I felt suffocated too
Tom told me about it on a Sunday evening, while Jane was folding freshly ironed shirts into neat piles. He walked into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, and said it in the same tone as if he was mentioning a dripping tap.
Jane, I cant breathe.
She didnt look up. Placed one shirt, picked up the next.
Cant breathe from what?
From all of this. The routine, you know? Every day its exactly the same. Wake up, eat, drive, work, come back, eat, sleep. And it just goes on and on.
Jane carefully folded the sleeves, adjusted the collar. She was fifty-one, Tom was fifty-three. Theyd lived in this flat on Maple Street for twenty-six years, raised their son Jamie, who had been living in another city for five years now, only calling on birthdays and Christmas.
And what do you suggest? she asked calmly.
I want to leave.
This is when she paused. Not out of fearjust looked at him the way you look at someone whos finally voiced something youve known was coming.
And go where?
Rent a flat. Be on my own for a bit. Get some air.
All right, said Jane, grabbing the next shirt.
It was clear Tom wanted something else. He leaned forward a bit, expectant.
Arent you going to say anything?
Whats there to say? Youre an adult, Tom. If you want to go, go.
Youre not going to kick up a fuss?
She folded the shirt, placed it on the pile, and finally looked him straight in the eye.
No. But Ive got one rule.
Whats that?
Dont ring me about everyday things. Wheres this, how does that work, what did I do with such and such. If youre leaving, you figure it out.
He was quiet for a moment.
Thats it?
Thats it.
Tom clearly didnt know what to make of this. Hed braced himself for tears, accusations, that shed grab his sleeve, reminding him of the years, their son, that this isnt what people do. Hed even rehearsed his answers. Meanwhile, she carried on ironing.
Well, all right, he said at last. Ill pack my things then.
Go on.
He went to the wardrobe. Stood there for ages, staring at the shelves, then started piling jeans, shirts, socks into a bag. He took his razor, his phone charger, a book he hadnt touched in half a year. When he shuffled into the hallway, Jane had already gone to the kitchen and was making a racket in there.
Im off, he called towards the kitchen.
Good luck, she replied from inside.
The door shut behind him. He lingered outside, waited. Nothing. No footsteps, no movement. Just silence.
He called the lift.
***
He found a flat through a mate in two days. A small one-bedroom in a neighbouring area, fourth floor, windows looking out on the back garden. The owner, an elderly chap with a moustache, showed him round in five minutes, took two months rent up frontjust over £1200and left. There was a dated sofa, a table, two wobbly chairs, an old fridge, and a gas cooker. The curtains were the colour of past-its-best mustard.
Tom put down his bag, sat on the sofa and surveyed the flat.
It was absolutely silent. No one walking about in the next room, no TV droning, nobody asking him to come for dinner. He lay back, hands behind his head, and thought: well, here it is. Freedom.
The first two days were almost good. He woke up when he wanted, ate what he fanciedwell, whatever hed remembered to buy, anywayroamed about in socks, answered to no one. In the evenings he phoned his old mate Mike, and theyd have long chats. Mike would laugh and say, Good on you, Tom, shouldve done it years ago.
On the third day, Tom realised hed run out of clean socks.
He stared at the washing machine in the little combined bathroom: small, round, ancient. He opened the door, peered inside. Closed it. Opened it again. Powderthere must be powderhe remembered the owner muttering about a box under the sink. He found the box, squinted at the faded label: For whites and colours. He tossed some into what he hoped was the right slot, picked a setting, pressed the start button.
The machine buzzed, shuddered.
An hour later he opened the door: his socks were soggy, nearly drenched, and weirdly pinkish. It took him a while but then he realisedhed chucked in his new red t-shirt as well.
He hung the socks on the radiator. They were still drying the next evening.
On day four, he decided to make a proper meal. Bought chicken breast, potatoes, onions. Found a battered frying pan in the back of the cupboard. Poured in oil, which fizzed and spat. He put the whole chicken breast inun-cutand it stuck to the pan. Peeled potatoes unevenly, losing almost half in the process. The onions made his eyes water.
What ended up on his plate was sort of brown and white, tough on the outside, half raw in the middle.
He ate half, binned the rest, and ordered a takeaway from the nearest café.
