Heat It Up Yourself
Rose Sinclair put a pot of vegetable stew on the kitchen table and gave her husband a look. Harold was already sitting there, nose buried in his phone, not bothering to look up at the clatter.
Theres no spoon, he mumbled, eyes glued to the screen.
Theyre in the holder, as always, she replied.
I can see them. Hand me one.
Rose grabbed a spoon and placed it next to his plate. He didnt say thank you. He never did. After thirty-one years, she supposed shed stopped expecting it, but today, something inside her twingednot the old dull ache, but a quick, sharp pinch. It felt as though a tiny icicle had pricked her heart and started to melt.
This stews cold, Harold declared, finally looking away from his phone.
Its just off the hob.
Im telling you, its cold. Or do you not believe me?
Rose said nothing. She walked to the window. Outside, December snow tumbled down, thick and slow, smothering the London terrace houses in a hush. The snow always seemed different on New Years Eve, shed always thoughtgrander, quieter. It was as if the air around them sensed that something just had to end and something else was supposed to begin.
Heat it up, he called from behind her.
She turned. Harold was once more absorbed in his phone.
You can shove it in the microwave yourself.
A pause followeda long onein which Rose could hear the clock ticking in the hallway, the neighbours clinking dishes through the wall, and, somewhere below, someone slamming the communal front door.
What did you say? Harold eventually asked.
I said you can heat it up yourself. Press Start, two minutes. Youll manage.
Harold finally looked up. He wore the face of a man who had just heard some breaking, impossible news. Utterly absurd.
Rose.
Yes?
Are you feeling alright?
Im fine.
He stared at her for longer than usual, the way a landlord might check whether a flats still in one piece.
Go on, heat it for me.
Rose stood at the window for a moment longer. Then, with a sigh born of habit, she turned, went to the stove, and turned on the heat under the pot. Because after thirty-one years, routine is stronger than one little morning prickle to the heart. She knew that. But the melting icicle just kept on dripping away.
Rose had met Harold when she was twenty-two, working in the planning office of a small Essex factory. He was a floor supervisortall, confident, a man with the sort of smile that said, Trust me, I know whats what. Rose hadnt realised then that the smile wasnt confidence in himself, but confidence in making decisions for everyone else. That became clear only much later.
The first three years went by decently enough, then little Jamie was born, and somehow Harold started shifting everything onto herchild, house, dinner, laundry, parents, birthdays, sniffles, school meetings. Harold worked. That was the final word in any argument. Im slogging away all dayyou expect me to do dishes as well? Rose worked, too, of course, but apparently that didnt count.
A long time ago, shed stopped calling it a relationship. It was just life. As it was. An endless line-up of days in which she only ever did things: cooked, cleaned, ironed, shopped, visited his mother, fetched Jamie from nursery when their daughter-in-law needed her. Still, she managed to find little pieces of herself: books, her best friend Linda, evening phone chats when Harold wandered off to dominate the telly.
Linda was a proper matetheyd been friends since Year Eight. Linda married late, at thirty-eight, to a widower with two kids, and turned out he was a lovely man. Rose sometimes envied hernot with malice or bitterness, more with a gentle, knowing sigh. The way one might envy someone whod figured out something youd never quite managed.
Rose, how long are you going to put up with this? Linda would ask down the line. Thats the fifth time this month youve rung me to talk about stew. Different stews. Same story.
They really are new stories each time.
No, Rose. Its always the same story, with a different stew. Do you see the difference?
Rose could hear it. She just didnt know what to do about it. At fifty-three, after three decades of what Linda called a toxic family, its rather a challenge to up and change your life. And go where? To whom? Their son was married, had his own flat now, his own life. The house belonged to both her and Harold. She still had work, thank goodnessRose was an accountant in a small building firm. The director, Paul Evans, appreciated her: Rose, youre the backbone of our accounts! hed say, and for once, it meant something. That part was real.
