“I’m married but live alone,” Irene sighed.
“Irene, love, explain this to me?” Valerie Peterson stood on the doorstep, shopping bag in hand, shaking her head in disbelief. “Have you got a husband or haven’t you? Yesterday I spotted Simon leaving your flat, and this morning, I saw him by the tube station with some blonde!”
Irene sighed, put down her newspaper, and invited her neighbour into the kitchen. The kettle was just boiling.
“Do sit down, Mrs Peterson. It’s not quite as straightforward as it seems. Yes, Simon is my husband. Officially. We’ve had the stamp in our passports for seven years now. But we live separately. Each in our own flat.”
“Separately?” Valerie flopped onto a chair, clearly settling in for a good chat. “What sort of marriage is that? Why on earth did you bother getting married at all?”
Irene placed a cup of tea in front of her guest and sat opposite. Outside, October rain drizzled, drops sliding down the pane like tears. It was precisely on such a day seven years ago she and Simon had filed their notice at the council registry.
“Married for love, naturally. Thought we’d live like any normal family. Children, a cottage, a shared home. But no!” Irene gave a bitter smile. “After six months I realised we were chalk and cheese. He loves a raucous crowd; I prefer peace and quiet. He leaves his things lying about; I like everything tidy. He can go a week without bathing; I can’t manage a day without a shower.”
“Well, then, get a divorce!” Valerie waved a dismissive hand. “Why suffer?”
“Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. We can’t divorce. There’s only one flat, privatised in both our names before we married. We bought it together, paid half each. Simon insists: if we divorce, we must sell the flat and split the money. And then where do we go? Rent? We’re not spring chickens – I’m forty-three, he’s forty-five. Where would we find that sort of money for rent?”
Valerie nodded thoughtfully. She grasped the problem.
“So, what did you come up with?”
“This. Simon lives in that flat. And I bought myself a little one-bedder out in the suburbs. Cheap as chips, but mine. I pay a mortgage, but no one disturbs me. He pops round sometimes when he’s bored at home. We sit, we chat, like old mates. Then he goes back to his place.”
“And how long will you carry on like this?” Valerie studied Irene curiously. She looked tired, but calm.
“Don’t know. It suits us for now. Officially, we’re husband and wife, no need to change documents, no awkward questions at work. In reality, each lives their own life.”
After Valerie left, Irene sat by the window for a long time, finishing her cooling tea. The rain intensified, and in its drumming, she heard voices from the past.
They’d met at work. He was Head of Procurement then, she the Chief Accountant. Tall, well-built, kind eyes, a charming smile. Irene took an instant liking to him.
“Irene Baldwin, would you care to join me for lunch?” he’d asked, approaching her desk on that memorable Thursday. “There’s a smashing little cafe nearby.”
She agreed. There was a second meeting, a third. Simon proved an engaging talker, well-read, knowledgeable about art. They talked books, films, travel.
“It’s so easy with you,” he confessed after a month of meeting. “You understand me before I’ve finished speaking.”
Irene felt comfortable with him too. Five years had passed since her first divorce; she’d almost given up finding a kindred spirit. Simon was divorced, no children. Lived alone in a large three-bed flat inherited from his parents.
“Too big for one,” he’d complain. “Can’t quite bring myself to sell it, though. Family home.”
They dated for six months before Simon proposed. They married quietly, only close friends and family.
The first few months passed in a haze of affection. Everything seemed solvable; differences felt minor.
But gradually, those niggles grew into serious rifts.
“Simon, you can’t leave dirty crockery in the sink!” Irene would protest, eyeing the pile of unwashed plates.
“Oh, stop fussing, I’ll do it tomorrow,” he’d wave her off, eyes glued to the telly.
“Tomorrow, the day after… Then it gets greasy and impossible to clean!”
“You’re too fussy. Relax a bit.”
But Irene couldn’t relax. Untidiness oppressed her. Simon, conversely, felt stifled by neatness.
“It’s like a ruddy hospital in here,” he’d complain. “All sterile, nothing out of place. A home should feel lived in.”
“Lived in doesn’t mean filthy!”
They argued more and more. Over unwashed dishes, scattered belongings, or Simon’s mates turning up in the middle of the night.
“I can’t live like this,” Irene confided to her sister Elaine over the phone. “It feels like we’re from different planets.”
“Try meeting him halfway,” Elaine advised. “Men are all like that. My Gareth’s no saint.”
But meeting halfway eluded her. Irene physically recoiled from mess; Simon couldn’t force himself into her orderly ways.
The climax came with his old mate, Gary, visiting from out of town, stopping over for a week. Or rather, planning a couple of days but lingering.
“Simon, you know I can’t stand this?” Irene fought back tears. “He’s drinking from breakfast, smoking indoors, music blaring. The neighbours are starting to complain!”
“Don’t be such a drama queen! He’s a guest, needs hospitality. Bear with it a tad longer.”
“I’ve borne it for a week! Your Gary doesn’t even say cheers, acts like lord of the manor. And you encourage him!”
“Don’t exaggerate. We were at school together.”
“And what am I? A random neighbour?”
That’s when Irene’s resolve hardened. Living together was impossible. Yet divorce seemed wrong. Too much joint effort and money tied up in the flat.
“Listen, what if we lived apart?” she suggested once Gary finally left. “You stay here. I’ll find myself something smaller.”
Simon was baffled at first.
“Apart? But we’re married.”
“Officially, we remain husband and wife. But each lives our own life. We meet when we like, visit each other.”
“Odd notion.” Simon shook his head. “What will people say?”
“People can mind their own business.”
They discussed it long and hard. Simon resisted initially but eventually agreed. Constant bickering had worn him down too.
“We’ll give it a go,” he decided. “If it doesn’t work, you come back.”
But she never needed to return. Irene found a small flat in a newer area, took out a mortgage, and arranged it exactly as she pleased. No compromises, no concessions. Everything just so.
At first, it felt strange. Especially evenings, coming home to an empty flat. Gradually, Irene grew accustomed to solitude, even fond of it.
Mornings, no one disrupted her calm routine. Evenings, she could
Irene stirred her cooling tea as Mopsy curled tighter in her lap, certain this unconventional arrangement, while puzzling to others like Mrs. Abbott, was the truest peace she’d ever found in her fifty-three years.