A week later he tallied up what hed spent on takeawaysnearly as much as he and Jane used to spend on a months groceries. He decided hed better get a grip. So he bought food and boiled up some rice. The rice was fineit calmed him down a bit.
But daily life was closing in on him from all sides, slow and relentless, like a rising tide.
***
It all came to a head on day ten.
He was in the shower and noticed the water wasnt draining. Looking down, he saw a spreading grey puddle. He switched off the water, waited, but the puddle stayed put. He nudged the plughole with his toe. Blocked solid.
Jane used to mention somethingwhat was ita trap, yes, the trap needs cleaning or waterll build up, shed say, and hed just nod and wander off.
He crouched down to investigate. Under the bath was a mass of pipes, then a bit that looked like a plastic elbow joint. He twisted it and it came loose almost too easily, and thenwhoosh. A rush of cold, dark water gushed out all over the floor.
Tom leapt up, slipped, grabbed for a towel, which promptly fell and soaked up all the water. He tried screwing the piece back together but the water kept coming, flooding the floor in seconds.
He sprinted out, bare feet leaving wet trails, found his phone, started feverishly Googling how to turn the water off. He remembered the owner mentioning a valve under the kitchen sink. Raced to the kitchen, found it, turned it, and finally the water stopped.
He went back to the bathroom. It looked like the aftermath of a minor floodsodden mat, sopping towels, puddle everywhere, water still dripping.
He sank onto the hallway floor, in soaking boxer shorts, and stared at the wall.
First instinctJane. Not so much a thought as a reflex: phone Jane, shell sort it. His hand hovered over her name in his contacts, then he heard her voice in his head: dont ring me about the house stuff.
He put the phone down.
Called Mike instead.
Mike, you know how to fix a bath trap?
Eh? Mate, no idea. I always get someone in. Hang on, Ill text you the number of my plumber.
The plumber came next day. Took one look, replaced a rubber seal in fifteen minutes flat. The bill was so much that Tom just stared at him, dumbstruck.
That the going rate? he finally asked.
The plumber shrugged. It is round here, mate. And off he went.
Jane, he realised, would never have called a plumber for something so trivial. Shed fiddle around herself, nip out for parts, sort it. He never knew when or how she did it, but she just didlike the weather, it just happened.
***
Meanwhile, Tom had an idea he thought made sense.
He rang Mandy, who, twenty years ago before he met Jane, hed had a brief something going with. Shed been divorced ageshed picked that up from mutual friends. Over the years theyd bumped into each other at birthdays, exchanged the odd smile.
Mandy, hi. Its Tom Harris.
Tom? She sounded genuinely surprised, but not cold. Blimey, I havent heard your voice in years.
I Im living on my own at the moment. Thought maybe we could have dinner?
She paused.
On your own from who?
From Jane.
So, have you split up?
Well, kind of in progress, really.
Got it, she said, suddenly a bit guarded. Sure, lets have dinner.
They met at a bistro in the centre. Mandy turned up looking sharp in a stylish coat, hair cropped short, clearly looking after herself. They each ordered a glass of wine, chatted about mutual acquaintances. She asked,
So what about you? Work keeping you busy?
Yep. Still in constructionsupply chain manager.
And living where?
Rented a place. Elm Street.
Whats it like?
He wanted to say good, but suddenly blurted out, Honestly? The washing machine barely spins, and the cookers on the blink.
She gave him a look he couldnt place at first, then realised: pity. Not romantic pity, just the kind you have for someone whos a bit at sea.
Fair enough, she said.
The conversation fizzled from there. She asked about Jamie, he told her, she shared about her daughter, now married. Another round of drinks, then she said she had to be up early the next morning, and they said goodbye at the door.
He went back to his flat. The fridge was bare, shops were closing, so he found a packet of instant noodles and poured the kettle over it.
Mandy never rang again. Nor did he.
***
About this time he tried meeting up with the lads. Rang Mike, who said he could do Friday but only till eightKate had a parents evening and he had to be home. Rang Andrew, who was available but needed a lift: he wasnt drinking, had to drive his wife to her parents at the weekend.
They met up anyway, just the three of them, at a little pub near the tube station. Shared a couple pints, chatted football and work. Then Mike asked,
Hows living at your own pace suiting you then?
Im fine, Tom said.
Jane hasnt called?
No.
