightened.
I know, Tom. You were scared of the scar, pills, weakness. You thought illness meant the end of normal life. But you were wrongits just life, differently. And different can be good.
I want to come back.
Tom, she shook her headgently, weary, calm. You want to come back because you need looking after, and thats honest. But its not love. You know that.
What if it is?
If it had been, you wouldnt have left.
He went silent.
I dont know how to live now, he confessed. Quiet, unadorned.
Thats a good start, Emma said. Not knowing makes you think. Have you thought, these months?
Yes.
And what conclusion?
That I was He stopped. I was shallow. I thought you had to live fast, brightly, always moving. Then you find theres nothing underneath.
Its something, at least, to see that.
Its empty, unless you have someone.
You have to be needed, Tom, but not just for the care you geta relationship means you give, too. Do you get that?
He didnt answer.
You were ill, and I helpedgave you a way out. Afterwards, you called me an invalid. You thought disability was just of the body. But the real kind is when a person can think only of their own comfort, cant stay when its hard, runs because theyre scared.
He sat, listened; not hurt, just changed, somehow.
I cant start again, Emma said. Not out of resentment, just because theres no point. You cant rebuild on foundations that have fallen apart. You must begin anew. With someone else.
Thats not a criticism?
No. Its just the truth.
He got up slowly, reached for his jacket.
Ill go, then.
Alright.
At the door, he paused.
Are you happy now?
She didnt answer at once.
Yes, she said. Not as before. Different. But yes.
He nodded.
Thats good, he said, softly, sincerely.
The door closed behind himnot with a slam, just quietly.
***
Emma stood in the hall. Listened to the lift, a distant door closing, traffic outside.
Then she took out her mobile and sent a message: Hes gone. Alls fine. Where are you?
Almost at once: By the river. Come.
She grabbed her coat, keys, and left.
Inside the stairwell, all was quiet. Outside, cold but not unpleasant; February air, dry and steady.
She walked at her normal pace. Knew where she was going.
***
Simon was leaning on the railings, watching the Thames. He heard footsteps, turned.
Long ride? Emma asked.
Quick on the underground. He studied her. Are you alright?
Truly. What did he want?
To start afresh.
And did you explain?
Yes.
Did he understand?
I dont know. Something sank in, I think. He was much quieter.
Life changes people.
It changes those willing to change, Emma said. The others, it just bends, or breaks.
Simon nodded.
They stood together, the river dark, February breeze rippling the water. No ice this yeara mild winter.
Simon, Emma said.
Yes?
Remember what you told me at the spa? That something happened and Im here, and thats enough?
I do.
I didnt understand then, she said, gazing at the river. I do now.
How so?
That enough isnt little. Its a lot, reallya lot. Being here. As you are. No race. Thats the very thing.
He didnt ask what. He understood.
They stood at the riverside, shoulder to shoulder, cold wind not cutting, the west sky tinged gently with the last of winters light.
He didnt take her hand straight away. Just stood there. Then, after a while, his fingers touched hersnot demanding. Just there. As if knowing that hurry wasnt needed, and that was exactly right.
She didnt pull away.
The river flowed.
