I am not myself
Youve bought that rubbish again? Graham put the carrier bag onto the kitchen table with such force something inside it gave a muted clink. I told you: no more Velour. Its pointless and far too expensive.
Nina stood at the window, watching the small cul-de-sac out front. Across the road, the neighbours little girl, maybe seven, was chasing pigeons. They would lift in noisy, scattered clouds, swirl about, then settle back down as if undisturbed. Nina watched them and realised she couldnt remember the last time shed bought herself something, just because she wanted to.
Its only hand cream, Graham. Three pounds and eighty pence.
Three eighty is three eighty, Nina. Have you forgotten how to count?
She didnt answer. She turned, took the bag, pulled out a small tub with a golden lid, and set it on the windowsill beside her geranium. The plant hadnt flowered in months. Nina had meant to look up why, but never seemed to get round to it.
Nina. Im talking to you.
I hear you, Graham.
She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and started thinking about dinner. She could hear his footsteps behind her heavy, deliberate then the office door closing. She let out a long, silent breath.
She was fifty-eight. She lived in Reading, in a semi-detached near the university, and had been married to Graham for nearly twenty-nine years. Their grown-up son, Anthony, lived in Birmingham and called on Sundays, unless he forgot, which he often did. There was a small holiday bungalow in Devon, a car that only Graham ever drove, and a steady job at the local library, where Nina had been the senior librarian for eighteen years.
That was her life. No one had taken it from her.
She took out some chicken fillets, laid them on the old chopping board, and reached for a knife. Outside, the little girl had vanished, the pigeons had wandered off. The street looked empty, grey, last years grass poking up between the cracks.
Nina realised she was just standing there with the knife, not cutting, not even moving.
She set the knife down, crossed to the window, and opened the new hand cream. The scent was subtle, floral, with something gentle beneath it. She smoothed some onto the back of her hand, rubbed it in. Her skin seemed to drink it, and it felt as if someone had quietly, wordlessly held her hand for a moment.
She screwed the cap back on and returned to chopping chicken.
That evening was unremarkable. Graham ate without a word, watched the news, and went straight to bed. Nina sat in the kitchen for ages with a cup of tea, long since gone cold, absently flicking through an old gardening magazine. She wasnt really reading; just sitting.
The next morning at the library, she found Linda Cross sobbing between the magazine shelves.
Linda, whats happened?
Linda was three years older than Nina, had worked at the library longer than anyone, and knew the location of every book by heart. Nina had never seen her cry.
Its nothing, really Linda waved a worn tissue and tried to smile just something personal.
If you want to talk…
Nothing to tell she blew her nose, stuffed the tissue away My daughter called. Told me, Mum, youre out of touch. Just like that. Out of touch.
What did she mean?
She meant, I suppose, that my advice isnt wanted. I was just telling her to be a bit kinder, talk to her husband properly. Mum, your advice is from the last century, you dont understand how people live now, she said. Linda straightened a stack of magazines. Perhaps shes right.
Shes not, said Nina.
How do you know?
Nina didnt have an answer. They stood in silence, surrounded by that old-paper, wooden-shelves scent, then each drifted quietly away.
At lunch, Nina left the library. It was a cold April day but full of sunlight, so she made her way to the park, sat on a bench, and closed her eyes. Orange-pink sunlight filtered through her lids. She thought about Linda and her daughter about the word outdated.
Then, inevitably, about herself.
Her name was Nina Lawson née King born in Reading in 1966. Shed finished teacher training, specialising in English Literature, and didnt marry until she was twenty-nine, late for that time. Graham had been an engineer then: serious, reliable-seeming. Anthony arrived a year later. Nina took maternity, then went part-time, then cared for her mother in her final years, before returning to library work. Life folded itself around all of that, neat and contained.
Somewhere during all that folding, shed lost something something she couldnt quite name. She could feel its absence, though.
She opened her eyes. Opposite, a plum tree was in bloom, tiny white flowers almost impossibly delicate. Nina thought she hadnt painted in years probably thirty. As a student, she painted, pastels, just for herself. And then it was never the right time, and then it was awkward, and then forgotten.
She pulled out her phone and rang her son. Anthony answered on the third ring; he sounded busy.
Hi, Mum. Everything alright?
Just checking in.
Im about to go into a meeting, but Ill call tonight, OK?
Of course. Call later.
He didnt. That, too, was normal.