But today something had changedshe felt it physically, like noticing the weather turning. Something had clicked. The little icicle in her heart that had started melting in the morning was quite gone by lunchtime, replaced by a warm drop of something unfamiliar. Rose wasnt sure what to make of that warmth.
That afternoon, her son called.
Mum, you and Dad coming round for New Years?
Dont know yet, Jamie.
What dyou mean you dont know? Its the thirty-first already. Katies making potato salad, and a pie. Do come.
Ill ask your father.
Mum, Jamie paused. You alright?
Im alright.
Are you sure?
Rose peered at the steady snow. Of course, she said, and hung up.
Harold lay stretched across the sofa, news blaring from the telly about weather in the Midlands. Rose entered and stood in the middle of the sitting room.
Jamies invited us for New Years.
Its miles away.
Forty minutes on the Tube.
Wed get back late.
I could sleep over.
Where? The floor? Isnt that little Archie on the camp bed?
Katie said they bought a chair-bed.
Not going. My backs giving me grief.
Rose nodded. Harolds back was only a problem if he needed to go anywhere for the children or help out. No trouble at all when he went fishing, funny enough. He went every summer and came home right as rain.
Alright. Ill go, then.
What?
I said, Ill go. Alone. You can stay, what with your bad back.
Pause. That look again.
What do you mean alone? Its New Year!
Exactly. Which is why I want to spend it with our son and grandson. Join us if you change your mind.
She headed to the hallway and reached for her bag on the top wardrobe shelf. Her hands were shaking a little, but it wasnt weakness. It felt a bit like determination.
Rose, have you lost your mind? He was now filling the doorway, large, cross-faced, folding his arms in that way that signalled the discussion is over.
No, she said, without looking back. Perfectly sane.
Youre leaving on New Years? Alone?
Im going to see Jamie. Not the same thing.
Rose!
She turned around and really looked at him. For thirty-one years, shed seen things in that face that probably had never really been there. Shed seen care where there was only routine, seen love where there was only possession. Now she just saw an older man, put out, who was used to things being convenient for him.
Ill be back tomorrow, she said. Or the day after. Havent decided.
She put on her coat, wound a scarf round her neck, picked up her bag. He was muttering something behind her: selfishness, your age, shameful, always like this. She could recite them all by heart, a poem worn smooth by overuse, devoid of meaning.
She stepped out onto the landing.
The snow greeted her at oncelight, festive, scented with frost and the tang of clementines someone was carrying next door. Rose stopped on the front steps, put her face to the sky. Snowflakes tickled her cheeks, melted on her lashes.
She didnt remember the last time she stood like thatjust stood. Not doing anything. Not for anyone.
Linda answered on the third ring.
Rose? Whats happened?
Nothings happened, Linda. Im off to see Jamie for New Years. By myself.
A long silence.
By yourself?
Harold stayed behind. Bad back.
Rose. Lindas voice was edged with gentle pride. Rose, are you serious?
Absolutely.
You brilliant thing.
You say that as if Ive done something amazing.
You have. Maybe you dont feel it yet, but you have.
On the Tube, Rose rode nearly an hour with a change. The carriages were packed: everyone festive, balancing bags and boxes; faces flushed with a mix of stress and joy. Rose watched them, thinking shed never been much bothered about New Years. Not because it was a bad holiday, just because it was always the same: set the table, chop the salad, greet the guests, and eventually Harold would say something to deflate her mood completely.
Last year hed asked her friend Valerie, So, Valerie, still no sign of a husband then? Valerie had smiled, but Rose saw her back stiffen. Later, Rose had asked Harold not to say such things. Hed replied, Just a bit of fun. Dont you have a sense of humour?
His jokes, funny enough, rarely amused anyonemade people flinch instead.
Katie opened the door: young, pretty, flour on her hand.
Mrs Sinclair! Lovely to see you. Wheres Mr Sinclair?
He couldnt make it. Just me tonight.
Katie gave her a rapid, searching look, then enveloped her in a warm hug.
Come in, come in. Its a bit of a tip but its festive chaos.
Archie, the five-year-old grandson, charged in at full pelt, immediately latching onto Rose.
