The Door

The Door

Peter Edwards gazed, bewildered, at the door before him. What was he doing here? How curiousthe mind wanders, and his feet had led him, almost of their own accord, to the threshold of his old flat. It was the same place where he and his wife had lived together for nearly twenty-five years. Now he stood there, staring in surprise at a door that had materialized right beneath his nose. It was an ordinary door, really, the sort youd see on every other floor in any London terrace.

It was clad in faded imitation leather, stitched into diamond patterns held down by gleaming brass tacks. Only one tack was silver, and Peter remembered how, fifteen years earlier, when the original had gone missing and a lump of leather sagged disgracefully, hed mended it himself. Now, amongst the constellation of golden sisters, that silver pin sparkled like a lone star. Peter stood there, gazing at that glimmering spot, making no move to leave…

* * *

Peters life had changed a year ago, right at the moment when he thought he was ready for it. His jobsteady and safehad begun to stifle him, and his home life was like a warm, sticky bog where he felt himself sinking, starved for colour, for excitement. He missed life itself.

Like a drowning man, he searched desperately for somethinganythingto grasp, something that might pull him out into a world of vibrant people and loud laughter, where every day felt like a celebration and the monotony of grey Tuesday afternoons didnt exist. And that lifeline, for him, became his secretary, Ellie.

Young and striking, Ellie had dashed into Peters world in a whirlwind of pop music, expensive perfume, and champagne kisses. He fell in love. When he thought back on the quiet affection of his early days with Margaret, who would become his wife, those gentle, cautious feelings seemed pale and blurredlittle more than a half-remembered dream compared to the thrilling calamity Ellie brought with her.

His wifealmost as if, by instinct, shed sensed a storm brewinggrew quieter, her silences heavy with questions. She often searched his eyes for answers to the one question women have asked for eternity, but found none.

The romance with Ellie blossomed wildly, sweeping Peter along; he felt younger, vital, alive. He gave himself over to her, along with all his time and money. Yet, he was not ready to leave his marriagethe familiar comfort tugged at him, the lure of his old bed, the urge after oysters at a posh Mayfair restaurant to raid the fridge at midnight for Margarets much-loved homemade beef patties.

How long could this have carried on? Who knows. But Ellie tired of being the hidden lover and one day, swept into the flat to speak with Margaret and claim Peter for herself. His wife and their student son were home. They sat in silence as Ellie launched into her gleaming self-assured speech; while Margaret clutched her heart, searching for her box of aspirin, their son swiftly packed Peters things into a battered suitcase and, wordlessly, ushered the lovers out into the corridor…

* * *

So began Peters new life: swept along by the current, never pausing for breath. Endless cocktails, gallery openings, boutique spreesall flashing past in a bright, dizzying maelstrom that left him dazed. At some unnoticed moment, hed started to wilt from the relentless pace, though admitting it to himself was harder still.

And so Peter decided to stop. He hunkered down in a soft chair at Ellies place and tried to get acquainted with this strange new existence. At first, he was bemused by what he saw. Soon, irritation took its place. For all her dazzling, exotic appeal, Ellie had not the faintest notion of real, everyday lifekitchen mysteries, managing a household, let alone making a decent cup of tea.

But that was just one side of itfor Peter, conversation with Ellie hit a dead end. She was astoundingly, irreversibly dim. Her whole world consisted of crisp fifty-pound notes, shiny wrappers, and endless admirers on her phone screen. Early on, Peter had tried to introduce some semblance of real thought into her pretty head, but saw that for her, even the gentlest sort of reasoning was a torment. Eventually, he gave up.

He stopped trying to fix her, sat through the evenings sipping horrid teabags hastily dunked in warm water, his mind drifting back to Margaret… She brewed a proper cuppa, he remembered; he could almost smell the fragrant steam, taste a blend of English herbs. And her Sunday roasts, those beautiful beef patties she used to make! Looking back, Margaret truly was the perfect homemaker. He found himself remembering the quiet evenings, the two of them entwined, debating Polanskis newest film or the book clubs latest choice…

Once, Peter tried to returnfor no particular reason. Not to move back, just just because. He couldnt have explained it, even to himself. It had been late; no one answered his knocks. While standing in the chilly hallway, he heard a faint sobbing from the other side. He turned away, sitting out in the little communal garden, gazing up at windows that once felt like home. He stared until the lights flickered and went out.

Time passed. The divide between him and Ellie, born of different generations, stretched wider. Peter found her childishness grating; Ellie was infuriated by his growing inertia. They stopped going out together; their evenings slipped into silence spent apart… Until one day, Peter discovered himself, without memory of the journey, standing once more outside that door.

* * *

He stared at the crooked silver tack, bent by his clumsy hands, uncertain what to do. Turn and walk away? But where, to whom? He knew Ellie had long since lost all interest in him; the woman for whom hed left his family now met his indifference with her own. Stay? Would they even accept him back here? Would they forgive him, let him in?

The odd, lopsided tack would not let him rest. Peter reached out, brushing it lightly with his finger. The door, surprisingly, swung open, yielding to his touch. The familiar scent of home wafted out, heady and thick. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and when he opened them, Margaret stood at the kitchen doorway. Tiny lines had gathered round her eyes as she smiled. Im home, Peter thought, stepped forward and shut the door gently behind him.