DIFFERENT PEOPLE
Ians wife was always a puzzle. Without a doubt, she was striking: a true English rose, pure blonde hair cascading past her shoulders, piercing jet-black eyes, a statuesque figure, a generous bust, and legs that seemed to defy gravity. In bed she was firea relentless, consuming inferno. At first, they were caught in a whirlwind of passion, barely time to think about anything else. Then, she became pregnant. So, in proper fashion, they got married.
Their son was born soon after, every bit as fair-haired and dark-eyed as his mother. Life followed its familiar routinesnappies and cots, first steps, babbling at the kitchen table. Anna seemed like any other young mum; she cooed over their son, fussed over him and laughed often.
Trouble began when their boy became a teenager. Anna suddenly developed an obsession for photography. Always snapping away at strangers, she signed up for courses in the city, her camera hardly ever out of reach.
What are you lacking? Ian would ask, trying to keep his voice neutral but unable to disguise a hint of irritation. Youre a solicitorstick to it.
A lawyer, shed correct him, smiling faintly.
Fine, a lawyer, then. But maybe spare a little more attention for your family, rather than traipsing off who-knows-where every weekend.
He couldnt quite put his finger on why it bothered him so. Anna never neglected their home: dinner was on the table every evening, the carpets were always vacuumed, towel rails wiped, and schoolworkalways her responsibility. Ian would come home from his office, collapse onto the sofa in front of the telly, and everything should have felt right. But a strange restlessness gnawed at him, as though his wife was constantly drifting to another place, somewhere he could never follow. She was present, but somehowmissing. She never watched the telly with him, never chatted with him about the news or shared an opinion. Shed feed him and dissolve again into her own world.
Are you my wife or not? Ian snapped once, finding her hunched over her laptop again.
Anna just withdrew into herself, silent and distant.
She developed a fondness for solo travelfar-flung destinations with names Ian could barely pronounce. Shed take time off, vanish with a rucksack, and return, memory card full of strange faces and foreign places.
Why dont we just visit friends at their cottage instead? Ian suggested once. Theyve got a new sauna, home-brewed ciderthe real stuff. And we ought to think about buying our own plot in the Cotswolds.
Anna refused, inviting him instead to come along on her trips. Once, he tried. But it was all so foreignthe languages incomprehensible, the food blisteringly spicy, everything alien. Ian had never cared for scenery or adventure; home was his haven.
And so Anna travelled alone, eventually leaving her legal job altogether.
What about your pension? Ian protested. Do you think youre David Bailey or something? Do you have a clue how much a proper career in photography costs?
Anna didnt answer. Just once, in a timid voice, she said, Im having my first exhibition. My very own.
Everyones had an exhibition these days, Ian scoffed. Hardly an achievement.
Still, he went to the opening, though he understood none of itwrinkled faces, battered hands, seagulls wheeling over grey water. The photos seemed no more ordinary than Anna herself.
He laughed at her, but then she bought him a car. With money earned from gigs, she saiddoing portraits and weddings. She bought him the best she could afford, never even learning to drive herself.
Thats when a chill crept in. What had moved in with him, in place of his wife? Where was all this money coming fromwas there another man? No one makes enough for a new car from photography, surely. She must be having an affair. He even tried to teach her a lessona swift, stinging slap. But Anna grabbed a kitchen knife, lashed out wildly, and left two thin scars across his stomach. Thank God she hadnt known what she was doing. She begged his forgiveness, and after that, he never laid a hand on her again.
She doted on cats. Always bringing in strays, treating them, finding them new homes. They always had at least two in their own flatgentle, lovely creatures, but they werent people, were they? How could you love a cat more than your husband?
One day, one of her cats died in her arms at the vet surgery. Anna fell apartshe sobbed for days, drank whisky, blamed herself. Watching her mourn, Ian finally lost his patience.
Are you going to hold a wake for cockroaches, too? he spat out one night, exasperated.
She shot him a look so heavy with contempt that he fell silent, swore, and stormed out. Fine, let her do as she pleased.
Their friends sympathised, Annas girlfriends sided with Ianeveryone agreed Anna had lost touch, forgotten her place.