Granny! Grannys here! Granny, I wrote a letter to Father Christmas!
You did? What did you ask for?
A Meccano set! With a motor! And I wrote that I want you to come visit. Now youre here! It worked!
Rose laughedreally, properly laughed. It struck her she hadnt done that just for herself, for actual laughter, not out of politeness, for ages.
Jamie strode out of the kitchen, tea towel over his shoulder.
Mum! He hugged her the way he had as a boy. Good trip?
Fine. Havent travelled on the Tube on New Years in years. Everyone looks so smart.
Come and Ill make you some coffee. Or tea? Katie, coffee or tea?
Coffee, please, Rose said. Strong.
They sat in the kitchen while Katie rustled about with a massive pan, Archie zoomed around with a toy car, and Jamie kept glancing at his mumnot absentmindedly, but fully, thoughtfully.
Mum, honestlyare you alright?
Archie, dont run in the hall, youll fall, she said, as the boy rocketed past.
Mum.
Jamie, dont give me that look.
What look?
That look people get when theyre about to give you A Big Talk.
Jamie fiddled with his cup.
I just want you to be happy.
I know.
Are you?
Rose looked out the window, snow still falling, relentless and patient.
Im thinking about it, she said eventually. Which is a start.
The evening was genuinely enjoyableKatie was a smashing hostess, and her pies were so good that Rose asked for the recipe. Archie fell asleep at quarter to midnight, clutching his new Meccano, which Jamie produced from the cupboard at exactly eleven oclock. At midnight, they clinked glasses of fizzy elderflower Fizz Pop and Rose made a wish. She didnt say it out loud, but for the first time in forever, her wish was just for herself.
She went home on the second of January. Jamie insisted she stay longer. Katie chimed in, Archie put on dramatic tears and declared, Granny should live with us forever! But Rose returned. Running away was no answer. She couldnt leave her life, but she could change it.
Harold met her in the hallway, looking as he did when he was both sulking and trying not to admit hed been lonely.
Back again then?
Yes. How are you?
How do you think? Spent New Year alone.
I did ask you to come.
My back hurt.
I remember.
She went to the bedroom, left her bag, started unpacking. He loomed in the doorway.
Well? Arent you going to apologise?
Rose didnt immediately answer. She hung her coat, took off her boots, finally turned.
What should I apologise for?
For abandoning your husband at Christmas.
Harold, you could have come. You chose to stay. Thats on you, not me.
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Tried again.
Whats going on with you?
With me? Rose smiled, surprising herself. I think its a case of New Yearonly late.
In the first days of January, Rose did a lot of thinking. She wasnt the sort to make grand announcements or journal every thoughtjust sat quietly with herself, weighing things as one might turn over a pebble from your pocket and finally look at it properly.
Her thought was this: shed spent thirty-one years with a man who didnt respect her. Not because he was a monster, but simply because he never thought respect was necessary. He reckoned feeding, clothing, and providing a roof was enough. Everything else was sentimental nonsense. But had she herself demanded respect? Had she said what she needed? No. Shed stayed quiet. Kept it in. Because she thought: its not proper to make a scene, you cant just leave, putting up with it means youre a good wife.
Who told her that? No one, straight out. It just hung thick in the air her whole childhood and youth. Mum would say, Family is everything. Her mother-in-law would say, Look after your husband. The neighbour would say, Dont air your dirty laundry. So Rose built walls inside herself to store it all away.
But now the walls were cracking. Quietly, bit by bitlike ice melting in March.
On the eighth of January, Linda called.
Rose, let me tell you something. And dont interrupt.
Alright.
Remember Annette Creighton? Lived in my old block by the park.
Tall, red hair, I remember.
Yes, her. Three years ago, she left her husband at fifty-six. Rented a flat, started working in a florist shop. Now she runs the wedding arrangements there. She told me the other day, Linda, I dont know why I didnt do this years ago. I was sure everything would collapse, but really, only the things that needed to fall did.
