Start packing, Ive met my first love, Mark declared. Yet, an hour later, he stood in the hall with a bag in his hand.
Mark had returned on Sunday evening from his school reunion. Emily was just finishing up the washing up in their small kitchen.
He seemed different. Flushed, excitedlike someone whod just landed a major promotion or maybe won the lottery. Emily eyed him as she wiped her hands on a tea towel, and thought, They must have had a good night.
Mark said nothing. He got changed and went off to bed.
The next morning, he was perched at the kitchen table, the picture of a man whos come to a momentous life decision. Just like in the movieshands steepled, gaze unwavering. Emily set coffee in front of him and opened the fridge, ready to deal with the leftovers from Sundays roast. That was when he finally spoke.
Em. We need to talk.
Emilys heart sank. That phrasea well-known prelude to everything awful life has to offer.
I saw Claire last night. Remember her? My first love.
Emily remembered. Claire cropped up in conversation once every five years, usually when Mark was mellow on whisky and nostalgia. We were so young. The usual tales.
We talked. For ages. And well, Em, start packing.
Emily turned around. The roast beef was left sitting on the shelf.
What?
Weve decided to be together. Claire and I. You understand?
She stared at her husband for a long moment.
Flats mine anyway, Mark added, in the offhand, clipped tone of one stating a painful fact. Youll need somewhere else.
Emily quietly replaced the leftovers in the fridge, closing the door gently so the sticky Brighton fridge magnet wouldnt tumble off.
So, youve made up your mind? she asked.
Yes.
She nodded. Then walked to the bedroom.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. The calendar with kittensbought in January from the market, because one must buy something and it cost only two quidhung somewhat crooked. January was well gone, February too, but the kittens lingered. The ginger one with the blue ribbon gazed at her with mournful empathy.
So this is it, Emily thought.
Twenty years, shed lived with the man now sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her to begin packing a suitcase. Twenty years is not nothing.
Their first rented place in Croydon with the leaky tap and the neighbour, Dave, whod shout at the telly through the walls.
The bankruptcy, when Mark was grey for months and Emily pretended not to see how hed drink alone on the tiny balcony come dusk.
That night trip to A&E when he had appendicitis, and the surgeon had said, Another hour and itd be too late. Her students leaving doshe taught English thenwhen Mark turned up with daffodils, bashful and proud. All of it. Everything, she realised, now counted for nothing.
Emily stood, paced the carpet, and paused before the wardrobe.
Up top, in the back corner, were the documents.
Mark still sat at the table, thumbing his phone, likely messaging Claire; he smirked now and then, that sheepish, triumphant grin reserved for those expecting applause after some grand feat.
Emily sat and laid a folder on the table.
Sorting paperwork? Mark glanced over.
No. I just want to show you something.
She opened the folder.
Em, must you Nows not
Just hush a moment.
She found the right paper and slid it toward him.
It was their prenuptial agreement. Fifteen years ago, as Mark launched his DIY supply business, their solicitor had advised them to draw one up. Mark hadnt cared much at the timeIts just a formality, Em, were familyso shed gone alone to sign at the notary, brought the copy back.
Back then hed shrugged, tucked it away. Later, Emily had quietly moved it to the wardrobe for safekeeping.
She wasnt a strategist; just careful, meticulous.
Speaking of the business, it lasted exactly fourteen months before collapsing like a house of cards. The debts were more than substantial. Once, and only once, Emily suggested selling the flat to settle everything. Mark said, No need, Ill manage. And he did, not in the three months promised, but in six long years, chipping away bit by bit. During all that time, Emily worked double shifts, never complaining.
Mark scanned the paper.
Emily poured herself cold coffee. Drank in silence.
Hold on Marks voice was suddenly softer, cautious. This says
Yes, Emily confirmed.
That the flats yoursif we divorce.
Thats right.
But how can…
He reread, then let the paper fall.
Emily didnt press him. Let him read it properly this time. Fifteen years to figure it outshe would let that sink in.
And the business loans? he asked quietly.
Those are yours. Paragraph four.
Mark sat in silence. His phone screen flashedClaire, probably checking inbut he ignored it.
Em he began.
Yes?
You did this on purpose? Kept everything, just waiting?
Emily thought, then replied honestly:
No. I just dont throw things away.
Absolute truth. Emily kept receipts, warranties, appliance manuals for machines long dead, and hospital appointment letters from years past. A careful soul. Thats all.
Mark re-read the agreement, then stared out the window.
Emily got up, reclaimed the folder, set her mug in the sink, and turned.
Mark. One of us does need to find a new place, she said, calm and measured. Youre right.
She left for the bedroom.