Mike and Andrew exchanged a look.
Not at all? Andrew pressed.
Not at all.
They shared another glance. Mike spun his pint glass.
To be honest, seems odd. Kate wouldve called me at least three times a day by now.
Jane isnt calling, Tom repeated.
Its either a good sign or a bad one, Andrew mused.
Hows it bad?
Means shes actually fine without you.
Tom drained his pint. He didnt want to think about itexcept he thought about it every day but couldnt admit it, even to himself.
At half-seven Mike checked his watch, grabbed his coat. Andrew stood up too. Handshakes, back slaps, off they went. Each to his own wife, their own home, their own families.
Tom was left alone at the table, got himself another pint, and sat there until closing.
***
Jane, meanwhile, really did feel a bit lost at first, but not in the way she expected. It wasnt the emptiness of missing himmore this odd, extra space like someone had moved the furniture and you werent sure whether it was for the best.
She called her friend Eleanor on the second day.
Hes gone, Jane said.
Gone where? asked Eleanor.
Rented a place. Said he felt trapped.
Eleanor was quiet, then sighed.
How are you doing?
Im all right, honestly. Thats what surprises me.
Been crying?
No. Odd, isnt it?
Maybe itll hit you later?
Maybe. Well see.
Later, her other close friend Sarah called. Theyd met over two decades ago at a clinic when their kids were little, and stayed close ever since. Unlike Eleanor, Sarah was blunt.
Thank heavens, said Sarah. Jane, Ive been telling you for years.
Telling me what?
That youve lived like a housemaid, just without the pay packet.
Oh, Sarah, dont be daft.
Seriously. When was the last time you did something for yourself?
Jane tried to think. Couldnt answer straightaway.
Last yearI got my hair cut.
Exactly.
The following week, Sarah invited Jane to yoga. Jane at first declined, but changed her mind and went. Dug out an old tracksuit from the wardrobe, still with tags, and discovered she could barely bend at first.
Thats normal, grinned the instructor, a young woman in a ponytail. Everyone starts that way.
After two weeks, she was a bit more flexible. Attended classes three times weekly. Afterwards, she and Sarah would sometimes have coffee together, sitting for up to an hour just chatting. Jane realised she hadnt done that in years, just talked for the sake of talking, without feeling she needed to rush home because Tom would soon be back and dinner had to be on.
Evenings she read. Books had always just lain by her bedside and shed fallen asleep with them after a few pages. Now shed get through a whole chapter, sometimes two.
One day, Jamie rang.
Mum, Dad says he lives on his own now.
Yes, he does, replied Jane.
And how are you both?
It depends, said Jane. But honestlyIm pretty good.
Jamie was quiet.
Mum, are you two getting divorced?
I dont know yet. Ive not thought about it.
So youre not upset?
Im surprised. But not upset.
Jamie was silent again. Hed always been one for mulling things over.
Okay, he said at last. Call me if you need anything.
You too. Not just on birthdays, mind.
***
There was one moment when Jane did just stand in the kitchen, staring out the window for five long minutes.
She was washing her morning mug, and it hit her: twenty-six years. Thats a lifetime. Thats more than half of her conscious life. There had been good timesfirst flat, which they renovated together, rubbing their hands raw. Jamie as a little boy, knees covered in green antiseptic. That trip to the seaside some fifteen years ago, when they laughed non-stop for daysshe couldnt even remember what about, but the laughter stuck in her mind.
All of that, now, was past. Just memories, like old photos in an album.
She let the feeling pass. It did, after three or four minutes or so.
She put the mug on the rack, got ready for yoga.
***
Eugene turned up by chance.
It was Mrs Dickson from belowa woman in her eighties with a sharp mind and a fondness for half-hour chats on the stairwell. She needed Jane to change her hallway bulb, because her son wouldnt be coming for another week and the corridor was dark. Jane changed the bulb and had a cup of tea with her. Thats when her son, but not the one shed been expecting, walked in.
His name was Eugene, lived in the city toojust happened to pop round. He was about forty-eight, with a beard, a decent coat, and the tired eyes of someone who works hard.
Mum, are you roping in the neighbours again? he joked, seeing Jane with the bulb.
Jane offered! said Mrs Dickson with dignity.