Rose was silent.
Dyou hear me? Linda prompted.
I hear you.
Im not telling you what to do. Just telling you about Annette.
I understand.
Rose, you deserve more. You know that?
I do. But knowing and feeling it arent the same.
Well, maybe start feeling it.
Easy to say. Harder when every morning went the same: coffee, toast, Harold at his phone, the telly, and whats for dinner? with no good morning.
Some things, though, were changing. Rose noticed it in small ways. When Harold said something cutting before, shed just slip to the kitchen and stew. Now, shed stay. Look at him. Nothing more, but she wouldnt leave the room. And in her gaze, there was something that sometimes made Harold fall silent mid-sentence.
One evening, over dinner, he said, Youre acting odd.
How do you mean?
Dont know. You just look at me differently.
Hows that?
Dont know. Its sort of uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable when someone looks at you?
No, not like that. Different, but still uncomfortable.
Maybe youre just not used to me looking, Harold?
He didnt answer. Got up, took his plate away. She heard him pottering about, then silence. Then the telly.
Midway through January, something surprisingly unexpected happened at work. Mr Evans called her in.
Rose, companys expanding, opening a new office in Chiswick. Ill need a head accountant there. More money, more flexibility.
Rose, the jobs yours if you want it. Youre the best, no exaggeration.
Rose sat across from him and felt something straighten inside hernot posture, but spirit. As if shed been stooping her whole life and just remembered she could stand tall.
When do you need an answer?
One week, but Im hoping for a yes.
She said nothing to Harold right away. She thought it over. The new office was furtherforty minutes by train. Salary up by a third. This was a different life altogether.
Three days later, she rang Linda.
Linda, Ive been offered a promotion.
Rose! Linda was as thrilled as if shed herself been given the job. Thats brilliant!
Im thinking it over.
Whats to think about?
Harold wont like it. New area, new routine.
Since when did you need his permission?
A long pause.
No, Rose said slowly. I suppose I dont.
Exactly. Youve worked there eight years. They value you. And youre hesitating because your husband might be mildly put out?
Hell say something to upset me.
Rose, you get upset every day anyway! At least now, youll be upset on a higher salary.
The next day, Rose texted Mr Evans: Ill take it. Thank you for trusting me. Then she put the phone away and made her famous stewed fruit for Archies upcoming visit.
At supper, she told Harold.
Ive got news. Theyre promoting me at work. Ill be chief accountant at the new office.
Far off?
Forty minutes.
Why do you need this?
More responsibility, higher pay, interesting work.
You earn enough as it is.
Ill earn more now.
He eyed her.
Whos going to make sure lunch is on?
Rose pausedchoosing her words, not for lack of an answer.
Harold, youre fifty-eight. Youre fully capable of sorting lunch out yourself.
I cant cook.
Its not a talentit just means you never tried. You can.
Rose!
Im taking the promotion, she said calmly. Thats final.
He retreated to the lounge. The telly blared louder. Rose washed up, stewed the fruit, hung the towels. Afterwards, she stepped onto the freezing balcony, breath rising in clouds.
She thought of Annette Creighton, the one with the red hair, arranging wedding bouquets. Of Lindas husband, whod once arrived at her birthday with a giant bouquet, simply saying, Lindas told me so much about you; glad to finally meet you. Shed had a weep in the car going home that night. When Harold asked, shed said, Oh, nothing, just tired. Hed nodded and said no more.
Then February brought something she hadnt expected, nor previously imagined.
She was rooting in a bottom drawer for a file when she found an old, yellowed envelopeno stamp. Inside was a letter, in Harolds writing, dated when Jamie was seven.
She didnt want to read it. Put it back, then fished it out again. Some inner voice knew it would matter.
It was written, not to her, but to someone called Elaine. The words were few, clear, very personal. Harold wrote about what he felt for Elaine, that he was happy with her, he didnt know what to do, things at home are complicated.
