Eleanor knocked at my door clutching her shopping bag, shaking her head. “Charlotte, whatever is happening? I saw James leaving your flat yesterday—then this morning near the station with a blonde!”
I sighed, set aside the paper, and invited her into the kitchen as the kettle boiled. “Sit down, Eleanor. It’s not straightforward. Yes, James is my husband. Legally. Married seven years. But we live apart. Separate flats.”
“Apart?” She settled heavily onto the chair. “What sort of marriage is that? Why marry at all?”
I poured tea for us both. Outside, an October drizzle made tear-tracks down the pane—exactly like the weather when we registered our marriage.
“I married for love, naturally. Imagined the usual: children, a country cottage, shared chores. But no!” I gave a bitter half-smile. “Within six months, I knew we were opposites. He loves crowds; I crave quiet. He scatters belongings; I need order. He can skip washing; I need my shower daily.”
“Then divorce him, woman! Why suffer?”
“Ah, that’s the snag. We can’t easily divorce. We jointly own the Chiswick flat purchased before the wedding–split the costs fifty-fifty. James insists selling it if we divorce means splitting funds. Where would we live then? Rent? At forty-three and forty-five? London rents are impossible.”
Eleanor nodded thoughtfully, understanding the bind.
“What did you do?”
“He kept the Chiswick place. I bought a modest one-bedder in Wimbledon. Cheap, but mine. Paying the mortgage, but it’s peaceful. He visits sometimes when lonely. We chat like old friends. Then he leaves.”
“And forever shall it be?” Her gaze lingered on my tired but calm face.
“Who knows? For now, it works. Legally married avoids paperwork changes, no awkward questions at the office. Practically, we lead independent lives.”
After Eleanor left, I sat by the window finishing my cooling tea. The rain intensified, murmuring with echoes of the past.
We met at the firm—he the Supply Manager, I Finance Director. Tall, kind eyes, a charming smile. I felt an instant warmth.
“Charlotte Evans, might you join me for lunch?” he’d asked that memorable Thursday. “Know a lovely café nearby.”
I agreed. Then came more lunches. James proved an engaging companion—well-read, cultured. We discussed books, films, travel.
“It’s so effortless with you,” he confessed after a month. “You understand me perfectly.”
I felt equally comfortable. Five years divorced myself, I’d nearly given up finding a true companion. He was divorced, childless, rattling around a three-bed inherited from his parents. “Too big for one, but selling feels wrong—the childhood home.”
We dated six months before he proposed. A small registry office wedding followed.
The early months glowed with love. Problems seemed fixable, differences trivial.
But trivialities became real clashes.
“James, you cannot leave dirty dishes piled in the sink!” I protested again, eyeing the mountain.
“Relax! I’ll do them tomorrow,” he’d wave, absorbed in the telly.
“Tomorrow becomes never! They turn into dread!”
“Too demanding! Lighten up!”
His mess oppressed me. He found my orderliness clinical. “Like a ruddy hospital ward! Home should feel homely!”
“Homely isn’t filthy!”
Rows worsened—over dishes, clutter, his mates bursting in at all hours.
“I can’t bear it,” I confided to my sister Lily. “We’re different species.”
“Try bending to his ways,” she urged. “All men are flawed.”
But bending felt like breaking. He couldn’t adopt my tidiness; I choked on his mess.
The tipping point was his old school chum Nigel staying for a week (allegedly two days), drinking, smoking indoors, blaring music.
“James! The neighbours complain! He acts like lord of the manor!”
“He’s an old friend! Show hospitality!”
“I’ve endured a week! You indulge him!”
“Stop fussing. Childhood pal!”
“Am *I* nothing then?”
That crystallized my decision. I couldn’t stay. Yet divorcing the shared flat felt too costly.
“What if we lived apart?” I proposed after Nigel left. “You stay here. I’ll find a small place.”
He looked baffled. “Separate? But we’re married!”
“Legally married. But each lives singly. We meet when we choose.”
“Mad notion,” he’d shaken his head. “What will people say?”
“Let them mind *their* marriages!”
After much debate, he reluctantly agreed, weary of the fighting.
I secured a compact Wimbledon flat, got a mortgage, made it wholly mine. No compromise. Utter peace.
It felt strange initially—echoey evenings returning from work. But slowly, I embraced solitude. Blissful mornings without chaos; evenings reading, bathing, music; weekends tidying at my pace, cooking just for me.
James visited weekly. Tea, news, films sometimes. Friendship replaced tension.
“Smart move, you know,” he said one kitchen evening. “Kept us married without torment.”
“Though ‘family’ feels inaccurate.”
“Why? We care. When you were ill, I brought your medicines. When I hit work troubles, you advised.”
True. We remained close, just separately.
Yet melancholy visited—seeing happy couples, hearing friends’ family tales.
“Regret no children?” I asked once.
“Of course. But our set-up complicates it. I’m near fifty now.”
“I’m forty-four. Technically possible.”
“Theoretically, yes. Practically? Raising a child across two flats?”
He was right. Our model excluded parenthood.
I accepted childlessness. Got a cat—Whiskers—almost a child. Spoiled her, chatted, bought gourmet food, toys.
“Proper recluse now,” James chuckled watching me fuss. “Talk to her more than people!”
“Why not? Whiskers understands unjudged.” Colleagues, especially younger women, couldn’t grasp a non-cohabiting spouse. “Why bother, Ms. Evans?” our secretary Sophie once asked. “Divorce and find a proper husband!”
“Why ditch James? He’s mine. We simply live differently.”
“That’s not a proper family!”
“Is a proper family mutual misery? Or mutual care without interference?”
Sophie considered—herself newly divorced after constant strife. “Might be you’ve a point. It’s about care, not address.”
Time confirmed my choice. Pleasant job, cosy flat, James as a steadfast friend, my cherished freedom.
Yet festive seasons brought pangs. We spent New Year together—more like old pals than spouses.
Last New Year’s Eve, he suggested over supper: “Try cohabiting again? Maybe we’ve mellowed?”
I considered. Perhaps older, calmer hearts could compromise?
“Trial run,” I agreed. “Weekends here first.”
The test lasted a month. I saw nothing had changed. Still, he scattered belongings, left lids off, dishes piled. Still, I couldn’t endure it.
“It won’t work,” I conceded. “We’re oil and water.”
“Alright,” he replied without visible upset. “Back to plan A.”
Recently, I learnt James had a girlfriend—Sophie’s blonde. A jealous sting faded as I reasoned it fair. Not a full marriage; both deserved personal joy.
“James, they mentioned someone… Lorna?” I said during his visit.
He flushed. “Yes.
Irene smiled down at Tabitha still purring in her lap, realising that while her path wasn’t conventional, this quiet independence was exactly where she found her peace. Real contentment, she mused, tracing a circle on the steamy windowpane, came less from following the rules of others and more from listening quietly to the quiet rules of your own heart. The house settled into a peaceful stillness around them.
