I’m leaving! Ed declares.
Leaving where? his wife, Blythe, asks, her mind still on the shopping list shes scribbling for the New Year feast.
Completely.
Completely what? Blythe repeats, eyes widening. What about Christmas?
In jokes about infidelity everyone laughs, but real life feels far uglier and far less funny.
Ed walks out before the New Year, not to an exotic escape where planes dont fly or trains dont run, but straight out the front door of his modest flat in East London. He steps over his polished leather shoes, leaving a faint trail of the expensive cologne she, Blythe, bought him last Christmas.
He had been packing for weeks, trying to rationalise why she should understand and forgive him theres even a TV show about that. And she, it seems, has the Almighty on her side.
The tree is already trimmed, and Blythe, perched on the sofa, plans the festive attire, the menu, and the grocery list: she and her friends intend to ring in the New Year together. The mood is upbeat, as it always is on the eve of the years end the night before the night, better than the party itself, they say.
Fiftyfiveyearold Blythe loves this season, just like most Britons. The streets, however, have less snow than shed like, dimming the festive sparkle a touch. Still, the postChristchurch sales kick off in November, and Blythe, ever the thrifty housewife, has bought all the presents early a habit that saves money, time, energy and nerves.
Everything is ready. All the sisters will have earrings, the children, the grandchildren, even the husband will get something. Ed has already bought a fine wool sweater with reindeer a gift hes coveted for ages. It costs Blythe barely a few pence, but what wouldnt she do for the man she loves?
All the parcels are wrapped, hidden, waiting for the right moment. What will he give her? A ring? No, better cash at fiftythree Eds taste in jewelry isnt exactly sharp
Then Ed drops the bomb: Im leaving!
Where to? Blythe asks, still halffocused on her list.
Completely!
How completely? she presses. What about New Year?
What New Year, Blythe? he grimaces. When will you ever grow up?
He spits out the words like a child with a speech impediment: Im leaving you! Completely! Got it?
Ive fallen for someone else and were expecting a baby! Is that clear?
Its crystal clear. So clear it hurts the eyes.
Blythe wants to ask, What about me? but that would spark the same outrage as asking about the holiday. Clearly shes already imagined him with his new partner, somewhere else, sharing the same New Year they once planned together.
His rival is far younger than Blythe. As the old saying goes, the newer one seems better.
Ed boasts about his new life with relish. Why would I go back to a crumbling old house? Im thrilled! he says, eyes glittering. He tells Blythe that his lover will soon give him a son; Ed and Blythe already have two grown daughters, so now there will finally be an heir.
What he would inherit, though, remains vague. He never pulls down stars; Blythe earns far more than he does. Both apartments belong to her; the twobedroom flat he lives in is merely a registered address, the onebedroom is let out.
Blythe doesnt add any more poison to the pot, preferring to indulge in her own fantasies. She has no time for his drama: her happy little world has collapsed in an instant.
We met at a company Christmas party! Ed exclaims brightly.
What does that matter to me? Blythe snaps.
Well, why should it? I just love talking about the object of my affection, he says, as if it were a masterpiece.
Its lofty sentiment for you, but for me its nothing but filth! Blythe retorts, noticing the bewildered look in Eds eyes, as if he doesnt even realise the pain hes causing.
She wonders, for the first time, whether she ever overestimated his intellect. Overestimated Ed slides into his new, happy life, while Blythe feels as frozen as the stone statues on Easter Island. No tears, no screams, just a hollow silence.
Ed is gone, and Blythe sits with her halffinished list, the ink still fresh. Theyve been married twentyeight years; she thought they could finally relax. A solid family, a reliable backstop, adult children enough for a happy life, she thought. Yet something was missing, and it turned out to be only an illusion.
On autopilot, Blythe crosses Prosecco off the list the drink Ed adored. She then collapses onto the sofa, thoughts empty, the room dimming. Three hours whirl by like a single minute. The phone rings; its her friend Tamsin.
What should we bring for Igors place? Tamsin asks.
Eds left! Blythe says.
He really left? Tamsin repeats, surprised.
How could you not know? Blythe scoffs.
Everyone knew, Tamsin says after a pause. Igor worked with Ed.
Did you know and stay silent? Blythe shouts.
Yes! Tamsin snaps back. Youll reconcile, and what will I do afterward?
Both fall silent, then Blythes line goes dead.
