I knew my ex-husband was having an affair the moment he started sweeping the pavement outside.
It sounds ludicrous, but that’s how it happened. He was an electrician and worked from home, with a shed at the end of the garden that buzzed with wires, gadgets, and customers coming and going. Housework had never been his fortenot from stubbornness, just a simple dislike. Whenever he had a break, hed plant himself in front of the telly, wander down the local with his mates for a pint, or flip sausages out in the garden when the grill beckoned. He was the least suspicious man in England: gentle, unassuming, not one for wild parties or arguments.
Our old road was a broad, gravelly lane speckled with ancient horse chestnuts. Leaves, dust, a bit of mudthere was always something strewn everywhere. Sweeping had become part of my routine, something Id do at the crack of dawn while popping eggs and toast on for breakfast. Then, a new neighbour moved in next doora woman with bags and boxes and an accent different from the last tenants. Her house always changed hands, the sign To Let never resting long.
A few months after shed arrived, he started telling me, Dont worry, love. I’ll see to the pavement today. At first, I thought it sweetone less thing for me to juggle, so Id scrub the loo, put on a wash, or tidy the hall. I barely paid him any mind. Why would I?
But soon he was sweeping the pavement every morning. Not just thatalways precisely at seven. Never earlier, never later, as if hed set an alarm by Big Ben itself. Normally, he couldnt keep a schedule for anything but work. My curiosity woke up before I did, so one day, I glanced out the curtain.
And there he was: broom in hand, not sweeping a thing. He was chatting, grin wide as the Thames. The neighbour stood opposite him. Just a coincidence, I reasoned. But then it happened again. And again. Each time, hed step out for his sweeping, shed be outside too, as if the clockwork in the whole of London had been set just for them.
I watched more often, fighting a feeling like rain behind the eyes. It wasnt only mornings. One Saturday, he announced he was popping down the pub with Rich and the ladsnothing unusual. But as he pulled on his coat, I saw her duck out of her door too. I heard her call, Evening, neighbour! Off out? He replied as if nothing was amiss. She added, How funny, so am I. Heading the same way. And off they went together, melting into the chill.
The next weekend, he said he was playing footballa rare event that stuck out like a phone box on the moor. Off he went, and minutes later, she followed, chattering into her mobile, pacing the same direction.
I never caught a text. No secret notes. No pictures. Just routines, hours, coincidences that weren’t coincidences at all.
One day, I confronted him. No question, just truth wrenched out, sharp as vinegar: I know youre with the neighbour.
He gaped at me, shocked. He denied it at first, but I pressed on, Ive seen you. Every day. Dont lie.
He dropped his gaze, the broom slipping from his hand. Yes, he said. Im with her. Im in love.
I screamed at him to leave. No children, nothing to wrangle over. The irony: he moved into the house right next door, with her.
They didnt last there long. Two months, perhaps, before they vanishedno warning, not even a note through the letterbox. They left town and were swallowed up as if by mist in the fields. People talked, relatives whispered, but I wanted none of it.
