Different People Igor’s wife – well, she was an odd one. Beautiful, yes – a natural blonde with jet-black eyes, curvy, full-figured, long-legged. Unbelievable in bed, too. At first, it was all passion, too intense to even think. Then she fell pregnant, and, as you do, they got married. Their son was born, just as blonde and black-eyed. Life became routine – nappies, first steps, first words. Yana was the normal doting young mum, fussing over the baby. But it all changed when their boy became a teenager. Yana suddenly developed a passion for photography. Constantly snapping pictures, off to classes, always clutching that camera. “What more do you need?” Igor would ask. “You’ve got a solid job as a solicitor, so do it!” “Solicitor,” she’d correct him quietly. “Well, whatever. Pay more attention to your family instead of wandering off God knows where.” But he wasn’t sure what irked him. She wasn’t neglecting the home, after all. The flat was clean, food was cooked, she oversaw their son’s education. He’d come home, collapse on the sofa with the telly, as you do. Yet her restlessness unsettled him; it felt like she was slipping away to some mysterious place where he didn’t belong. She was there, yet absent. Never watched TV with him, never discussed the news. She’d feed him and then vanish. “You’re a married woman, aren’t you?” he snapped, finding her at the computer yet again. Yana would just clam up and retreat into herself. She loved to travel to exotic countries with her camera, taking holidays to backpack and snap photos. Igor didn’t get it. “Why not come up to Dave and Julie’s place in the country? They just built a sauna, make their own cider. And it’s about time we got a cottage, too.” Yana would refuse, and invite him on her trips instead. He tried it once – found everything odd, incomprehensible language, spicy food, and the sights held no interest for him. So she went alone. Even left her legal job. “And your pension, what about that?” Igor grumbled. “What do you think you are – some world-famous photographer? Do you know the kind of money it takes to make it?” Yana said nothing. Then, timidly, one day she shared: “I’m having my first exhibition. My own, solo.” “Everybody’s got an exhibition,” Igor scoffed. “Some achievement.” But he went to the opening, though he understood nothing: strange faces, not even attractive ones, wrinkled hands, seagulls flying over water… All very odd – just like Yana herself. He laughed at her, yet she went and bought him a car, “For you, darling, we’re one family, enjoy it.” She’d earned the money from her own photos, running around with commissions. That’s when he started to get scared. Uneasy. Who was this stranger in his home? Where was that money coming from? Men? Surely no one could get that kind of cash from a silly hobby. Was she seeing someone? Even if not, she probably would eventually. He even tried to “teach her a lesson” – just a light slap. She grabbed the kitchen knife and slashed wildly – two stitches in his belly. Lucky she didn’t stab him. She later begged forgiveness, and he never raised a hand again. She adored cats – always helping strays, bringing them home, nursing them to health, finding them new owners. They always had at least two cats about. Sweet creatures, but not people! How could she love them seemingly even more than her husband? One day, a cat of hers died in her arms at the vet’s, and Yana was devastated. Cried, drowned her sorrows in brandy, blamed herself for days. Igor got fed up and blurted, “Why not have a funeral for your cockroaches as well?” She gave him such a look that he fell silent and stormed off. Let her do what she likes. Friends sympathised, and Yana’s mates took Igor’s side, thinking Yana had lost her way. That’s when Igor found comfort with the woman next door – Yana’s childhood friend, Irene. Irene was simpler, easier – worked at the village shop, not troubled by art, always ready for sex and a chat, though she did drink too much. But Igor wasn’t planning to marry her, of course… He waited for Yana to notice, to kick off, to smash crockery in a jealous fit. Then he’d say, “Who are you to talk? Where have you been?” Then, he figured, they’d forgive each other’s infidelities and get their marriage back on track. Then he could ditch Irene. But Yana said nothing. Just gave him those dark, unkind stares. Their bedroom life became strained – she flinched at his touch, moved to a separate room. Their son grew up, finished university, just like his mum: black-eyed, blonde, and odd. “So, grandchildren?” Igor would ask hopefully. Dennis would just laugh. Said he wanted to do something meaningful first, and find real love. Then maybe talk about grandchildren. He was a stranger – his mother’s blood. Yana and Dennis always understood each other perfectly, spoke without words. Igor felt like an outsider, uneasy with those black eyes he couldn’t read. He kept going back to Irene for comfort. Eventually, Yana found out – one of the neighbours told her. Igor hadn’t even tried to hide it. He came home one day to find Yana sitting at the table, smoking. In a low voice she murmured, “Get out. Get out of this house.” Her eyes were black, terrifying, ringed with shadows. He moved in with Irene. Waited for Yana to take him back. After a week, she messaged: “We need to talk.” He perked up, showered, put on expensive cologne. But Yana, the moment he walked in, said, “Tomorrow, we’re filing for divorce.” After that, it was all a blur: the divorce, paperwork, signatures. He gave up his share of the flat – it had come from her parents, after all. “So what now? Going to live out your days as a divorcée?” he demanded outside the registry office, nearly adding, “Who’d want you now?” but stopped himself. Yana smiled for the first time in years – at him, sincerely, broadly. “I’m moving to London. Been offered a serious project there.” “At least don’t sell the flat,” he pleaded. “Where will you come back to?” “I’m not coming back,” his former wife replied calmly. “You see, I’ve loved someone else for a while now. He’s a photographer as well, from London. He’s fascinating. But I thought, well, I’m married, can’t bear to cheat, and there’s no real reason to divorce. We’re just… different people. That’s not a reason to split up, is it?” “No, people don’t divorce because of that,” Igor agreed. “And yet here we are,” Yana laughed. “At first, I was furious when I learned about Irene. Then I realised it’s for the best. I’ll be happy now, and you will too. Marry her, and may you both be happy.” And then she left. “I won’t marry her,” Igor called after her. But Yana didn’t hear. Since then, he hasn’t heard from her, except once a year, a brief text on WhatsApp: “Happy Birthday! Health and happiness – and thanks for our son.”

