The silence between Beatrice and her husband Mark was heavy and unyieldinglike the fog that rolls in from the Thames and refuses to clear.
Right, everyone, lets raise a glass to the birthday girl! Forty-fivestill a fruit ripe for the picking! Though, lets be honest, its more of a dried apricot than a juicy cherry, but we know how good dried fruit is for digestion! Marks voice thundered through the small private dining room of the pub, overpowering even the background music.
The guests sat frozen at the long table. A few nervously chuckled, others dropped their eyes to their plates, picking through the Caesar salad as if desperately searching for a stray anchovy. At the head of the table, Beatrice, in her deep-navy dressmeticulously chosen after weeks of scouring the high streetfelt her cheeks turn ashen. The smile shed glued on from the beginning of the evening now twisted into a painful grimace.
Pleased with his own wit, Mark downed his whisky and collapsed into the seat beside her, slinging an arm around her shouldershis hand heavy and damp.
Whats with the long faces? Beas got a sense of humour, she gets it! Dont you, love? He gave her a hearty slap on the back, as if she were an old mate down the pub after a football match. At least shes frugal. This dresshow many years now, love? Three? Still looks brand new.
That wasnt true. The dress was brand new, paid for with the money Beatrice had scraped together from tutoring and freelance copywriting. But arguing nowin front of friends, colleagues, her own familywould only turn the night into a circus. She slowly shifted his arm off her shoulder and sipped her water. Inside, an icy weight settled just beneath her ribs. Once, she might have volleyed back, As long as you dont go mouldy, dear, Ill wear it for another three. But tonight, something had snappedsomething deep and necessary.
The evening limped on. Mark kept drinking, growing looser, leering at Beatrices young colleagues, blustering about Brexit and how the women have ruined this bloody country. Beatrice accepted gifts, thanked people for their toasts, made sure the roasts reached everyonebut she did it all like an automaton, running on empty. The drunken shouts of her husband faded behind ringing, blessed silence inside her own head.
When they returned home, Mark barely managed to kick off his shoes before heading to the bedroom.
Well, that was a decent do, he grunted, stripping off his shirt. But your boss, Simonwhat an odd one. Stared at me like Id stolen his pint. Probably jealous Ive got such a patient wife. Bea, fetch me some water, Im parched.
Beatrice lingered in the hallway, studying her reflection in the mirror. Smudged mascara, tired eyes. She slipped off her heels quietly, lined them up on the shelf, and walked to the kitchennot for him, but for herself. She filled a glass, drank it steadily, gazing out into the darkness where Finchley Road shimmered with midnight cars. Then, in the living room, she pulled out a spare duvet and pillow from the cupboard and arranged them on the sofa.
Bea, wheres my water? came his gruff shout.
She turned off the corridor light, climbed under the covers, and wrapped herself up tight. She couldnt sleep. She didnt fantasise about revenge or arguments. There was only a sharp, crystal certainty: that was the last time. Her limit was reached. The balance wiped clean.
Morning didnt start with the familiar whirr of the coffee grinder. Usually, Beatrice would rise half an hour before Mark, brew his tea, iron his shirt, pack his office lunch. But this time, Mark woke to his alarm and eerie quiet. No toast, no eggs, no scent of breakfast in the air.
He made his way to the kitchen, rubbing his belly. Beatrice sat at the table, fully dressed, reading her tablet. A cold, empty mug before her.
No breakfast? I thought youd saved some of that cottage cheesesurely youd make some drop scones?
Beatrice didnt look up. She turned a page, sipped her lukewarm tea, and kept reading.
Beatrice! Im talking to you! Mark barked, waving a stick of salami from the fridge. Gone deaf, ave you?
She stood quietly, grabbed her handbag, checked for keys, and headed for the door.
Oi! What about my blue shirt? Its creased all over!
The front door slammed. Mark stood in his boxers, salami in hand, entirely lost.
Fine, have it your way, he muttered, carving himself a chunk right from the stick. Must be her time of the month, or shes got the hump over my joke. Women cant do without a bit of drama.
That evening, when he came home, the flat was dark. No Beatrice. Oddshe was always in before him. He rang herrings, no answer. Heated up leftover pasta, watched his show, went to bed, determined to give her a piece of his mind when she got in.
Beatrice returned long after he was asleep. He didnt hear her make up the sofa, or quietly close herself inside the guest lounge. In the morning, the routine repeated. No breakfast, no good morning, no packed lunch. Just silence as she prepared to leave.
By the third day, Marks patience snapped.
Oh, come on, enough with the silent treatment! he shouted, catching her by the door. I ran my mouth, alright? It happens. Wed had a few. You think youre the Queen or something? I said sorry, okay? Can we drop it now? Where the bloody hell are my black socks? The drawers empty!
