DIFFERENT PEOPLE
Arthurs wife, he thought as he looks back now, was always a bit peculiar. Beautiful, yesstriking, with fair hair and startling dark eyes, tall and graceful with the kind of figure that drew stares. And in bed, she had been a flame, wild and full of life. At first, their love had been a whirlwindno time to ponder, only passion. Then she fell pregnant, and, as one does, they married properly.
Their son was born, just as blonde and dark-eyed as his mother. Life carried on like it does for everyone else: nappies, sleepless nights, first words, the excitement of those hesitant first steps. For a few years, Eleanor was like any young mothercooing fondly, fretting, loving fiercely.
Later, when their boy became a teenager, Eleanor found herself lost in photography. Always snapping photos, always off to some class or another, her camera never far from hand.
What more could you need? Arthur would ask, exasperated. Youre a solicitor, focus on your work.
A solicitor, shed correct gently, as if that made all the difference.
Well, solicitor then. Give more attention to the family, instead of disappearing Lord knows where.
He never quite understood why it annoyed him. She kept the houseit was always tidy, dinner on the table, the boys lessons managed, and when Arthur came home from the office, hed lie on the settee watching the telly, just as any man might. Yet something rankled: his wife, though present, always seemed to vanish into thin air, into some world where he had no place. Shed feed him, then drift away, never watching television with him, never discussing any of it. He felt, ultimately, as if she was slipping away and there was nothing he could do about it.
Are you my wife or not? Arthur would grumble, finding Eleanor absorbed at the computer again.
Shed say nothing, drawing into herself.
Eleanor also enjoyed travellingfar-off lands with names Arthur had no interest in, always packing that camera, always venturing alone. Take a proper holiday! hed plead. Lets visit the Johnsons at their place, theyve got a new conservatory and their homemade gin is smashing. We really ought to buy a cottage ourselves.
Eleanor declined, though shed invite him along on her trips. He tried it oncedidnt enjoy it a bit. Everything strange, a language he couldnt make out, food too spicy or odd, and those sights she raved about simply left him cold.
So Eleanor began travelling alone. Then, quite suddenly, she left her job as well.
What about your pension? Arthur was scandalised. And who do you think you are, some great photographer? Do you know how much money it takes to make a name for yourself in that business?
Eleanor didnt answer. One day, barely audible, she told him, Im having my first exhibition. Its all my work, entirely mine.
Everyone has exhibitions these days, Arthur muttered. Thats nothing special.
But he went to the opening anyway. Didnt understand a thing. Pictures of facesnone of them attractive, and hands marked by age, gulls over the sea; all of it strange, like Eleanor herself.
Hed laughed about it to her at home, but then she went and bought him a car. Were one family, shed said. Enjoy it. Shed never even learnt to drive; she gave it to him as a gift. Earned the money with her photos, running about with commissions.
That unsettled him. Whered the money come from? Was it from other men? Surely, she couldnt make that sort of cash taking photographs. The thought gnawed at him. Was she playing him for a fool? Even if she wasnt, surely it was only a matter of time.
He even tried, sadly, to teach her a lessonjust a light slap. She snatched a kitchen knife, lashed out wildly, left him with two stitches across his stomach. Good thing she hadnt hit anything vital. Shed begged forgiveness afterwards, but he never raised a hand to her again.
She adored cats. Was always helping strays, bringing them home, nursing them back to health, finding homes for them. They always had two cats of their ownlovely, affectionate creatures, but not people. How could anyone love an animal more than their own husband?
Once, her cat died, the one she couldnt save, passed away in her arms right there at the vets. Eleanor was inconsolable. She drank brandy, wept, blamed herself. It went on for days. Arthur lost his patience and said sharply, Next youll be mourning the spiders!
He caught her eye, the look she gave him was heavy, so he fell silent, huffed, left her alone to her grief.