Rose sat on the carpet by the open drawer, holding this bit of paper. She didnt cry. She thought. Her first thought: So it was then. Second: How much time have I wasted? Third: Nonot wasted. I raised a son. I lived. I built what I could.
She put the letter away, washed her face in icy water and looked in the mirror. Steady grey eyes stared back. She recognised them more lately than she had the past decade.
In the evening, Linda called.
How are you?
Found something. In a drawer. A letter.
What sort of letter?
Old. Not mine.
Pause.
Rose
No, its alright. But Ive realised something: you dont have to have a specific reason. You dont have to wait for permission. The right to your own life comes by itself. No proof needed.
Have you decided?
Im thinkingbut in a different direction.
Linda said softly, Im here. Whatever you decide.
In March, Rose started the new job. The team was small and welcoming. Especially nice was Susan, HR, older, calm, with a soft smile and the habit of always saying hello first. On her first day, Susan brought Rose a cup of teaYou mustnt know where anything is yet. Ill show you around. Simple, but it meant a lot.
The job was harder, but Rosie relished it. Reports, new software, phone calls, daily puzzles to solve. Shed spend her commute home tired, but not in the old waymore alive.
Harold never quite got used to the new job. Your job had become his phrase of choice, like it was imaginary or frivolous. But Rose managed to keep it all in its own box: home here; everything else, there.
April brought Jamies birthdaya gathering at their place: Katie with Archie, a few of Jamies mates, and Rose. Harold came but clearly felt out of place, sitting at the edge, monosyllabic, leaving before anyone else, claiming tiredness.
One of Jamies friends, Simon (a building restorer), chatted with Rose over cake. He described old houses as if they were people. Cracks on the outside, sure, but inside, the supporting beams still stand. Doesnt happen often but I love working with those homes; theyre still strong on the inside, just a bit worn out.
Rose thought that applied to people, too.
After dinner, as Jamie walked her out, he asked, Did you have a good time, Mum?
Lovely. Really lovely.
Im glad. He hugged her tightly. Mumjust remember, if you ever need anything. Anything at all. Just say.
She looked at her adult son, age thirty-three, gentle face, grey eyes she recognised as her own. She wanted to say something grand and beautiful but just nodded.
I will. Promise.
In May, Susan from HR called her on her mobilenothing to do with work.
Sorry to bother you, Rose. Not sure how to ask. Have you ever thought about living alone?
Rose almost dropped the phone.
Why?
I went through it years ago. Im sorry if its intrusive. You just seem like someone whod understand.
No, said Rose, its not intrusive.
They spoke for an hour. Susan calmly retold her own storyleft her ex-husband at fifty-one, rented a one-bed by work. It was hard and lonely at first, but then, as she put it, it started to feel right.
Im not saying you should do the same, Susan said. Everyones got their own way. I just want you to know its only scary for a bit. You get used to freedom, too.
Rose sat in her armchair a long time after that. The May sky was clear and bright; the kitchen smelt of coffee. Harold was out visiting a mate.
She opened her laptop and browsed flat rentalsjust out of curiosity. Just to see prices.
Turns out, on her salary, living alone was entirely possible. Realistically possible.
She closed the laptop. Opened it again. Closed it.
Then, in her notebook, she made two columnswhat keeps her, and what frees her. The first had three entries. The second had just one word: Fear.
For the next three weeks, she lived with that word. It was everywherein mornings, in bed at night. She analysed it. Fear of what others would think? Of whom? Neighbours she barely knew? A mother-in-law who was no longer here? Acquaintances she never saw anyway? Fear of loneliness? But she was already alonea peculiar sort, thirty years beside a man who never noticed her. Fear of making a mistake? Who ever said it was right to stay and wrong to leave?
In the end, fear was just habitthe habit of thinking you cant. The habit of believing you dont have the right. The belief that everyone lives like this.
Not everyone. Annette Creighton doesnt. Susan doesnt. Linda doesnt. Others dont.
On June sixteenth, Rose made a call. One-bed, third floor, light, close to the office. The landlady, Mrs Antonia Clarke, was businesslike and pleasant. They met, viewed it, chatted.
