I reckon loves packed its bags and legged it,
“Youre the loveliest girl in the whole of the English faculty,” Tom had told her, thrusting a slightly lopsided bunch of daisiesstraight from the Brixton Marketinto her hands.
Sophie burst out laughing as she accepted the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer holidays and something deeply right. Tom stood before her, wearing the look of a chap entirely certain of his mission in life. And that, quite obviously, was her.
Their first date was in Hyde Park. Tom turned up bearing a tartan picnic rug, a flask of tea, and homemade sandwiches courtesy of his mum. They sat on the grass till it grew dark and chilly. Sophie remembered the way his laughter rang out as he threw his head back, the gentle, accidental brushes of his hand, the way he looked at her as if she was the only woman in the whole of London.
Three months in, Tom whisked her off to an indie cinema in Soho for a French comedy. Sophie hadnt a clue what was going on, but she giggled anyway, because he was in fits. Six months, and she met the dreaded parents. A year in, and Tom popped the burning question:
Were together every night anyway, he muttered, playing with her hair. Why bother paying for two flats?
Sophie agreed. Not for the money, of course, but because being next to him made existence make sense.
Their rented one-bed had the aroma of roast dinners on Sundays and freshly pressed shirts. Sophie learned to whip up his mums garlic-and-dill meatballs, exactly as prescribed. On weekday evenings, Tom would read business articles from The Economist aloud, dreamingperenniallyabout his own grand venture. Sophie propped her chin in her hand and believed every word.
They made plans. Save for the deposit. Buy a flat. Upgrade to a car. Children somedaya boy and a girl, naturally.
Well do it all, love, Tom said, pecking her on the head.
And with Tom, she really did feel unbreakable.
Fifteen years together built up a fortress of habits, rituals, and joint misery over the English property ladder. Mortgage on their place in Highbury (lovely view of the park), which they paid off early by sacrificing sunshine holidays and any restaurant nicer than the local chippy. Silver Toyota parked out fronta proper negotiation victory for Tom, who polished its bonnet to a mirrored sheen every Saturday.
Pride swelled somewhere in her ribcage. Theyd done it all themselves. No family handouts, no fancy connections, no lucky windfall. Just graft, penny-pinching, and immense forbearance.
She never moaned. Even when bone-tired, shed snooze through two Tube stops and wake up in zone bloody six. Even when she wanted to chuck everything in and run off to the seaside. They were a teamor so Tom always saidand Sophie believed it.
His contentment was always priority one. Sophie learned this maxim inside out, baked it into her core. Bad day at work? She had supper ready, brewed the tea, did plenty of listening. Scraped with the boss? She stroked his hair and whispered soothing untruths. Self-doubt? Shed talk him round till he came up smiling.
Youre my anchor, Soph. My safety net, Tom would mutter at such moments.
Sophie smiled. To be someones anchorwhat could beat that?
Of course, life did throw wobbles their way. First, after five years: Toms company went bust. He sat at home for three months, trawling jobsites and fading fast.
Second time, even worse. Some workmates stitched him up with paperwork and he didnt just lose his jobhe owed a small fortune. The car had to go to dig them out.
Not once did Sophie reproach him. Not a word, not the smallest roll of an eye. She took on extra work, stayed up with spreadsheets most nights, pinched pennies wherever she could. Her only worry: Toms state of mind. Would he crack? Lose faith?
Tom clawed his way back. Found a better job this time. They bought another silver Toyotathe exact same model. Life seemingly righted itself.
A year ago, in their kitchen with the battered kettle and mismatched mugs, Sophie finally said what shed been quietly replaying for ages.
Shall we? Im not getting any younger. If we wait much longer
Tom noddedthoughtful, earnest.
Lets get things in order.
Sophie could hardly breathe. So many years wishing, postponing, holding out for the right moment. Now it had finally arrived.
Shed pictured it a thousand times. Tiny hands gripping her finger. The smell of talc. Wobbly first steps down the hallway. Tom reading bedtime stories with silly voices.
A baby. Their baby. At last.