DIFFERENT PEOPLE

Gillians wife, well, she was an odd one. Not that she wasnt gorgeousquite the opposite: a natural blonde with dark eyes, curvy, buxom, and with legs you might expect to see on a catwalk in London. And in the bedroom, she waswell, if they gave medals for enthusiasm, shed have won gold for sure. At first, it was all passion, so much so Gillian hardly had time for a cup of tea. Then came pregnancy. So, they did the proper thing and got married.

Their son was born, just as fair and dark-eyed as his mum. Life became textbook: nappies, baby food, first footsteps, first words. And Jane seemed perfectly normalfussing over the baby, chatting with the other mums, all very standard.

Then things got interesting. As their son became a teenager, Jane went headlong into photography. Forever snapping random things, taking classes, glued to that wretched camera.

Whats so wrong with the law? Gillian would grumble. Youre a solicitorwhy not just be a solicitor?

Solicitor, darling, not the law, Jane would correct.

Well, whatever. Maybe spare a bit more attention for the family, rather than wandering off heaven knows where.

And bless him, Gillian couldnt quite put his finger on what irked him. After all, she wasnt neglectful. Meals appeared as if by magic, the house was spic and span, and their sons school stuff was always sortedhed come home from work, flop onto the sofa with the telly on, just as decent blokes do. But it still niggled at him; Jillian felt Jane was vanishing off to some mysterious other world, one that had no space for him. She was there, and yet she wasnt. Never watched telly with him, never traded thoughts about anything interesting. Shed serve up his dinner and thenpfft!gone again.

Remind me, are you actually my wife or is this some elaborate roleplay? hed snap, catching her glued to the screen, fiddling with another set of pictures.

Jane would just clam up. Go all quiet, like shed disappeared somewhere inside herself.

And then there were her tripsshe fancied herself quite the traveller. When she got a holiday, shed be off with her rucksack and that blooming camera again. Gillian never understood.

Lets go down to Petes country place for the weekend. Hes built a cracking sauna, and the home brews something else. We really ought to get ourselves a little cottage, love.

Jane always said no, but invited him on her trips instead. He tried it once. Never again! Everything was unfamiliar, people spoke in incomprehensible tongues, and the food waswell, honestly, if you want to feel your throat on fire, just chew a chilli straight. As for scenery, Gillian had never seen the point in it.

So Jane started travelling without him. Then she even quit her solicitors job.

Hows that going to help your pension? Gillian protested. Do you think youre some sort of famous photographer? Do you realise how much it costs to make it in that world?

Jane just shrugged, saying nothing. Then one day, barely above a whisper, she told him, Im having my first exhibition. My own. Really.

Everyone has an exhibition, Gillian sniffed. Its not exactly the Nobel Prize.

But he did go to see it. Didnt get it at all. Facesfunny-looking ones at thatwrinkly old hands, seagulls over patches of murky water. All a bit odd, like Jane herself.

He had a chuckle at her, but thenblow meJane went and bought him a car. Just like that, Here you are, were a family, you drive it. She didnt even bother getting a licence for herself, just gifted it to him. Paid for it from her earnings, racing around taking photo commissions.

That was when it got downright unsettling. What sort of creature had taken up residence in his home, passing itself off as his wife? Wheres she getting all this money? From men? Surely you cant afford a car prancing around with a camera. Maybe she was playing away? And even if she wasntwell, with all this to-ing and fro-ing, she was bound to.

He even tried to teach her a lessonjust smacked her lightly, nothing serious. She grabbed a kitchen knife, sliced across his stomach, pure luck she only needed two stitches. Good thing Jane hadnt really meant it, what with her being so dramatic. She apologised after. Gillian never hit her again.

She had a real soft spot for cats. Always rescuing strays, bringing them home, patching them up and finding them new owners. They always seemed to have two cats of their owna couple of right characters, affectionate, sure, but at the end of the day, they were cats. How can anyone love a couple of moggies more than their own husband? Madness.

One of her rescue cats died in Janes arms at the vetsa proper scene. Jane bawled her eyes out, knocked back brandy, blamed herself for days. Gillian got tired of it all in the end and snapped, May as well say a prayer for the cockroaches, while youre at it!

He caught a look from her that could chill tea and walked out, muttering, Fine, do what you like.

