Margaret halted in the doorway, clutching her canvas shopping bag, head shaking in bewilderment. “Emma, explain this, please. Are you married or not? I saw David leaving your flat yesterday, and this morning I spotted him at Piccadilly station with a blonde!”
Emma sighed, set aside her newspaper, and invited Margaret into the kitchen just as the kettle began whistling. “Sit down. It’s not straightforward. Yes, David’s my husband officially. We’ve had the registry office stamp for seven years. But we live separately, each in our own flat.”
Margaret dropped onto a chair, ready to dig in. “Separately? Separate homes? What kind of marriage is that? Why even marry?”
Emma poured tea into chipped mugs. Outside, an October drizzle wept down the panes. They’d submitted their paperwork at the Manchester registry office on a day much like this. “I married for love. I imagined the usual – children, a cottage near Chester, shared life. But no.” Emma gave a wry smile. “Within six months, I realised we were chalk and cheese. He thrives on pub crowds; I crave quiet. He leaves mess; I need order. He’ll skip showers; I can’t last a day without one.”
“Why not divorce?” Margaret waved dismissively. “Why suffer?”
“That’s the rub. Divorce isn’t an option. Our city-centre flat is jointly owned – paid half each before we wed. Selling means splitting the money, but where would we go? Renting now at forty-three and forty-five? With mortgages?”
Margaret nodded slowly, comprehension dawning. “What solution did you find?”
Emma stirred her tea. “David keeps the flat. I bought a small place of my own on the outskirts of Salford. Cheap, but mine. I pay the mortgage for peace. He visits when lonely – we talk like old friends over tea, then he leaves.”
“And you’re content with this?” Margaret eyed Emma’s tired but calm face.
“For now. Officially married, no paperwork changes, fewer work questions. Reality? Separate lives.”
After Margaret left, Emma lingered by the window. Rain lashed the glass, echoing past voices.
They’d met at work in Manchester. David headed Purchasing; Emma managed Accounts. Tall, charming, with kind eyes. She’d liked him instantly.
“Emma Victoria,” he’d asked one rainy Thursday, leaning on her desk, “Care for lunch at The Oak Café?”
She agreed. More lunches followed. He was well-read, engaging – discussing Jane Austen, BBC dramas, trips to Cornwall.
“Being with you is effortless,” he confessed after months. “You understand me perfectly.”
Emma felt the same. Five years divorced, she’d feared finding no kindred spirit. David, divorced and childless, lived alone in his parents’ old three-bedroom terrace nearby.
“Too big for one,” he’d complain. “But selling feels like abandoning memories.”
Six months later, he proposed. A registry office wedding, just a few friends and family.
An early glow faded when trivial differences grew profound.
“David, must you leave dishes piled in the sink?” Emma would protest.
“Relax! I’ll do them tomorrow,” he’d reply, eyes glued to the telly.
“Tomorrow becomes crusted filth!”
“You’re too meticulous. Can’t you unwind?”
She couldn’t. Clutter suffocated her; David found her tidiness oppressive. “This place feels sterile – like a surgery. Homes should be comfortable!”
“Comfort isn’t squalor!”
Sparks flew over unwashed mugs, discarded jumpers, or David’s mates descending for impromptu late-night pints.
“I need out,” Emma confessed to her sister Helen by phone. “We’re from different planets.”
Helen advised, “Bend a little. Most men are messy. My Kevin’s no saint.”
Emma couldn’t bend. Chaos unravelled her; rules chafed David.
Things climaxed when David’s university mate Arthur stayed a week instead of the promised two nights.
“David, I can’t bear it,” Emma fumed. “Arthur drinks all day, smokes indoors, blasts rock till dawn. Neighbours are complaining!”
“Don’t fuss! He’s our guest. Show some northern hospitality.”
“One week of hospitality! He treats this like his own flat. You encourage him!”
“Don’t dramatise. He’s my oldest friend.”
“And I’m what? A passing stranger?”
Emma knew then: cohabitation couldn’t work. Divorce felt wasteful after their shared investment.
“Suppose we live apart?” she’d proposed after Arthur left. “You stay here. I’ll find somewhere small.”
David looked baffled. “Apart? But we’re married.”
“Legally, yes. But separately. We meet when we wish.”
He resisted initially – “People will talk!” – but weary of conflict, agreed. “Try it. Return if it fails.”
It didn’t fail. Emma bought a cramped Salford flat on mortgage, decorating strictly her style. No compromise.
The empty space unnerved her at first. Yet gradually, solitude became solace. Mornings were uninterrupted; evenings meant reading, baths, or classical music. Weekends revolved around her rhythms.
David visited weekly. Over tea, they shared news or watched films. Tension dissolved into easy friendship.
“We’re clever,” David mused once at her kitchen table. “Saved our marriage by sparing each other.”
“Is it still a marriage?” Emma sighed.
“Why not? We care deeply. When you had flu last winter, I delivered your soups and cough syrup. When I nearly lost my job, you helped strategise.”
True. They remained close, just not under one roof.
Still, loneliness crept in watching couples stroll or hearing of school plays and anniversaries.
“Regret no children?” Emma asked during one visit.
“Naturally. But our arrangement isn’t built for it. I’ll be fifty soon.”
“And I’m forty-four. Possible, biologically.”
“In
Irene smiled softly, gently stroking Daisy’s fur as the quiet certainty settled within her that true contentment was found not in meeting society’s expectations but in honouring one’s own peace.
