“Irene, love, do explain this to me?” Valentina stood on the threshold, a string bag in hand, shaking her head in confusion. “Do you have a husband or not? I saw Simon leaving your flat yesterday, and this very morning I spotted him at the Tube station with some blonde!”
Irene sighed, set aside the newspaper, and invited her neighbour into the kitchen. The kettle was just coming to a boil.
“Sit down, Valentina. It’s not as straightforward as it seems. Yes, Simon is my husband. Officially. The certificate is seven years old now. But we live separately. Each in our own flat.”
“Separately?” Valentina plonked down onto a chair, clearly settling in for a long chat. “What sort of marriage is that? Why even get married then?”
Irene set a cup of tea before her guest and sat opposite. Outside, an October drizzle fell, raindrops trailing down the windowpane like tears. It was just such weather, seven years prior, when she and Simon had applied at the registry office.
“Of course I married for love. I thought we’d live like any normal couple. Children, maybe a cottage, the daily routine together. But no!” Irene gave a bitter laugh. “Within six months, I realised we were utterly different people. He loves raucous parties, I prefer quiet. He leaves things strewn about, I like order. He’s happy skipping a shower for a week, I can’t go a day without mine.”
“Well then, divorce him!” Valentina waved a dismissive hand. “Why suffer?”
“And that’s where it gets interesting. We can’t divorce. We have one flat, privatised jointly before the wedding. We bought it together, paying equally. Simon says if we divorce, we’d have to sell it, split the money. And where would we go then? Rent somewhere? We’re not young anymore; I’m forty-three, he’s forty-five. Where do we find that sort of money for rent?”
Valentina nodded thoughtfully. The problem was clear to her.
“So what have you done instead?”
“Here’s what. Simon lives in that flat, and I bought myself a little one-bed place on the outskirts. Cheap, but mine. Paying the mortgage, but no one bothers me. He visits sometimes when he’s bored at home. We sit, talk, like old friends. Then he goes back to his place.”
“And how long will you live like this?” Valentina studied Irene with curiosity. She looked weary but calm.
“Not sure. It suits us for now. Officially, we’re married, no need to change documents, no awkward questions at work. But practically, each lives their own life.”
After Valentina left, Irene sat by the window for a long time, finishing her cooling tea. The rain intensified, and in its sound, she heard echoes of the past.
They’d met at work. He was head of procurement then, she was the senior finance manager. Tall, well-built, with kind eyes and a charming smile. Irene felt an instant connection.
“Irene, might you join me for lunch?” he’d asked, approaching her desk one memorable Thursday. “I know a lovely little cafe nearby.”
She agreed. Then came a second meeting, a third. Simon proved a fascinating conversationalist, well-read, knowledgeable about art. They talked of books, films, travels.
“It’s so easy talking with you,” he confessed after a month. “You understand me instantly.”
Irene felt equally comfortable with him. Five years had passed since her first divorce, and she’d almost given up hope of finding a kindred spirit.
Simon was divorced, no children. Lived alone in a three-bedroom flat inherited from his parents.
“Too big for one person,” he’d complain. “But I can’t bring myself to sell it; it’s the family home.”
They dated for six months, then Simon proposed. They had a modest wedding, only close friends and family.
The first months living together passed in a romantic haze. Everything seemed solvable, the disagreements mere trifles.
But gradually, the trifles grew into serious clashes.
“Simon, you can’t just leave dirty dishes piled in the sink!” Irene fumed yet again, staring at the mound.
“Honestly, love, I’ll do them tomorrow,” he’d brush her off, glued to the telly.
“Tomorrow, the next day… Then the grime sets in, and it’s impossible to clean!”
“You’re too demanding. Learn to relax a bit.”
But Irene couldn’t relax. Disorder depressed her. Simon, conversely, felt stifled by tidiness.
“It feels like a hospital in here,” he’d grumble. “Everything sterile, nothing out of place. A home should feel homely!”
“Homely doesn’t mean filthy!”
Their arguments grew more frequent – over unwashed dishes, scattered belongings, or Simon’s friends showing up unexpectedly late at night.
“I can’t live like this,” Irene confessed to her sister Margaret over the phone. “It’s like we’re from different planets.”
“Try adapting to him a bit,” Margaret advised. “Men are all like that. My Robert isn’t perfect either.”
But adapting proved impossible. Irene physically couldn’t tolerate mess, and Simon couldn’t make himself follow rules.
The breaking point came when his old friend Robert visited from another city, staying a week. Supposedly for a couple of days, but he lingered.
“Simon, you must see I can’t live like this?” Irene fought back tears. “He drinks from morning till night, smokes indoors, blasts his music! The neighbours have started complaining!”
“Don’t be such a child! He’s a guest; show some hospitality. Just tolerate it a bit longer.”
“I’ve endured a week already! Your Robert doesn’t even say thank you, acts like the master of the house! And you encourage him!”
“Stop being so dramatic. He’s my childhood friend.”
“And what am I? Some random neighbour?”
That’s when Irene made her decision. She knew they couldn’t live together anymore. But divorce felt wasteful. Too much energy and money invested in the shared flat.
“Listen, what if we lived apart?” she proposed after Robert finally left. “You stay here, I’ll find something smaller.”
Simon was baffled at first.
“Separately? But we’re married.”
“We stay officially married. But live separately. Meet when we choose, visit each other.”
“Odd idea,” Simon shook his head. “What will people say?”
“People needn’t concern themselves with our private life.”
They discussed it at length. Simon resisted initially, then agreed. He too was tired of the constant bickering.
“Let’s try it,” he decided. “If it doesn’t work, you can move back.”
But moving back never happened. Irene found a small flat in a new development, took out a mortgage, and furnished it exactly to her taste. No compromises. Everything as she wanted.
At first, it felt strange. Especially evenings coming home to an empty flat. Gradually, Irene grew accustomed to solitude and even grew fond of it.
No one rushed her mornings getting ready for work. Evenings were hers for reading, music, or soaking in a bubbly bath. Weekends she cleaned at
Muffin purred contentedly against her lap as stars finally pierced the thinning clouds, and Irene knew the quiet rhythm of her separate life, cherished and independent within the bounds of her marriage, was exactly where she belonged.
