Start packing, Ive met my first love, my wife announced. But an hour later, it was her standing by the door with a bag.
Chris returned from his school reunion on Sunday evening, just as I was finishing up the washing up. There was something different about himalmost glowing, upbeat, as if hed been told hed got that big promotion at work or hit the jackpot in the lottery. I glanced at him as I wiped my hands on the tea towel and thought, Well, mustve had quite a night then.
He didnt say a word. Just got ready for bed and turned in.
The next morning, Chris was sat in the kitchen with all the gravity of a man about to deliver a life-changing speech. Hands folded on the table, brow furrowed. I put his coffee in front of him and opened the fridge, checking on the leftover shepherds pie. Thats when he said it.
Susan, he started, we need to talk.
Oh, those words. Every bad thing in the English language starts that way.
Last night, I saw Emily. Remember? My first love.
Of course, I remembered. Emily popped up in his conversations about once every five years, always when hed had a pint or two, reminiscing: We were so young and daft back then. The usual.
We talked. For ages. Andwell, Sue, start packing your things.
I turned round, the pie forgotten on the shelf.
What?
Were going to be together. Me and Emily. You understand, dont you?
Wed been married twenty years. Twenty years is a long time. Thats the tiny flat in Hackney we first rented, with the leaky taps and crooked landlord. Thats the bankruptcy, when Chris went grey for months and I quietly ignored his late-night cans on the balcony. Thats the hospital, three in the morning, with his appendix, when the surgeon told me, An hour later and hed be gone. The day I cheered my year six class through their leavers serviceand Chris turned up, red-faced and proud, clutching flowers. All of that happened. All of it. Didnt seem to count for much now.
Chris eventually added, as if reminding me the sky was blue, The flats mine, by the way. Best if you find somewhere else.
I put the pie back, gently closed the fridge door, careful not to let the magnet from last years holiday in Cornwall fall off.
So its all sorted then? I asked.
He nodded.
I went to our room, sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the calendar with kittens, the one we got on the cheap at Sainsburys back in January. January and February were long gone, but the kittens were still there. That ginger kitten in the bow stared back at me with oddly philosophical sympathy.
I stood up, walked about the room, paused at the wardrobe. On the far top shelf, tucked away in the back, were the papers.
Chris was still at the kitchen table, scrolling on his phoneprobably messaging Emily. Sometimes hed smile, half awkward, half triumphant, like someone waiting for applause after finishing a marathon.
I sat down, placed the folder on the table.
Packing your paperwork? Chris asked, glancing over.
No. Theres something I want you to see.
I opened the folder.
Not now, Sue, please.
Just hush for a second.
I found the right document and slid it over.
It was the prenup. Fifteen years ago, when Chris started his first businesshardware suppliesa solicitor advised us to get it drafted. He hadnt cared much; Its just a formality, Sue. Were family. I, as usual, dealt with it, took it to the notary, and later quietly moved the final copy to the wardrobe.
Im not a schemer. Just careful.
As for the business, those grand plans didnt last two years. Fourteen months and it collapsed. The debts were hefty. I offered, once, to sell the flat and clear it. Chris said, No, Ill sort it. Which he did. Not in three months as promised, but in six years, bit by bit. And I, working extra hours, never complained.
Chris picked up the paper, started to read.
I poured myself some cold coffee and drank.
Wait, Chris said, suddenly sheepish. It says here
Yes, I answered.
So the flat its yours, on divorce?
Yes.
But
He squinted at the paper, then lowered it, silent.
I let him have it. Fifteen years ago, he could have bothered with the details; now he was reading them at last.
And the loans? he asked.
Theyre all yours. See paragraph four.
Chris sat wordless, ignoring his buzzing phone. Emily, no doubt, wanting an update. He didnt answer her.
Sue he started.
What?
Did you do this on purpose? Keep everything?
I thought for a moment. No. I just dont throw things away.
Thats true. I keep everythingreceipts, guarantees, the manual for that washing machine we binned five years ago, certificates from the surgery in 2004. Its just how I am.
Chris stared out the window, holding that contract like it might saveor doomhim.
I took the folder away, put my mug in the sink. Then turned back.
Chris, I said, one of us really does need to find somewhere else. Youre right.
