Monday, 9November
I watched my husband Ian say he was off on a work trip, then I spotted his car parked outside my best friend Poppys flat.
Did you remember the charger and the stomach tablets? I asked, halfjoking. You know how terrible the food is on these trips; I dont want you getting ill without me there.
He laughed, slapping the side of his suitcase. Of course I did, Mar. Stop treating me like a child. Im not heading to the North Pole, just a threeday meeting in York. Ill hand in the report, attend a couple of briefings and be back. The taxis already waiting, the meters ticking.
Ian fumbled with the zip on his travel bag, pulling at the fabric and muttering under his breath until the zip finally gave way. He looked rushed, as if he might miss the last train of his life. I leaned against the hallway doorframe, feeling a quiet ache settle in my chest. Ten years of marriage, ten years of seeing him off on these trips, each departure squeezing my heart a little tighter.
Give me a ring when you get to the hotel, I said, smoothing his jacket collar. And drive carefully; theyve warned about ice on the motorway.
Im taking the train, love, remember? he replied, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. The suspension is making a racket, I dont want to risk it. Ill kiss you goodbye, tell Sarah to say hello if you see her. He planted a quick kiss on my cheek, the scent of fresh perfume and mint gum lingering, grabbed his bag and was out the door. The lock clicked, sealing the house behind him. I listened to his footsteps fading up the stairs, the lift humming down.
Silence fell over the flat the sort that arrives when the noisy person who fills every room leaves. I drifted into the kitchen, poured a cold coffee for myself and thought about the three days I finally had for me: a book Id never found the time to finish, a face mask, maybe a meetup with the girls.
Speaking of the girls, Ian had just reminded me of Sarah. Sarah and I had been inseparable since school, surviving exams, first crushes, my own wedding, and the painful divorce she went through two years ago. She lives in the neighbouring district, in a brandnew development with tidy courtyards.
I glanced at the clock it was noon on Saturday. Nothing pressing on my agenda. Perhaps I could pop over to Sarahs for a girls night while Ian was away? I reached for my phone, then hesitated. Sarah had been complaining about migraines and work fatigue lately, saying she wanted to sleep in on the weekend. I decided not to interrupt her, and instead thought of strolling to the nearby shopping centre, buying myself a little treat, and seeing where the day led.
I slipped on sensible boots the November drizzle was soaking the streets and stepped outside, inhaling the damp air. The city buzzed with its usual hurried rhythm.
The bus took me to the mall. I wandered among the shops, eventually buying a soft, cashmere scarf the colour of a dusty rose. My mood lifted. As I left the centre I thought Id cut through the courtyard of the complex where Sarah lived. Just walk past, I told myself. If I see a light on, I might ring. If not, Ill head home.
Sarahs block was upscale: a gated entrance, neat flowerbeds that somehow looked respectable even in November, and a parking area crowded with expensive foreign cars. I walked slowly, eyeing the vehicles; I love cars and drive occasionally, though rarely.
A row of parked cars caught my eye: a black BMW, a red Mini Cooper, a silver Ford Focus My pace slowed. That silver Focus looked exactly like Ians the same scratch on the rear bumper that hed mentioned a month ago after a supermarket mishap, in the same spot.
My heart thumped, then settled somewhere in my throat.
No, it cant be, I whispered to myself. Focus is a common model; there are thousands on the road. That scratch could be a coincidence.
I walked closer, feeling my hands grow cold. The registration plate read VOR377B. Ian had always joked that the letters brought him good luck in business.
V377B.
It was his car.
I froze, my mind buzzing. Ian had said hed taken the train, that the car was broken, that he was bound for York. Yet here it was, parked outside Sarahs entrance. My first thought was that perhaps hed stopped by to drop something off or lend a hand. But hed left the house three hours earlier; in three hours he could have delivered a parcel and still made the train.
I approached the car, pressed my palm to the warm hood. The engine had been turned off just moments ago, perhaps half an hour. He couldnt be at the station now. He was here.
Hands shaking, I dialed Ians number. The line rang long, each tone a hammer in my ears.
Hello, Margaret? Ians voice sounded bright but faintly distorted. Why are you calling?
Nothing, I managed, keeping my voice steady. Just checking did you get on the train? Hows it going?
Yes, yes! Were already moving. The connection is poor, so I might disappear for a while. The carriage is old and noisy, but Im trying to catch a nap. Call me this evening from the hotel.