Beatrice looked at himnot with anger, but with a detached curiosity, as if she were inspecting an unsightly patch of mould in the bathroom. Unpleasant, but not fatal. Wordlessly, she took her umbrella and left.
By weeks end, the flat began to change. Marks things started piling upno longer washed, ironed, or folded. The fridge, once always stocked with shepherds pies and beef stew, now held only eggs, butter, milk, and vegetables. Plates stacked in the sink grew crusty and hard. Beatrice would quietly wash just her own plate and fork, eat, then put them away again. Marks pile grew and grew.
He thought hed hold out. I wont cleanshell crack first, he told himself. But Beatrice just carried on caring only for herself.
Saturday, he tried a peace offering: a cake from the patisserie and a bunch of chrysanthemums.
Alright, come on, Beaenough sulking, he said, plonking the cake on the kitchen table where she sat working. Lets have a cuppa. I know youre not out, youre just hiding in the flat.
She lifted her eyes from the screenher gaze empty. Gently, she closed her laptop, rose, and left the kitchen. He heard the bathroom door shut, water cascading.
Mark hurled the flowers into the bin, furious.
Fine! See if I bloody care! I lived on my own long before you! Manipulative cow.
He rang up for a pizza, popped open a lager, and watched football at full blast. Beatrice came out in pyjamas, ignored him like he was thin air, plugged in her earplugs, and curled up on the sofa, her back to him.
Weeks passed this way. Mark swung through every emotionrage, provocation, bribery, indifferencebut it was impossible to ignore someone who treated you as if you didnt exist. Arguing with a brick wall: every shot you took just came right back at you.
Practical life soon unravelled. His shirts came out creased, food deliveries ate into his wallet and gut, dust gathered where only his things were left to languish. Beatrice kept only her space tidy; he wouldnt lift a finger in response.
But the real blow came one Tuesday. Mark came home early, fuming after the manager at work had a go at him. He stalked over to his laptop to pay the monthly loan for his treasured nearly-new car.
Insufficient funds, the bank site read.
He blinked. How? His wages had gone in just yesterday. Checking the transactions, his stomach turned to ice. He always transferred his share to their joint account, from which the bills, groceries, and the car payment went out. Beatrice always topped up the differenceshe paid for nappies and cleaning products, even if his own spending left things a bit short.
Only his own transfer showed up this month. Not a penny more. Not enough to cover the car loanthe result of blowing cash at the pub and on fixing his bumper, trusting Beall make it up like always.
He stormed into the lounge. Beatrice lounged with a book.
What the hell is this? he bellowed, brandishing his phone. Wheres the money gone? Car payment goes out tomorrow!
She calmly lowered her paperback.
Where are your wages, Bea? Why havent you put them into the joint?
Silence.
Are you bloody mute? The bank will sting me with a fine! My credit ratingll tank!
She sighed, set her book aside, and rummaged through a folder. She held out a single sheet of paper for him to take.
It was a divorce petition.
Mark skimmed the lines, letters swimming before his eyes. …ceased to live together as man and wife marital relationship irretrievably broken
You cant be serious, his voice cracked, breaking on a pathetic whimper. Over a bloody joke? That daft birthday toast? Youre mental. Twenty years and you throw it down the drain over nothing?
She pulled out a notepad, jotted down a message, and turned it to face him.
Its not the joke. Its the years of you not respecting me. The flats minemy nan left it to me before we married. The cars in the joint assets, but the loans in your name. Im filing for a financial settlement. You can keep the car, but youll need to pay me back half the repayments so far. Ill be at Mums cottage during proceedings. Youve got a week to sort yourself a place.
Mark felt the floor vanish beneath him. The flatof course it was hers, handed down from her grandmother. Hed grown used to thinking of it as his own, but his name wasnt on the title deeds.
Cottage? Place to live? he croaked, sinking into a chair. Where am I supposed to go? My salary wont cover rent and you know itthe car, maintenance for my son from my first marriage, itll break me
She looked at him without triumph or spite, just deep exhaustion. She wrote again:
Youre a grown man. Youll manage. You said I was past my prime at the party. Why stay with a fossil? Find yourself someone young and energetic. I want peace at last.
It was a joke! Mark sobbed. Everyone jokes like that! Bea, please, Ill beg if you wantIll go to therapy, Ill quit drinking, Ill do anything you say!
He did actually slip to the floor, reaching for her hand. Beatrice recoiled and stood up, heading into the bedroom to begin packing.