Nina finished her shift at six, bought a loaf of bread, and headed home, thinking how shed walked this same way for eighteen years, knew every uneven paving stone, every corner.
Graham had got home before her. He was at the computer, engrossed in something. She hung up her coat and went to the kitchen.
Want dinner?
Later.
She put some soup on to reheat, and as she waited, she stared at the hand cream still there on the windowsill. The tub was small and pretty. Nina thought, perhaps Graham was right. Three pounds eighty, for what? But she also remembered the scent.
She left the tub where it was.
A couple of weeks trickled by, nothing remarkable. Then, one afternoon, a woman named Sarah walked into the library.
Nina spotted her straight away: mid-forties, cherry red coat, cropped hair, unmistakably purposeful. She came to the counter, asked to register, and if there were any books on psychology and, by the way, anything about learning watercolour painting.
Watercolour? Nina echoed.
Yes. I painted a bit as a girl, would like to try again.
Nina gave her a library card, led her to the right shelves. Sarah moved confidently, thumbing through books, checking, moving on. Nina watched from a distance, recognising something in her she couldnt have said what. A kind of presence. As if she were utterly enough for herself.
Half an hour later, Sarah came back with two books and asked:
Do you read any of these yourself?
She nodded toward the psychology shelf.
Sometimes.
Have you worked here long?
Eighteen years.
Sarah studied her with an intent, open look as if genuinely listening.
Thats a long time, she said.
It is.
Do you like it?
Nina paused the question was simple, but the answer wasnt.
I do. I love the books. I like the people. I like… the routine.
Routine, Sarah repeated, as if weighing the word.
She took her books and left.
The following week Sarah returned and asked for something else on watercolour. Nina found a slim book of reproductions and handed it over. Suddenly, Sarah asked:
Would you like to try?
Try what?
Painting. I go to a beginners watercolour class every Saturday. Small group, nothing intimidating. Come along.
Nina almost said no, the word perched on her tongue. But instead, she asked,
Where is it?
Sarah wrote the address on a scrap of paper. White Light Studios, the old high street, Saturday at eleven.
That evening Nina stared for a long time at the paper, which shed tucked in her apron pocket, then placed it beside the hand cream. Graham didnt ask about it. In truth, he rarely asked about her, unless it was money or housework.
Friday night, over dinner, she told him:
Im going to a painting class in the morning.
Graham looked up from his plate.
Where?
At White Light Studios, on the high street. Sarah, a new library member, invited me.
He chewed, set his fork down.
How much will it cost?
Havent asked yet.
Right. Youd better go if youve got nothing better to do.
Nina looked at him. His eyes were already back on his dinner. She realised he always spoke to her like that if theres nothing better to do, again?, do you have to? for twenty-nine years.
I will go, she said.
Saturday morning she rose at eight, washed, reached for a grey jumper and navy trousers. She paused, looking at herself in the mirror. Usually she only glanced, never lingered. This time, she stopped and really looked. Older, yes, but not ugly. Grey eyes, still lively. Hair streaked with white, but still thick. She brushed it differently, then dabbed on a bit of her special hand cream.
Out by nine, to take her time.
White Light Studios turned out to be above a shop a Victorian building, plain outside, but newly renovated inside: white walls, wooden floorboards, big tall windows. Nina climbed the creaky stairs and opened the door.
Sarah was already there, and four other women of various age, plus a cheerful man in a checked shirt. Seated together at a big table, each with a glass of water and paper in front of them.
Nina! Sarah waved her over. You came!
Nina sat beside her. The instructor, a young woman named Zoe, explained theyd be painting a lilac branch. Nina picked up a brush, her hand trembling just a tiny bit not with nerves, but the oddness of it.
Dont worry about making it look perfect, said Zoe. Just think about the water and the colour. Thats all.
Nina swept the first stroke. Purple spread wildly, mixing into the damp paper with blue. She added another, then another, watching the paint move where it liked, not always where she meant. It was oddly fascinating. Sarah was frowning in concentration; the man worked with a tiny brush and looked annoyed at his effort.
An hour later, Nina checked her page. It didnt look particularly like lilac. More a smoky, purple-blue blur, dotted here and there. But it was alive somehow. Something of hers in it.
Thats beautiful, said the elderly woman opposite, whose name was Gladys.
I doubt it, Nina replied.
No, really. Theres feeling to it.
Nina looked again. Maybe, just maybe, there was.