Change came swiftly. Sophie overhauled her diet, counted steps, scheduled doctors appointments, choked down vitamins. Her career slid to the sideironic really, as a promotion was just dangling in front of her.
Are you certain? her manager asked, peering over the top of her reading glasses. Opportunities like this dont fall from the sky, you know.
Sophie was certain. A bigger job meant business trips, mad hours, stress galore. Not exactly the dream setting for pregnancy.
Ill transfer to the branch down the road, thanks, she replied.
Her manager shrugged.
The branch was a short stroll from home. The work? Mind-numbingly dull, promotion-proofbut six oclock meant she was out the door, not a single office thought intruding on her weekend.
Sophie adjusted quickly. The new colleagues were nice, if not exactly burning with ambition. She made packed lunches, walked during lunch, was in bed reliably by eleven. It was all for the dream of their child. For the good of the family.
But things, she noticed, cooled without warning. At first, Sophie waved it off: Tom was just snowed under, a bit knackered.
But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped curling up round her before sleep. Stopped looking at her with that unmistakable youre everything gaze from their younger days.
The flat developed a peculiar hush. Not a comforting, cuppa and slippers kind of quiet. A wrong kind of quiet. They used to natter for hours about everything and nothingnow Tom spent evenings glued to his phone, responded in grunts, and went to sleep turned to the wall.
Sophie lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Between them: a canyon, just half a mattress wide.
Physical intimacy shriveled up, wilted. Two weeks, three. Sophie gave up counting. Tom always had some excuse:
Im shattered, love. Maybe tomorrow.
Tomorrow never showed its face.
Finally, one evening, she braced herself and cornered him in the hall.
Whats going on? And dont fob me off.
Tom looked past her, examining the doorframe as though it were deeply interesting.
Everythings fine.
Its not.
Youre just imagining things. Itll blow over.
He sidestepped her and locked himself in the bathroom, where the sound of running water did nothing to drown the ache in her chest.
She managed for another month. Then, unable to go on, she blurted it out:
Do you love me?
And there it was: the longest, most painful pause of her life.
I dont know what I feel for you anymore, Tom finally said.
Sophie dropped onto the sofa.
You dont know?
At last he looked at hervacant, lost. No trace of the passion burning fifteen years earlier.
I suppose loves been gone a long time now. I just didnt want to hurt you.
So Sophie had lived through months of uncertainty, searching his face, decoding each word, blaming stress, a mid-life wobble, bad moods. All the while, he simply didnt love her anymore. And hadnt told herwhile her head was full of future plans, sacrificed career chances, prepped herself for impending motherhood.
The answer arrived suddenly, as these things do. Enough with the what-ifs and the lets give it a go. No more.
Im filing for divorce.
Tom blanchedSophie saw his Adams apple twitch.
Wait, dont be rash! We could try
Try?
Lets have a baby, yeah? Everyone says kids bring you together!
Sophie laughed, loud and graceless.
A baby would ruin whats left. You dont love mewhy bring a child into that? So we can get divorced with a baby in tow?
Tom fell silent. What was there to say?
She left that same day. Packed an overnight bag, crashed in her friends spare room, filed the divorce papers as soon as her hands stopped shaking.
Their division of stuff promised to be drawn-out: the flat, the car, fifteen years of purchases and joint memories. The solicitor rattled on about valuations, shares, negotiations. Sophie jotted it all down and tried not to imagine her life reduced to square feet and horsepower.
She found herself a little one-bed flat to rent. Sophie learned to exist solocooking for one, binging telly with nobody making snarky comments, sprawling across the entire bed at night.
Still, the loneliness crept in. Shed cry into her pillow, remembering daisies from Brixton Market. Picnic blankets by the Serpentine. His laughter, his hands, his voice calling her my anchor.
It hurtthe kind of ache you cant simply box up and bin with the rest of the clutter.
But beneath the pain, something else shimmeredrelief, and the sense that this was, somehow, right. Shed walked away in time. Before a child cemented her to the wrong person. Before she drowned in years of pretending, just for the familys sake.
Thirty-two years old. Life ahead.
Frightened? Absolutely.
But, really, what else could she do? Shed manage. She simply had to.