Now, true fear took holdcold and stifling. He realised, not that he was losing his wife, but his whole way of life. Whod make his dinner? Remind him about the dentist? Listen to him moan about the boss? Andmost importantlyplug the financial holes hed made through carelessness?
He was properly, completely alone. His mates? Good for a pint, but none would let him crash in their spare room. His mother? Living in a cramped council flat with five cats and a temperament worse than Mrs Thatcher.
He followed her into the bedroom. Beatrice packed calmlyjumpers, trousers, underwear, everything in neat piles.
Bea, dont do this! His voice climbed in panic. Talk to me. Lets go to counselling. Everyone does couples therapy now. Ill changeIll stop going out, get help, youll see. Just dont leave me.
She didnt look at him. The suitcase locks snapped shut, sharp and final as a pistol shot.
Where are you going this late? he blocked her way. Stay till morning at least. Lets talk. Were family!
She looked him straight in the eyefor the first time in a month, something flickered there. It was pity. Humiliating, gentle pity, the kind one feels for a wounded bird beyond saving.
She tapped a message into her phone and showed it to him.
Real family doesnt humiliate each other in public, or walk all over those who care for them. I forgave your nastiness for ten years, Mark. Thought it was your personality. But its notits selfishness. You got used to thinking Id never go. You were wrong. Move.
She nudged past him into the hallway, suitcase rolling behind her.
Im keeping the car! And Im not giving you a penny! he yelled as a last, desperate jab.
Beatrice stopped at the front door and shrugged on her coat. She turned back, and for the first time in a month, spoke aloudher usual, rough-around-the-edges voice sending chills down Marks spine:
Oh, youll pay, Mark. By court order. And youll cover the legal fees too. I saved my Christmas bonus for my solicitorthe money you wanted for a new fishing rod. Drop the keys through the letterbox when youre out. Youve got till Sunday.
The door swung closed. The key turned.
Mark stood in the darkness of the hallway. The silence now was not just heavy, but deafening. He could hear the low hum of the fridge, the steady drip of that leaky tap hed half-promised to fix months back.
He shuffled to the kitchen and slumped into Beatrices usual chair. The divorce petition stared up at him. Stamp, signature, dateofficial and inescapable.
His phone dingeda text from the bank: Remindervehicle payment due tomorrow
Mark buried his face in his hands. For the first time in his fifty years, he wept. Not from heartbreak, but from an overwhelming sense of self-pity and the bleak, irreversible devastation hed wrought with his own careless tongue.
The next three days drifted by in a haze. He tried calling Beatriceblocked. Phoned his mother-in-lawMrs Green was brisk: You got yourself into this mess; sort it. Dont bother Bea, her blood pressures up.
By Thursday, he started packing. It shocked him how little he ownedsome clothes, fishing rods, toolbox, laptop. Everything that made the place homelycurtains, vases, artwork, proper crockeryBeatrice had chosen and bought. Without her touch, the flat was just a cold concrete shell.
Sorting his socks, he stumbled across an ancient photo album. He opened it. A photo from a decade ago at the seaside: Beatrice laughing, arms around his neck, his face beaming with pride. Shed once looked at him with adoration. Where had that gone? When had he stopped seeing a woman and started seeing a housekeeper? Make me tea, bring the paper, do the laundry, keep quiet.
Idiot, he said aloud, his voice echoing. Stupid old fool.
Sunday, he carried out his last bags. Dropped the keys through the postbox, as instructed. Glancing up, the windows of theirherflat were dark.
He slid into the car. Petrol light flashing, almost no money on the card. He had nowhere to go except his mothers. He pictured himself in her smoky kitchen, her voice shrill: I told you she wasnt your sort, didnt I say?
He punched the steering wheel. The pain sobered him for a moment. Scrolling through his contacts, he realised he had no one to call for help, no one whod listen without judgement or glee.
He put the car in gear and pulled away, heading for a long stretch of lonely yearslearning how to boil an egg, iron a shirt, maybe even mind his tongue. Yet the truly terrifying thing wasnt any of that.
The horror was understanding hed destroyed, all by himself, the only place on earth where he was ever lovedsimply for being himself.
Meanwhile, Beatrice sat on her mothers cottage porch, bundled in a thick woollen throw, sipping mint tea. Her heart felt empty, but peaceful. Shed switched her phone off. Ahead: uncertainty, court dates, the untangling of joint propertybut she knew one thing for sure: shed get through. Because the worst partliving with someone who made her feel utterly alonewas already behind her. In the garden, a songbird trilled and the air danced with the scent of lilac and freedom. For the first time in years, nothing stifled that spring airnot Marks whisky breath, not his cruelties. She breathed deep and, at last, smiledhonestly and freely.