After class, Sarah suggested coffee at the little café downstairs. Nina agreed. They sat by the window, cups in hand, and Sarah asked, without preamble:
Did you enjoy it?
Yes. Unexpectedly.
I thought you might Sometimes, you look as if youre seeing something but dont quite want to look directly.
Nina sat quietly for a moment, then said:
How long have you lived in Reading?
Three years. Moved from Bristol after the divorce.
I see.
It was awful at first, Sarah said, matter-of-fact. But later, it was interesting. Living alone, I learnt a lot about myself. She warmed her hands on her mug. Are you married?
Twenty-nine years.
Are you happy?
Nina stirred her coffee.
Sometimes. It depends.
Sarah nodded, no more probing. That too was good about her.
Home by half past one Graham watching football, not asking what shed done. She ate soup alone in the kitchen. She pinned her watery lilac to the wall by the geranium.
The plant looked slightly more alive than last week. On one stem, a small red bud had appeared. She hadnt noticed before.
Every Saturday, she went back to the watercolour class. Sarah always came; their chats grew longer, opening up a little more each time. Nina told her about the library, favourite books; Sarah told her about her bookkeeping job, about Bristol, about her daughter whod stayed there and was learning French at school.
One day, Nina asked, quietly:
Arent you lonely here?
Sometimes. But its not the old loneliness.
What do you mean?
Sarah thought for a moment.
Before, I was lonely even living with someone. Thats the worst kind. Now, Im alone, but not lonely. Theres a difference.
Nina understood. Didnt say it, but something deep inside quietly shifted like thawing ice in a river, slow, inevitable.
In May, the library was asked to host an event by the borough council a cultural open evening. The manager, Margaret, called a staff meeting.
Ideas, anyone?
Everyone was silent; so was Nina, but something was brewing in her mind.
We could have a book club evening, Linda suggested. People read aloud, discuss.
We run that every year. I want something new.
What about something for women? said Nina.
They all looked at her.
In what way? asked Margaret.
Their real stories. Not characters from books real women from the local area, different ages, sharing their stories, things that changed, how they lived. No fuss, just honestly. We could show their crafts or artwork as well.
A pause.
Thats unusual, said Margaret.
But authentic.
Wholl organise it?
I will, said Nina. And surprised even herself.
Margaret eyed her.
Good. Lets try.
Nina called Sarah straight afterwards. She laughed a delighted sound.
You? said Sarah.
Me. Dont even know why. The idea just came out.
Thats usually the best way. Im in. Lets ask Gladys too she does pottery, remember?
Gladys was sixty-two, retired, making tiny clay birds and selling them at markets. She agreed straightaway, but added: No big speeches, I get tongue-tied.
Nina started drafting a plan at the kitchen table whenever Graham shut himself in his study. It felt odd, making something new. Not simply keeping up routines actually beginning something herself.
One evening Graham appeared, glass in hand, spotting her with the battered notepad.
Whatre you writing?
Work. Planning an event.
Library stuff again.
Yes, library stuff.
He poured his water, lingered.
Dinner was cold tonight.
Sorry. Ill reheat it next time.
He left. Nina watched him go, thinking he cared about cold dinner, not that she seemed happier, not that she was different, not even that something interesting might be happening. Only the cold dinner.
She turned back to her notepad.
The womens evening was set for the third Saturday in June. Nina lined up four women: Sarah, Gladys, a retired geography teacher called Janet, who sometimes scribbled poems but never dared read them out, and Zoe the painting instructor, the youngest.
She made a poster, shared it round, and wrote a notice for the neighbourhood newsletter. She worried no one would come, but the room filled more than thirty people, mostly women, all ages, one brought her elderly mother.
Nina hosted. She didnt have a prepared speech. She simply said: Were here to listen to each other, thats what matters. She gave Gladys the first turn.
Gladys talked about retirement, those early months wandering around the house feeling surplus. Then she discovered pottery; suddenly, I realised I still had hands, she announced. The room erupted with warm, genuine laughter.
Sarah talked about moving, about starting over at forty-six. The first months, she said, she was scared of everything only later did she realise it wasnt the unknown that frightened her, but the familiar. Nina made a mental note to remember those words.
Janet read two poems her voice trembling at first, but growing steady. When she finished, a woman in the third row led enthusiastic applause.
Later, as they tidied up, Linda said:
That went well, Nina. I mean it.
Unexpectedly well.
Not really unexpected. Youve always been good with people, but you never let yourself know it.