Mark sat in the kitchen another twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour. Emily couldnt say; she was folding books scattered ages by her bed, moving a pot of geraniums from sill to shelf, dusting the wardrobe top. Keeping busy, so her mind wouldnt race.
Eventually, Mark appeared in the doorway.
Em.
She faced him. He held the contract like a lifelineone that could save or damn.
Em, wait. Cant we talk? Properly?
Lets talk, then, she replied. Her voice, free of emotion. Just factual.
That agreementit was ages ago. Things were different. We didnt think
Didnt think what?
Mark fell silent. Didnt know how to finish. Didnt think theyd split? Didnt think it would matter? Didnt think at all?
Its stamped by the solicitor, Emily said. All legal. I checked.
When?
About five years ago. Just in case.
Mark looked at her with the dawning horror of a man whod misunderstood the rules all along.
So you planned for this?
She shrugged again.
No, Mark. Im just careful with documents.
It was the truth. Shed only double-checked with the notary during some paperwork tangle with her mums will, asked idly about the prenup. All valid, dont worry, the notary had said, and Emily had nodded, and put it all out of minduntil this very morning.
Mark trudged back to the kitchen. Emily heard him open cupboards and drawers, moving objects about.
She peered through the doorway.
Mark was standing staring at the wall.
What are you doing? she asked.
Thinking.
About what?
No answer.
Emily filled the kettle.
Mark, she said, I have to ask. Do you know where youll go?
He gazed at her.
Silence.
I see, she said quietly.
She understood. Mark had imagined this whole drama playing out differently. Hed announce his grand news; Emily would burst into tears, beg or storm off. Hed get the flat, Claire would arrive, happy endings for him. The idea that she might have a forgotten bit of paperwork changing everythingwell, that never figured into his plan.
The kettle boiled. Emily made tea.
Im not going anywhere, she said. This is my flat and Ill be living here.
Mark said nothing.
Where am I supposed to go?
To Claires, Emily reminded him. You said it yourself. You wanted to be together.
At that, Emily felt nothing for Claireno malice, barely any curiosity. Claire was just part of another story, conjured by Mark under the influence of prosecco and old school memories. Emily wasnt even a footnote.
So be it.
She Mark faltered.
What?
Shes not exactly prepared. We havent really…discussed specifics. Shes not ready.
Emily set down her tea.
Mark.
What?
You told me to pack my things before you even checked with Claire about where youd go?
He stayed silent. His clueless face said it all.
Some men love grand decisions. Details, not so much.
Emily fetched a battered brown holdall and set it on the table.
Here you go. Take whatever you need.
Em
Mark, you made your choice. Ive accepted it. Now follow through.
He stared at the bag. And something in Marksomething basicsimply broke.
He went to pack.
Emily remained in the kitchen, hearing drawers and cupboards in the other room, the whir of a razor, a wardrobe handle squeaking.
Twenty years, and all his baggage fit in one overnight holdall.
An hour later, Mark stood in the hallway, bag in hand. He looked not quite regretful, but rather unprepared for the mess hed made.
Em Ill ring, yeah?
All right, said Emily.
Well need to, you know, talk divorce papers.
Ring me, well sort it.
He loitered, as if expecting tears, pleas, a sceneanything to reset the world. But there was nothing.
Mark opened the door and left.
Three weeks later, word reached Emily through Mrs. Bensonan old colleague, gossip supremothat things with Claire had fizzled out.
Turns out, Claire was staying with her sisterone tiny flat, two nieces, not exactly a love nest. Mark hadnt gone there. Hed found a rented room in Lewisham, from a landlady who banned smoking and required all visitors to be announced. When Claire heard about the arrangement, and Marks lack of assets, her passion cooled quick. Apparently, the man who gives up everything for love is much more appealing from a distance than close upespecially when his everything fits in one holdall and hes saddled with old debts. First loves look glorious from afar. Up close, quite different.
Emily listened to all of this, nodded, poured Mrs. Benson another tea.
How are you? her friend asked, that particular tone meaning Ill sympathise as long as needed.
Fine, said Emily.
And it was true. In the last three weeks, shed finally signed up for massage classes, a dream perpetually delayed; rang her friend Lucy, whom shed not seen in over three years, and theyd laughed in a café for hours; bought a pass for the local pool. It was small things, butafter alllife is made from small things.
Sometimes, in the quiet of those evenings, alone in the flat, Emily thought of Mark. Not with anger. Just he opened that door himself. She might have carried on, not noticing it was even there.
The kitten calendar still hung on the wall. January, Februarythe ginger one with the bowtie still there. Emily looked at it and thought, I ought finally to turn it to the right month.
Then smiled, thinking: all in good time.