You working, are you? Mrs Clarke asked.
Chief accountant.
Good. Any pets?
No.
Quiet?
I believe so. I live gloriously quietly, Rose grinned, surprising herself.
Taking it?
Yes, Ill take it.
She rode home on the bus, watching summer London out the window. The streets were green, people wandered in T-shirts, someone sold ice creams. In her hand was a keyjust a key, nothing special, but she felt it was something deeply significant. She should have done this long ago.
She told Harold that very evening. No preamble, straight out.
Harold, I need to talk.
He looked up from his telly.
Ive rented a flat. Im going to live on my own.
Silencereal, crisp, thick. The telly burbled away, as if from another house.
What?
Ive rented a flat. Im moving out. I cant stand this life any longernot you as a person, just the way weve been. Theres no respect, no warmth. I want something else.
Have you found someone? he askedobligatory, of course.
No. Ive found myself. Its different.
Its ridiculous.
Maybe. But its my decision.
Youre fifty-three, Rose.
I know my age, Harold.
This is absurd.
Not at all. Im quite serious.
What will people say?
Ive thought a lot about that. And Ive decided it wont stop me.
He looked at her a long time. Then, quietly:
You did this because of the letter.
She met his gaze.
You noticed the letter?
I saw youd moved the envelope.
No, she said. Not because of the letter. The letter just confirmed what I already knew. This is about me, not you.
She left the room, lay in the dark, heard him clattering about, pouring himself water, telly murmuring, finally silence.
She moved out in stages. Jamie helped, Katie brought Archie, who cheerfully inspected the new place.
Granny, youve got a balcony!
I have.
Its a good balcony. Can we put plants on it?
Of course.
Ill buy you a plant. Tiny one, in a pot.
Thatd be lovely.
Susan brought a homemade Victoria sponge, turning up the first evening as Rose was still settling in. Welcome to your new life, Rose, she saidno grand gestures, just warm and matter-of-fact. Still, it brought tears to Roses eyes.
Thank you, she said. Do come in.
They sat up chatting till half tenwork, the city, Susans daughter in the north, Archies mechanical obsession. An ordinary nightnot ceremonial, just two women, a cake, and strong tea in a small new flat.
After Susan left, Rose wrapped herself in a throw on the sofa, listening to a new sort of silence. Not the tense hush of her old home, but her owna gentle quiet.
She fell asleep instantly and dreamlessly.
August passed in a blurRose soon figured out where everything was, the rhythm of the new job, who to ring for what. She started walking to a nearby park some evenings, just sitting on a bench watching people and dogs and children. She let herself bethink of nothing particular, just be.
Harold rang one evening at the end of August.
Jamie says youre managing alright.
Im fine.
Pay decent?
Decent.
Maybe we could talk?
About?
Well us.
Rose gazed out at the trees trembling in the wind.
Harold, there isnt really an us in the old sense. Do you get that?
I do. Butmaybe
No, she said, gently but clear. Not maybe. Im not coming back.
Why not?
Because that wasnt happiness for me.
And now?
Now, Im learning. Thats different.
He hesitated. Youve changed.
Yes.
A lot.
I hope so.
He called a few more times, then less and less. Rose answered when she felt like it. Not from anger, just because she had the right to choose.
In the autumn, Annette Creighton (yes, the ginger one from Lindas story) called. Linda must have given her the number.
Mrs Sinclair? Annette Creighton. We only ever met properly once, but Linda said you might want
To talk? Rose replied. Yes, I would.
They met at a coffee shop. Annette, in a bright blue coat, looked wellnot glowing, just settled. Confident, as though she knew her own place.
They talked for hours. Annette described first months after her split, and how one day, on the bus, she found herself singing softly along to the radio. I hadnt sung for twenty years. And here I was just singing. Didnt even notice at first. Thats what its like.
Do you ever regret it? Rose asked. Even a little?
I only regret not doing it sooner.
Were you scared?