Friends sympathised, but Eleanors own mates took Arthurs side, saying she was too caught up in herself and had forgotten her place. Thats when Arthur found comfort in Molly, the girl next door and incidentally, Eleanors old childhood friend. Molly was simple, easier to read. She worked in the shops, never dabbled in the arts, always up for a chat or a tumble. She drank too much, but Arthur never planned to marry her
He waited for Eleanor to notice, to cause a scene, to smash a plate or two, to shout some accusation. Then hed say, And what about you? Where do you disappear to? Then, he thought, theyd forgive each others sins and perhaps patch things up. Molly could be dropped without fuss.
But Eleanor said nothing. Only looked at him with those dark eyes, and grew ever more distant, avoiding even his touch, moving into a separate room.
Their son grew up, finished at universitya copy of his mother: odd, fair-haired, dark-eyed.
So, when am I to expect grandchildren? Arthur would joke.
Dennis only laughed, saying he wanted to make something of himself first, to find true lovethat then, perhaps, hed make Arthur a grandfather. Foreign, strange. His mothers son. Eleanor and Dennis always had perfect understanding between them, could read each others minds. Arthur felt an outsider, unnerved beneath those black eyes he could never quite understand. Time and again, he returned to Molly for comfort.
Then Eleanor found outsomeone from the street told her. Arthur wasnt exactly hiding it. He came home one day to find her sitting quietly at the table, smoking. Her words, barely above a whisper: Get out. Out of my house.
Her eyes were black as night, bruised circles underneath.
Arthur left for Mollys. Waited for Eleanor to call him back. A week on, she messaged: We need to talk. He was relieved, showered, splashed on his best cologne.
As soon as he walked in, she said, Tomorrow, we go to file for divorce.
After that, it all moved in a haze: papers, signatures, giving up his share of the flatit had always belonged to her side, anyway.
So, what will you do now, live as a divorcee? he demanded as they left the Registrars. He almost added, Who would want you? but bit his tongue.
Eleanor smiled at him, for the first time in yearsgenuine and wide. Im moving to London. Ive been offered a significant project there.
Just dont sell the flat, he asked, though he couldnt say why. Where will you come back to?
I wont be coming back, she replied calmly. You see, Ive loved someone else for a while now. Hes a photographer too, from London. I find life fascinating with him. I thought, since I was married, cheating would be wrong, and we really had no reason to divorce. Were just different people. You dont divorce over that, do you?
No, you dont, Arthur confirmed quietly.
But here we are, divorced anyway, Eleanor laughed. I was furious when I found out about Molly, but later I realisedits all for the best. Ill be happy, and so will you. Marry her, let life be good for you both.
And she walked out.
I wont marry her, Arthur called after her.
But Eleanor never heard those words.
From that day, there were no tidings from her. Once a year, a short message on his birthday: Happy Birthday! Wishing you health and happiness. Thank you for our son.Best wishes, Eleanor.
Arthur would stare at the message a long time, every year, turning his phone over in his hand as if it could reveal more. He never replied. He told himself there was nothing left to say.
The flat stayed empty, though sometimes, dust motes spinning in the sun, he thought he could smell her perfume, faint as a memory behind the curtains. He saw Dennis at holidays, who brought clever friends and stories from distant places, always rushing to catch a train, never lingering. Molly drifted awaymarried a barman, had twins, sent a Christmas card once in a while.
In time, Arthur took to walking alone by the sea, where gulls swooped overhead and old stones glinted in the dusk. He carried a little camera, just a cheap onehe never told anyone why, but sometimes he would stop, wait for the light to fall across the salt-streaked rocks or the tangled nets, and click. He never showed these photos to anyone.
Years slipped past, and eventually, so did Arthur. When Dennis sorted through his things, he found beneath a stack of neatly ironed shirts a shoebox. Inside, dozens of faded printsold men mending nets, laughing women in café doorways, cats sleeping on windowsills, hands reaching, grasping, letting go. On the very last photo, a woman on a distant street, head thrown back in laughter, shadow sharp across her face.
Dennis smiled. In that moment, looking at those silent stories, he understood: sometimes, loving someonetruly loving themmeant letting them be someone else entirely.
He closed the box, the late sun warming his hands, and thought of his mother, somewhere out there, still chasing light.