Noisy carriage? I asked, glancing at the Focuss dark windows. It sounds quiet to me.
Its just the wheels rattling. Batterys low, Ill call later.
He hung up. I stood in the courtyard, phone clenched so tightly my knuckles went white. Hed lied. Plain and bold, without even trying to fake a plausible background noise.
I looked up at the fifthfloor windows of Sarahs flat. The curtains were drawn tight even though daylight still lingered. Sarah usually loved the morning sun, saying it woke her up.
Something inside me snapped the thread of trust that had held together ten years of marriage and twenty years of friendship with Sarah now unraveled, leaving only a ringing emptiness and a surge of anger demanding release.
I could have turned and walked away, gone home, changed the locks, but that felt insufficient. I needed to see their faces, hear their explanations, confront both my husband and my best friend.
I walked to the entrance, knowing the intercom code but lacking a key. I dialed Sarahs flat number. The line buzzed, the tone long and unanswered. No one seemed to be answering the doorbell.
A young mother with a pram emerged from the lift. I slipped past her, thanked her, and slipped into the building. The lift creaked its way to the fifth floor. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall pale, wideeyed, the dustyrose scarf now feeling like a noose around my neck.
I paused at flat54, pressed the buzzer.
A rustle, then soft footsteps.
Who is it? Sarahs voice was wary.
Sarah, its me, Margaret! I called, trying to sound casual. I was just passing by and thought Id pop in! Open up, Ive brought a cake! (There was no cake, but it didnt matter.)
Silence stretched, heavy.
Margaret Im not dressed, Im feeling ill, maybe contagious. Perhaps another time?
Dont be ridiculous, I snapped, pressing the buzzer again, longer this time. Ive got your migraine medicine, remember? Open up, dont keep a friend waiting at the door!
The lock clicked. The door swung open a crack. Sarahs dishevelled face appeared, no makeup, a rash of red spots on her neck, wrapped in a silk dressing gown that barely covered her.
Margaret, honestly, I look terrible
Open the door, Sarah! I barked. Or Ill stay here ringing until the neighbours call the police.
She blinked, the chain clattered, and the door fully opened.
I stepped into the hallway, the familiar scent of Ians cologne greets me, the same scent he wore when he claimed he was heading for the station. A whiff of coffee and something sweet lingered too.
Come in, since youre already here, Sarah said, adjusting her gown, trying to hide the mess. Im really not prepared for guests its a bit chaotic.
I brushed past her without removing my shoes, pushing her aside gently.
Nothing to worry about, Im not a inspector. Just looking for a cup of tea.
By the entrance stood a pair of polished black mens shoes, the very ones Ian had left in his jackets coat rack earlier.
Whose are those? I asked, pointing. Do you have a partner?
Sarahs face went pale.
Its its the plumber! My kitchen taps leaking, hes in the bathroom fixing it.
The plumber in Ralph Ringer boots costing fifteen thousand pounds? I quipped. Plumbers must be doing well these days.
I moved into the living room. Two halffilled glasses of wine and a bowl of fruit rested on the coffee table, and Ians shirt lay draped over the sofa.
Ian! I called out loudly. Come out! The plumbers due his report on the mission!
Silence. Sarah began to sob behind me.
Margaret, please dont well explain everything
I walked to the bedroom door, which was closed.
Ill count to three. If he doesnt appear, Ill smash that vase and the whole flat.
One.
Stop! Dont be foolish! Sarah clutched my arm. He just stopped by to help!
Help strip off a dressing gown? I muttered. Two.
The bedroom door swung open. Ian stood there in just jeans and a bare torso, looking like a frightened cat caught with its paw in the jam.
Margaret, youve got it all wrong, he started, the classic line of any guilty husband.
I stared at the man who had shared my bed, my finances, my future plans, the man who just an hour before had swore he was on a train in York.
Seriously? I asked, calm. How was I supposed to know? Is this some hologram? An astral projection visiting my friends flat?
Ian stepped forward, hands outstretched.
Lets talk calmly, at home, not here. Ill get dressed and we can leave.
No, I cut him off. Well talk here. Sarah must hear too. Shes my best friend; she deserves to know whats happening.
I sank into an armchair, keeping my shoes on, the mud from my soles staining Sarahs light carpet, but I didnt care.
So, tell me, I said. How long has this plumbing club been running?