I left the kitchen. He stayed there, motionless, maybe for twenty minutes or more. I wasnt watching. I did what any normal person does in an abnormal momentI tidied the pile of books by the bed, moved the geranium from the windowsill to the bookshelf, dusted everything in reach. If your hands are busy, your mind is quieter.
Chris stood in the doorway with the contract, looking like it might spare him from everything.
Can we talk properly, Sue? he asked.
We can, I said flatly.
That contract things were different then. We never thought
Thought what?
He trailed off, unable to finish. That wed never split? That contracts never mattered? That we just didnt think?
The solicitor witnessed it, I said. Its all above board. I checked.
When?
About five years ago. Just to be sure.
Chris looked stunned, suddenly realising hed underestimated everything.
You planned this?
No. Im just careful, I repeated.
It was true. Five years ago, calling about my mums will, Id asked the solicitor about the prenup. Still good, no worries, hed reassured me. I nodded and forgot, until today.
Chris retreated to the kitchen. I heard him rummaging about, then silence, then more noisecupboards, drawers.
What are you doing? I called.
Thinking.
About what?
No answer.
I boiled water for tea.
Chris, I said, have you thought where youll go?
Nothing. Silence.
I see.
Hed imagined this playing out differently, no doubthe says his piece, I storm off in tears to Lizs, he keeps the flat, Emily moves in, happy endings all round. Me still having the legal paperwork? Wasnt in his script.
The kettle boiled. I made tea.
Im not leaving, I said. This flats mine, and Im staying.
He didnt argue.
But where where am I supposed to go?
To Emilys. You said yourselves, youve decided to be together.
Honestly, I didnt think much about Emily then. No malice, just no interest. She was just someone from someone elses story, spun in a haze of prosecco and school nostalgia. I was just the obstacle.
That is he began and trailed off.
Yes?
Shes not really sorted. We havent discussed all the details. She isnt exactly ready.
I put my mug down slowly.
Chris, are you telling me to move out when you havent even arranged anywhere yourself?
He said nothing, but the answer was clear enough.
Some men love making big decisions; details arent their strong suit.
I stood. Got my old brown holdall from the wardrobe and placed it in front of him.
There you go, I said. Take what you need.
Sue
Chris. You made your decision. Ive taken note. Nowact on it.
He looked at the holdall. And something inside Chris just snapped.
He started packing.
I stayed in the kitchen, listening to the wardrobe doors, the chest of drawers, the clink of a razor in the toiletries bag. Twenty years. All his things fit in an overnight bag.
An hour later, he was by the front door, bag in hand, face trying to mask regret.
Ill call you, he said.
Fine, I replied.
Well have tosort out paperwork. The divorce and all that.
Ring me, well sort it.
He lingered. Waiting for somethinghysteria, drama, relenting, maybe a row. But there was nothing left.
He opened the door and left.
Three weeks later, I heard from Mrs Smithold colleague and village news-houndthat Chris and Emily fizzled out. Turns out, Emily was staying at her sisters in a cramped flat with a husband and two kids. Not exactly lovers paradise. Chris, naturally, didnt move in there. Instead, he rented a tiny box-room in Leyton off a nosy old landlady who forbade smoking and required notification of all visitors.
Emily, on hearing Chris didn’t have the flat or a future to settle in, lost interest. Quickly. Apparently, the idea of a man throwing away his life for first love sounds better than the realitya duffel bag and old debts. First loves always sparkle at a distance; up close, not so much.
I listened, nodded, poured Mrs Smith some more tea.
How are you? she asked, with that face ready to console as long as needed.
Im fine, I said honestly.
I meant it. In those three weeks, I signed up for massage classesalways wanted to but never dared. Rang my old friend Jackie, met up for a long natter at the café. Treated myself to a pool membership. Small things, but altogether, thats life.
Sometimes, in the quiet, I thought about Chris. No bitterness. Just as a fact. Once I even realised, I was glad hed opened that door himself. Otherwise, Id have just kept on, never even considering.
The kitten calendar still hung on the wallJanuary, February, ginger kitten with a bow, all present and correct. I looked up and thought to myself: really should turn it to the right month.
Then I thoughttheres time.