Terrified. But you know what I learned? The fear dissolves the minute you act. Once its done, theres nothing left to fear. Nothing actually falls apart.
Rose thought of that all evening at home: nothing had collapsed. Her son was still there. Grandson rang her all by himself, Granny, miss you!the rest of her life carried on. Susan had become a real friend. Linda was still around.
And something elsesomething she couldnt quite name. A sense of being in the right place in her own life. Not a guest, not a servant, not an accessory to her husband. Herself. Rose Sinclair, fifty-three, head accountant, mother, granny, person.
That New Year, she celebrated twice. Once at Jamies (potato salad, pies, Archie explaining his mechanical masterpiece in detail) and once in her own place. Linda and husband, Susan, Annette in another cheerful coatquiet music, gentle laughter. No one judging, no awkward questions. Just people who chose to be there.
At midnight, Rose raised her glass. She made a wish. She didnt speak it aloud, but this time, it was different. Not asking, not hoping. Just a quiet, steady carry on.
Mid-January in the new year, Harolds mumno, not even mother-in-law anymoreMrs Pauline Sinclair, rang from the next county where she lived with a distant cousin. Theyd never been close, she and Rose, but civility endured.
Rose, came the elderly, wobbly voice. Harold told me.
Alright.
I have to say something.
Im listening.
You did the right thing.
Rose was silent.
I ought to have said it years ago, Mrs Sinclair continued. I saw how he was with you. I kept quiet because mothers about sons always stay quiet. Its wrong, but thats how it is. Im sorry.
Mrs Sinclair
No, let me finish. Youre a good woman. Always have been. And you deserve a good life. Age means nothing. Im ninety and every morning Im glad if theres something to be glad about. Dont bury yourself alive. Understand?
I do, said Rose, her throat tight.
Good. Ring me sometimes, will you? Just to chat.
I will.
Promise?
Promise.
She sat for a while afterwards, smilinga little astonished. Whodve thought? Pauline Sinclair, now. Of all people.
Turns out, life sometimes gives you the oddest presents.
Late February, Jamie dropped injust him, no family. Brought a few treats, had a cuppa, talked about his job, about Katie, Archie anxious about school though not really.
Mum, he said as he was leaving. You look so much better, I mean it. Youre different.
For better or worse?
For better. Loads better. Like youve switched back on.
Its been switched off a long time.
I know. He paused at the door. Mum, Im sorry.
For what?
For not seeing it before. For not asking. Just thought you were getting on, really. I didnt ask if you were unhappy.
Jamie, she soothed. People only see as much as they can. You werent meant to see what I hid. Youre a good son. Always were.
He hugged her tightly, then left.
Rose stood by the door a moment, then went to the kitchen and made another cup of tea. It was snowing again, heavy as ever. Coldest, snowiest winter in years.
She thought of standing at a different window last New Years Eve, in another home, while everything inside her started, quietly, to thaw.
Now it was all liquidsomething you could wash your face in, gulp down, take with you as you go.
A week or so later, Harold called.
Rose.
Yes?
Ive been to the doctor. Nothing serious, just me blood pressure. They said to watch my diet.
Glad you got checked.
Youd have reminded me before.
Harold.
Yes?
You can remind yourself now. Thats only fair.
Pause.
You really arent coming back?
No.
And youre alright?
Rose watched the snow fall, soft and patient and determined.
Yes, she said. Im alright. Dont worry.
Im not worried. Just asking.
I know.
Pause. Then, very quietly, hardly audible:
I know its my fault.
Rose didnt answer right away. She thought for a moment. She didnt want to wound or comfortjust tell the truth.
Harold, I dont resent you. Honestly. We had a big life together. You cant just throw it all away. But it wasnt the life I wanted, and I dont know if it was the one you wanted either. Thats for you to figure out.
I do think about it, he replied.
Good, said Rose. Thats useful.
She put the phone down and set the kettle on. Took out a mug. Looked at the key sitting on the shelf by the doorjust an ordinary key. Nothing fancy. But she held onto that handle, and it fit her hand, just so.