Their friends were all sympatheticwell, at least the blokes were. Janes mates sided with her, mind you. They all agreed: Jane had got too big for her boots, almost lost her marbles. Thats when Gillian found solace in the arms of the neighbourwho just so happened to be one of Janes childhood friends, Helen. Helen was just simple, really. Worked on the tills at Tesco, wasnt bothered with photography or the arts, always up for a chinwag or a bit of hows-your-father. She did drink a bit much, but Gillian wasnt looking to marry her, right?

He waited for Jane to get cross, to lose her rag, throw a fit of jealousy, smash a plate or two, and give him a chance to say, Well, youre no saint yourself, are you? Wandering off wherever! Then they could forgive each other, make up, and Helen would be history.

But Jane never said a word. She just looked at him, cold as December in Blackpool. Things in the bedroom werent the same, either. Every time Gillian tried to be affectionate, she shrank away. Then she moved into the spare room.

Their son finished university, turned out just like his mum: black-eyed, fair-haired, and a bit of a mystery.

So, when am I getting grandchildren? Gillian would ask.

Dennis would just laughhe wanted to do something meaningful, he said; maybe find true love, not just fumble about for the sake of an heir. Gillian felt like an outsider; Dennis and Jane seemed to communicate without saying a word between them. Those dark eyesutterly unreadablewere enough to give Gillian the chills. Over and over, hed end up seeking comfort with Helen.

And then Jane found out. A neighbour let it slipnot exactly a state secret, Gillian hadnt been careful. One evening, Gillian walked in to find Jane sat at the kitchen table, fag in hand. She didnt even raise her voice: Get out. Straight out of my house.

Her eyesdark as Guinnesswere ringed like shed not slept in a week.

So Gillian went to Helens. He waited for Jane to call, to take him back. A week later, she sent him a brief WhatsApp: We need to talk. Gillian put on aftershave, had a good scrub, even wore his best shirt.

But Jane opened the door and said, straight off, Tomorrow, were filing for divorce.

After that, it was all a blurforms, signatures, signing away his share of the flat, which was hers anyway, left to her by her parents.

And what will you do now? Live the high life as a divorcee? Gillian demanded after they left the solicitors. He nearly added, Whod want you, anyway? but managed to keep his gob shut.

For the first time in years, Jane smiled at himgenuinely, joyfully: Im off to Manchester. Ive got a proper project offer there.

Dont sell the flat, though, he blurted out. What if you want to come back?

Im not coming back, she replied calmly. If you must know, Ive loved someone else for ages now. Hes a photographer too, from Manchester. We connect, you know? But I thoughtwell, Im married, and cheatings just not my style, and there never seemed to be any good reason to divorce. Still, were just different, you and I. Thats not a reason to split up, is it? Or maybe it is?

No, not usually, Gillian agreed.

And yet, here we are, Jane laughed. When I first found out about Helen, I was furious. But then I realised, its all for the best. Ill be happy, and you will, too. Marry her, if you likemay you both muddle through.

And with that, she left.

Im not marrying her! Gillian called after Jane.

But Jane didnt hear him.

After thatnothing. Not a peep from Jane. Only once a year, a brief WhatsApp: Happy Birthday! Wishing you good health and happiness. Thank you for our son. After a while even those messages dwindled, until Gillian grew used to their absence, like the hush after a kettles boiled dry. Dennis visited sometimes, bringing stories from distant citiesalways with that wry, inscrutable glint in his eyesbut he never lingered long.

Gillian still drove the car Jane bought, though it coughed a little louder every winter. Sometimes, he glanced across the passenger seat and almost called her name, but the habit faded, eventually replaced by a ritual of nodding to the empty space and muttering, Well, off we go then.

Helen was long gonepacked up, moved to Bristol with someone she met at the club. Friends peeled away as the years rolled on, one by one, until Gillian was mostly his own company. Now and again someone would ask after Jane, and hed smile, shrug, and say, Oh, shes out there somewhere, probably changing the world. It sounded almost true.

On the evenings when he couldnt sleep, Gillian would rifle through the old photo albums Jane left behind. There were photos from those early years: her laughing on a windswept beach, cradling their tiny son, nuzzling a purring whirl of kittens. Sometimes she didnt even look at the camera, just past it, gaze fixed on something only she could seea patch of sky no one else would have bothered with, a glint of light off rain-soaked cobbles. He squinted, searching for whatever shed seen, feeling at once bitter and strangely proud.

One weekday morning, a letter dropped through the door, postmarked Manchester. Inside was a small print: Jane, older but smiling, arms around a silver-haired man, another camera strung from her neck like a medal. Behind her, rows of her photos lined a bright gallery wall. There was a quick line in her looping hand: Hope youre well, and driving carefully. Thought you might like to see what Ive made.

Gillian set the photo on the mantel, beside the dancing silhouettes of his old cats ashes. For the first time in a long while, he stood at the window and watched the dawn sneak over the rooftops. The sky was streaked lilac and gold, impossibly beautiful.

He found himself smilingunexpected, small, but real. Different people, he thought, yes. Just different people, after all. And it was all right.