Eugene smiled at Jane. Thanks, Id have come sooner if Id realised Mum was in the dark.
No bother, said Jane.
They chatted for ten minutes at the door. Turned out he worked in construction like Tom, but at a different firm. She mentioned her job as an accounts assistant. He said goodbye, and that was that.
Three days later he knocked at her door. Brought his mum some groceries and, as he put it, some chocolates to say thanks to Jane as well.
Oh, you shouldnt have, Jane said, but accepted the chocolates.
Mind if I come in for a sec? he asked. Actually I wanted to ask about TomMum said he was in procurement, and I had a question about suppliers.
Jane hesitated. Toms living separately now. But I can give you his number.
Right, said Eugene. Couldnt really tell if he was surprised or not. Dont mind me then.
He left. A week later he called again, told her hed sorted his supplier issue, and asked if she wanted to grab a coffee sometime, just as neighbours. Jane thought for a moment, then agreed.
They went to a café around the corner. Chatted about work, his mum, how the area had changed. He was a good listener, didnt interrupt, sometimes laughed at his own jokes before hed finished them.
How long were you married? he asked at one point, without any particular agenda, just curious.
Twenty-six years, replied Jane. Or I was for twenty-six years. Not really sure at the moment.
He just nodded. Happens, he said. No further questions.
She liked that.
They met a few more times. He was in no rush, suggested nothing, just rang up now and then to ask how she was. Jane liked the lack of pressure. After twenty-six years of obligation, having none felt like opening a window in a stuffy room.
***
Meanwhile, Tom found himself noticing things about himself hed never spotted before.
Like how he didnt know how to wait. Ever. Hed never needed tothings just happened: meals were cooked, shirts magically clean, repairs got done. Now he had to wait for washing to dry, kettles to boil, the plumber to turn up. Wait for a cold to passhe caught one in week two and spent a few days sweating through a fever, alone in a hot, damp bed, knocking back paracetamol with lukewarm tap water.
Or the fact that he didnt know how to eat in silence. For twenty-six years, there had always been someone at the table. First Jamie, then just Janebut she was always there, talking or not talkingyet it was a living silence. Now the silence was different. It wasnt quiet, it was empty.
He started eating with the telly on. It helped, a bit.
Week three, he rang Jamie.
Hi, son.
Hi Dad. Hows things?
Fine. Im working, living on Elm Street.
I know, Mum said.
Hows your mum?
Jamie pausedjust a fraction too long.
Shes all right. Says shes well.
Whats that supposed to mean?
Exactly what it means. Shes started going to yoga, sees her friends.
Tom tried to process this.
She doesnt miss me?
Dad, Jamie said gently, is this really why you called?
No. Just asking.
Shes fine, Dad. Youre fine. Thats good.
Tom hung up, sat on the sofa, not quite able to label what he felt. Not resentment, not quite. Something more like going into a room and forgetting what you went in for.
***
On day twenty-three, he bumped into a neighbour in the lifta woman in her mid-thirties called Claire, hed seen her a few times.
Youre new? she asked.
Just here for a bit, he replied.
Ohsplit with the wife?
The bluntness threw him.
Uh, yes.
Happens, she shrugged. Youre on the fourth, right? Where Dan used to live. The one who sang at night?
No, fourthmustard curtains.
Oh, Mr Daniels place. He only rents to single men. Thinks married ones make too much fuss.
They left the lift. Claire lived on the ground floor, worked at a vets practice, had a cat and loads of plants on her windowsill.
He helped her carry heavy bags once, she made him a cuppa in return. Her place was spotless, smelled of cinnamon, and felt calm. They chatted a bitshe was sharp, attentivebut Tom found himself thinking, Look how tidy it is here, and I havent dealt with the washing up for days.
They bumped into each other a few more times at the letterboxes, had pleasant chats, but nothing happened and couldnt have. He was, as he put it, like an unfinished thoughtsomething begun but left hanging.
One day she asked,
Are you staying long?
I dont know, he admitted.
You look like someone whos not sure where theyre going yet.
Thats true.
I get it, Claire said. Just dont hang around in limbo too long. I spent two years like that after my divorce. Still wonder why I wasted the time.
He remembered that.
***
On day thirty-one he went to the market and bought flowers. No special reasonjust found himself staring at big white chrysanthemums and remembering how Jane always preferred them to roses, said roses looked too showy. He bought a big bunch, paid a tenner, and headed over to Maple Street.