Tamsin was right, but Blythe no longer feels like celebrating with friends. Its just the two of them, and she feels alone. She cant stay home on the holiday; she decides to visit her elderly mother, and on New Years Day shell go to her daughters house where the whole family gathers.
There she tells them that her husband has gone to a younger woman. Everyone already knew the traitors! and they could have opened their eyes sooner.
Now, besides being branded a cuckold, she feels like a walking disaster. The mood is the worst possible. Blythe leaves the party early and walks home alone through quiet, snowcovered streets. The city is still dressed up for the holiday, but the crowds have thinned; most people are still out celebrating.
As she walks, the cold makes her breathing easier. Fine, let them be happy, she tells herself. I wont let this ruin me.
She isnt the first nor the last to suffer; no one dies from a broken heart. With the sting of betrayal, life will be a little lighter, she tells herself.
A year later, on 29 December, the exact anniversary of Eds departure, the tree is again lit, and Blythe is again jotting down a grocery list. She and Tamsin have decided to welcome the New Year together, just as before.
She plans to introduce a new friend, Victor, to Tamsin; hes proposed to her. What else could she want? To sit on a dusty sofa forever?
She is independent, confident, and selfsufficient. Victor is charming, carefree, and a bit of a rogue. Thats all.
A sudden knock at the door startles her. Standing there is Ed, a rucksack on his back and a bundle in his arms.
Good heavens! Blythe thinks. Did he really bring a baby?
Out loud she asks, What if I wasnt home?
Id have used my key, Ed replies.
What if Id changed the locks?
You wouldnt, youre still kind, he says, asking, Will you let us in?
Blythe steps aside; she cant just turn away a child. Ed squeezes through the open door, and they move into the bedroom where he places the sleeping infant on the bed.
How old is he? Blythe asks, emotionless.
Five months, Ed answers.
And where is your lady? Blythe probes, not expecting a strangers child in her flat.
My partner loves someone else now, Ed murmurs quietly.
Ah, the high road! Blythe replies dryly. Why are you here then?
Dont strip him! Ed begins to undress the baby.
Will you even take me? he asks, bewildered as he removes his pack.
Blythe thinks back to the time she overestimated him she was completely wrong.
Is it the child? she asks. I wouldnt even let you in, let alone a baby!
Turn around and go back, she says, but I didnt shove you out because I felt sorry.
She sighs, Take the baby and get out!
I cant handle him alone, Ed pleads. Sorry, Blythe, a demon led me here!
Demon led me is what you say after a night of office drinks, not when youre planning a longterm affair and a child, Blythe retorts. Dont blame the devil for your choices.
Dont stare at me like that take your kid and leave, she warns, quoting a classic British writer about giving away everything and still coming up short.
What if I dont leave? Ed asks suddenly.
Stay, then Ill go, Blythe says lightly. We were already set to celebrate at Tamsins place anyway.
Shes offered me a flat, she adds, and after the holidays Ill be gone, so you wont have a say in anything here.
Ed hadnt expected that; he cant manage alone with the baby. His lover vanished two days ago, leaving a note: Dont look for me, youve bored me.
He takes a few days off work, then the long holiday stretch begins. The baby isnt a pair of twins! Blythe, ever kind and caring, always kept a cosy home, which is why he returns.
Make yourself comfortable; Ill get ready, she says, as if nothing happened.
What are you doing? he asks, anxious.
Its my business what I do with the baby feed, change diapers, the usual newdad stuff, she replies, already turning away.
She steps out of the room. Could he be joking? No, she thinks its serious.
If he isnt joking, perhaps he should go to his mothers house. Shes seventyfive, spry, and can look after him for a while. Later hell find a nanny.
Blythe is in the bathroom when the front door slams; Ed has gone. On the bed lies a crumpled tissue did the little thing cry? She smirks, Better late than never.
She feels no pity for anyone, not even the cute infant. Whats the point? she muses. In Brazil they have plenty of babies; here we have plenty too.
A year ago Ed didnt spare a thought for her. He simply stepped over everything and walked away, thinking it was his freedom.
Now she thinks of Victor, who loves lasagne but not Prosecco, while Ed preferred the bubbly. She only thinks of Victor now.
She already has a gift ready for him: the same reindeer sweater Ed never got last year mens sizes match, and men here love reindeer patterns.
The story continues, but for now Blythe stands in her living room, the tree glittering, the night ticking toward midnight, and the world outside humming with celebration, while she finally decides what comes next.