Thats when consolation turned up next door, in the form of Irene, Annas childhood friend. Irene was simple, straightforward. She worked at the local Tesco, asked for nothing, and was forever up for a drink or a tumble. She drank too much, but Ian didnt intend marriage; it was just a distraction.
He waited for Anna to notice, to rage, to break crockery and demand explanations. Then, hed say: And what about you, disappearing all the time? Theyd forgive each othereverything would go back to normal. Irene could be put aside.
But Anna stayed silent. Only her eyes changed, dark as ever, judging him in a way that made him feel unmoored. Even their intimacy became awkwardshe shrank from his touch, moved to the spare room.
Their son, now a grown man and a graduate, was Annas doubledark-eyed, fair-haired, strange. When am I getting grandchildren? Ian would prod.
Dennis only laughed, saying he wanted to make something of himself firstand meet his true love before thinking of a family. Just like his mother, full of secrets and connections Ian could never share. Their understanding was complete, silent, excluding him. Ian found himself running to Irene more and more often for escape.
Eventually, Anna found out about Irenefrom the neighbours, probably. Ian hadnt bothered to hide. One day, he came home to find Anna at the table, quietly smoking.
Her voice was barely above a whisper: Get out. I want you gone.
Her eyes, circled in bruised shadows, were terrifyingutterly black.
He moved in with Irene, waiting for Anna to beg him back. After a week, she messaged him: We need to talk. He was elated, showered, doused himself in aftershavejust in case.
But Anna barely let him through the door before speaking. Tomorrow, were filing for divorce.
The rest went by in a dazepaperwork, solicitors, signatures. He gave up his share of the flat; after all, it was hers by right, left to her by her parents.
What will you do now? Live as a divorcée? he asked, stung, as they stood on the courthouse steps. He wanted to addWho would want you now?but bit his tongue.
Anna smiled for the first time in yearsopen, genuine, just for him. Im off to London. Ive been offered a serious photography project there.
Dont sell the flat, he said clumsily. Where will you come back to?
I wont be coming back, she replied, calm and resolute. You see, Ive loved someone else for a long time. Hes a photographer, too, from London. With him, everything just makes sense. But I thoughtwell, Im married, and cheating feels wrong. And, in a way, there was nothing specific to divorce over. Were justdifferent people. Isnt that what happens? Or not?
It isnt, Ian agreed quietly.
But here we are, Anna laughed. At first, I was furious when I learned about Irene. But now, I think its for the best. Ill be happy, and you will be too. Marry hermay you both be well.
And she left.
I wont marry her, Ian called after her.
But Anna was already gone.
Since then, he never heard another word from herexcept, once a year, a short message: Happy Birthday! Wishing you good health and happiness. Thank you for our son.
Ian always wrote back: You too.
Years slipped past. Irene stayed a whileshe cooked, she nagged, then she left for someone else, slamming the door and taking the best of the cutlery with her. Dennis called less, busy building his life in the city: job, friends, someone mysterious always just beyond description. Cats no longer wandered the halls; only the quiet tick of the clock remained.
Sometimes, late at night, Ian would flick through old family photosAnna on a windswept pier, squinting against the sun; their son sprawled across her lap; stray cats twining round her ankles. Hed try to see what had been invisible then: how she never quite fit the frame hed set for her, always gazing at something just beyond the cameras steady eye.
One brisk autumn he found himself in London, passing a small gallery with photographs in the window. He paused, and the shock of recognition struck: Annas name, signed in bold beneath images of luminous strangerswrinkled women cradling kittens, children laughing beneath foreign skies, an impossible blue. Inside, she stood talking to a man with clever hands and a camera slung round his neck. She looked older but unburdened, incandescent with a happiness hed only ever glimpsed from afar.
She saw him, smiled, and lifted a hand in greetingnothing more. For a moment, the years folded neatly away. Then she returned to her conversation, and Ian understood: sometimes, people dont stop loving each other; they simply find themselves in different stories.
He turned, stepping back into the bright, indifferent street, the city breathing around hima little sad, but grateful for what had been, and what would never be again.