All through the tube ride he held the flowers and people glanced his waysome with smiles, some with nothing. He rehearsed what hed say, imagined how shed open the door, thought she might be surprised, maybe happy. After all, twenty-six years.
He rang the bell. Noticed there was a new doorbelldidnt remember that.
He heard steps, voicesher voice, then a mans, not his.
He froze.
The door opened a crack, chain on. Janes face looked out. She took in his face, then the flowersher expression unchanged.
Tom.
Jane, Im here.
I see.
I brought these He gave a small lift of the flowers.
She looked at him, neither angry nor teary, without that mixture of feelings hed rehearsed reactions for.
Tom, Im not letting you in.
Why?
Ive changed the locks.
I can see, but why?
There was a shadow behind her shouldera mans silhouette. Tom watched it.
Whos that?
Thats none of your business, she said, not sharplyjust a fact.
Jane, please. Ive been thinking a lot
And what have you realised?
He opened his mouth, shut it, tried again.
That it was good, Jane. That I didnt appreciate it. That leaving was a mistake.
She was silent a while, looking through the chain at him.
Tom, she said at last, quietly, without malice, youve realised it was good for you. But you never asked yourself why it was good. You think its about missing me. But all you really miss is someone to iron your shirts.
Thats unfair, he protested.
Maybe. But its the truth.
Jane, twenty-six years.
I know. They happened. We had some good times. But I dont want another twenty-six.
Cant you give me a chance?
She held his gaze a long time. Then said,
You know whats funny? I can breathe now too. Turns out I was suffocating as well. Just didnt talk about it.
He stood there, flowers drooping.
Jane.
Go, Tom. Ring Jamie, have a chat. Not about me, just talk.
She shut the door. It closed quietly, lock clicking.
He stood on the landing. The bouquet dropped down to his side. The chrysanthemums were perfect, oblivious to it all.
It was quiet. TV sounds drifted faintly from a neighbours.
He headed for the lift.
***
The lift came quickly. In the mirror, Tom saw himself: man with flowers, nice coat, a bit crumpled, face of someone whod just ended something. Or started. Or maybe both at once.
He stepped out onto the street. It was properly dark now, streetlights on, a few late walkers about their business. He made his way to the tube, still holding the bouquet.
Then he stopped.
There on a bench sat an old woman, feeding the pigeons out of a plastic bag. Birds flocked at her feet.
Tom walked over and set the chrysanthemums beside her.
For you, if youd like, he said.
She looked up at him, then at the flowers.
Lovely blooms. They didnt take them then?
No, they didnt.
Happens, she shrugged, scattering more crumbs.
Tom walked on. The street was ordinary, flats stood as always, life carried on. Somewhere in that city Jane shut the door behind him and returned to her evening, her new lifewhich, by all accounts, suited her just fine.
Somewhere Jamie was heading home. He needed a call, just for a chat.
Somewhere, in a flat with mustard-coloured curtains, dishes were stacked by the sink.
Tom pulled out his phone.
***
Later, on the tube, Tom stared at the murky carriage window, only his vague reflection for company.
Weird thing, he thought, not thinking much at all. Juststrange.
The train rolled on. Stations passed. All sorts of peopleyoung, old, tired, busy, loaded with bags, noses in books or mobiles. No one paid any mind to him, to his lost flowers, his twenty-six years, or closed door.
He got off at his stop and climbed out.
Air was cold, the smell of the first snowhadnt fallen yet, but it was in the air.
Tom paused, tipped his head back, took in the sky.
It was dark, ordinary.
He walked home.
***
That night, around two, sleep wouldnt come. He lay on the sofa. The mustard curtains blocked the streetlamp, fridge hummed now and then. Same as every night the past month.
And then he remembered something.
About eight, maybe ten, years ago, he and Jane had gone to her parents cottage. Sat outside on the verandah in the evening, drinking tea, garden fading into dusk. Jane was quiet, he was quietand it was a good sort of quiet, the companionable kind where no words are needed.
He remembered thinking: this is good.
Said nothing. Just thought it and forgot.
Now, lying in the rented flat, he tried to recall the last time hed thought that. Couldnt.