Sarah curled tighter into her gown.
Six months, she whispered.
Six months, I repeated. So when I comforted you after your divorce, you were already seeing my husband?
It was an accident! Sarah wailed, her voice cracking. I was lonely, he understood me! Youre always busy with work, the house, and I was just I didnt mean to
The spark, I said, has gone out for me, then? Ian, you told me everything was fine, that we were planning a child, saving for a cottage, and youve been lying for half a year?
Ian lowered his head.
I never wanted to hurt you. I got confused. Sarah is easier. With you its always solemn, full of responsibilities. I just wanted a bit of fun.
A bit of fun? I rose, anger cold and precise, filling my veins. Ill give you a holiday then. The most unforgettable one.
I pulled out my phone.
What are you doing? Ian shouted.
Writing to your mother, Gwendolen. She always praised Sarah as the perfect daughterinlaw: Ah, Sarah, such a diligent, gentle soul. Shell be delighted to hear her favourite daughterinlaw has turned into a proper Sarah.
Dont! Ian lunged. My mothers heart!
My heart? I snapped. Ive given you ten years, waited at every departure, treated your ulcer, listened to your endless boss complaints. And youre celebrating in my friends bedroom?
I typed quickly and hit send.
Done, Ian. Your mother knows everything. You have one hour to collect your things from our flat. Leave the keys in the postbox. If I see even a single sock of yours when I get home, Ill burn it in the living room.
My flat is ours! Ian protested.
No, love. The flat was bought by my parents before we married. Youre only on the lease. Ill have it transferred in court. For now, out.
Its expensive to move now
Stay here, I said, gesturing at Sarah. She has wine, fruit, and a spark. Live together! Just remember, Sarah never cooks, and youre on a diet. Love will digest it all, right?
Sarah began to sob again.
He cant stay! My mothers arriving next week, shes oldfashioned, she wont understand.
Thats your problem, I replied, heading for the exit. Sort out your mums, diets, and sparks yourselves.
At the doorway I paused, glanced at Ians boots, then at his jacket. I tossed the jacket onto the floor, brushed my hand over it, and said, Oops, slipped on the floor. Accidents happen, just like your little spark.
I slammed the door shut.
Going down the stairs my knees trembled, adrenaline draining, replaced by a dull ache and, oddly, a feeling of release.
Outside, the Ford Focus still sat by Sarahs building, a symbol of betrayal. I walked around it, pulling a small stubby key from my bag, the one Id bought a year ago when I lost my house keys. I traced it along the cars body, from the front headlamp to the rear tail light, noticing a deep, ugly scratch across the silver paint.
Souvenir from the business trip, I murmured.
The alarm wailed, echoing through the courtyard. I didnt look back, just headed for the bus stop, pulling the rosecoloured scarf tighter around my neck.
Back at my flat I moved like a robot, gathering Ians belongings only the essentials, the rest I tossed into rubbish bags and left in the hallway. I changed the lock, using the spare set Id kept for just such a day.
That evening my phone buzzed nonstop Ian, Sarah, my motherinlaw. I switched it to silent, poured a glass of the wine Id been saving for a special night, and let the moment settle.
Soon the front door was being pounded.
Margaret! Open up! Give me my things! Ians voice slurred, angry, drunk.
The things are in the hallway! Take them and leave! The police have been called! I shouted through the door.
It was a bluff, but it worked. Ian kicked the door, grabbed the bags, and stormed out.
The next morning I woke to an empty flat. No snoring, no twoperson breakfasts. A painful void where ten years of life had been, yet the air felt cleaner. I brewed coffee, stepped onto the balcony, watched the city stir awake. Life kept moving.
A week later I filed for divorce. The process was swift; there was little to split, no children. Ian tried to win me back, showing up at work with flowers, swearing he was done with Sarah. She sent long apologies, saying shed lost both a friend and a man at once. I read the messages, deleted them, and let them drift away like the noisy carriage that had left me behind.
Six months on I earned a promotion, booked a twoweek seaside break at a proper resort. At the airport, as I waited to board, I saw Ian again, looking tired, older, with a woman scolding him for forgetting tickets. I smiled, adjusted my sunglasses, and walked past, boarding my flight to a new life one without lies, betrayal, or cheap drama.
Sarah, they say, still lives alone in that nicely refurbished flat. Whenever she sees a silver Focus outside her window, she flinches. But thats another story.