Outside, snowflakes drifted downfirst of the year, shy, not quite sure of themselves.
Inside, silence.
***
In the morning, he put the kettle on and thought he ought to buy some proper mugs. The ones here were all chipped, not pleasant to drink from.
Then he thought, should give Jamie a ring.
Then, workquarterly report due, and he was already a bit behind.
He remembered what Jane had said. She could breathe now too. Turns out shed been suffocating as well.
He never saw it. Or maybe he did, but didnt think it mattered. She was always there, always doing what needed to be done. Hed never asked if she wanted to do any of those things, if she liked it. Shed been part of the daily grind he called a cage, never wondering if it felt the same for herexcept she stayed in that cage, ironing his shirts.
The kettle whistled.
He poured water into a chipped mug, made tea, and sat at the table.
Outside, proper snow nowwhite, steady, settling on the windowsill.
Tom picked up his phone, found Jamies number.
Then put it down.
Then picked it up again.
Jamie, hi, its Dad. Just ringing. No reason. Are you busy?
No, Dad, not busy. Hi.
How are you?
Im good. Working. Had much snow?
Just started here.
Us too.
They were silent a second. A good silence.
Dad, Jamie said, howre you doing, really?
Tom glanced out the window. Snowy white outside, nothing clear inside.
Im figuring it out, he said.
All right, said Jamie. Call me if you want.
I will. You too, mate. Not just at Christmas.
Will do, said Jamie.
They said goodbye. Tom finished his tea. It tasted fine.
Out the window, snow kept falling.
***
At roughly the same time, other side of town, Jane looked out her own window. She had a coffee in hand, room warm and peaceful. Eugene had leftnever stayed the night; it was an unspoken rule for now: no rush.
Her mind wandered to Tom. Without pain or happiness, just rememberinglike thinking of someone whod been a big part of your life. She saw him at her door with flowers, looking big and a bit lost, like someone whod been taught a lesson by life, but hadnt quite mastered it yet.
She wasnt angry. Time for that had gone. At first, days after he left, shed discovered she was angryand that surprised her, because outside she looked calm but inside shed been quietly angry for a long time, at things invisible and routine. Angry that hed never asked how she felt, that he got bored with routinebut she created that routine with her own hands. He was bored; she never even got to ask herself whether she was bored or not.
Then the anger faded. Something steadier remained.
She picked up her phone and texted Eleanor: Yoga tomorrow? Eleanor replied at once: Just waiting for you to say. Yes!
Jane smiled and put the mug down.
Snow was falling outside her window too.
***
That evening, Tom rang his landlord and asked if he could renew the lease for another two months.
No trouble, said the landlord. Pay up front, as usual.
Tom went to the shop and bought some new mugsgood ones, not chipped. Two. Then thought better, and got a third.
He stopped at the grocers for food: chicken, onion, carrots, potatoes. Pulled up a soup recipe on his phone, four steps long. Step four: season to taste.
He stood over the pot, unsure what to taste meant. Added salt, tried again. A bit too salty, but otherwise the soup was fine.
He poured some into a new bowl (not a mugbowls are for soup), sat down to eat.
Silence.
In the quiet, the soup tasted perfectly decent.
***
Life carried on, as it always does: no warnings, no explanations. Jane kept at yoga, met up with Eugene from time to timehe was a good bloke, never rushed her. Tom lived on Elm Street, cooked his own meals, rang Jamie occasionally, met up once a week with Mike and Andrewnow they came without their wives and sat a bit longer.
Neither he nor Jane filed for divorcenot from any grand decision, but because the effort just felt too much for now.
One day, they bumped into each other at the big Tesco on Maple Street, the same one theyd used for twenty-six years. Tom was by the dairy, scrutinising a tub of yoghurt, looking deadly serious.
Jane crept up behind.
Tom.
He turned. They looked at each othera little older, not bad, hed lost some weight, eyes a bit more focused.
Hi Jane.
Hi. You look well.
And you.
They lingered a moment.
Getting yoghurt? she asked.
Yeah, just choosing.
This brands good, she pointed to one.
He grabbed it. She took her shopping and moved on. So did he, in a different direction.
They ended up almost side by side at the checkouts. She paid, he paid. They walked out nearly together.
Well, he said. See you.
See you, she answered.
She turned left, he right.