Nina looked at her.
Do you think so?
I know so. Weve worked side by side all these years.
She gathered up an abandoned scarf and hung it by the door. Linda was right, and that made her feel both proud, and a little sad. Why, after eighteen years, only now?
At home, Graham was already asleep. Nina quietly undressed, then tiptoed to the kitchen. The hand cream, painting, and geranium stood next to each other. The plant had burst into vivid bloom four crimson clusters.
Nina applied her cream, slowly, thoughtfully. She watched the plant and thought of Sarah: It wasnt the new I was afraid of, it was the old.
The next morning, Graham asked:
So, how was your evening?
Good. Lots of people came.
Did you at least get something to eat?
Just tea.
Tea isnt food, he muttered, eyes on his phone.
Nina poured herself coffee and stepped onto the tiny balcony. It was early; the street silent, the air smelling of lime trees. She stood there, reflecting: Graham had asked if she ate. Perhaps that was his way of caring. For twenty-nine years shed mistaken the form for the substance, unable to see how little was really left.
She didnt know. She was only just daring to look at all.
In July, Anthony rang on a Wednesday, not Sunday a surprise.
Hi Mum. How are you?
Im fine, Tony. Is something wrong?
No, just… I got a message from Sarah. She tracked me down on social media, said youve been running brilliant events at the library. Said the last one was a huge success. I had no idea.
You never asked.
A pause.
Im sorry, Mum, youre right. Tell me everything.
So she did: the painting classes, Gladys with her birds, Janet and her poetry, the room packed with women. Anthony listened carefully, not interrupting.
Thats really great, Mum. Well done.
Thank you.
How long have you been doing all this?
Its new. Only this past year.
You shouldve started earlier.
Probably, yes.
Another pause.
Mum are you and Dad happy?
Nina stood by the window, watching two boys kick a ball about in the street below.
Its… the usual.
Is that good or bad?
Im not sure yet.
He let it drop, promised to visit August, and rang off. Nina stood by the window for some time afterwards.
Anthony visited for four days. He resembled Graham physically but there was something of Nina in his careful, considered way. He brought cheese and nuts, and listened properly, fully.
One morning, while Graham was away, Anthony said:
Mum, youve changed.
In what way?
Hard to say… Its like… youve become more… you. He laughed Sounds odd.
No, it makes sense.
Are you pleased?
Nina wrapped her hands around her mug. The coffee was hot.
I am but its also a bit frightening.
Why?
When you start seeing yourself clearly, you start seeing everything around you more clearly too. And thats not always comfortable.
Anthony nodded. He hesitated.
Does Dad notice?
Dad notices a lukewarm dinner, she said before biting her tongue Sorry. Thats unfair.
Its honest, Anthony said gently. Have you ever talked to him about what you need?
Nina looked out at the late summer lawns.
Im not sure I know how, she admitted quietly.
Try.
After he left, Nina changed the bed, thinking about that: try. For twenty-nine years, shed never really tried. At least, not properly. She talked a lot but not about the important things. The important things she left unsaid. Because it was safer that way; because Graham could silence the conversation with just one look.
In September, Margaret told her that the council wanted to repeat her event, but on a bigger scale, across the library network. Nina was asked to lead again.
This is a step up, Nina. More work, but salary can be reviewed.
Id like that.
Margaret smiled, just slightly.
Youre different this summer. I hope you dont mind me saying.
I dont.
I mean it as a compliment. Youre more alive.
Nina returned to her desk, registered a patron for crime fiction, logged the loans, and watched the afternoon sun pour through the windows. Eighteen years, and only now did she have this feeling that the place was hers. Not somewhere she happened to be, but somewhere she belonged.
At home, something shifted. Slightly at first, then more noticeably. Graham started seeing that she came in later, that she was out Saturday mornings, usually with people he didnt know.
Whos this Sarah?
My friend.
Since when do you have a friend called Sarah?
She joined in February. Through the library.
Every week, then?
Most weeks.
Graham eyed her. There was something new in his look not annoyance, more uncertainty. For the first time, Nina recognised it: bewilderment.
Im not stopping you, he said. Im just not used to it.
Used to what?
You having all this… stuff.
Nina sat across from him. She regarded him not through the usual shield, but directly. Like a stranger shed lived with for three decades.
Graham, she asked. Are you glad Im doing something besides housework and my job?
He hesitated.
Im not sure. Maybe.
Maybe?
Im just not used to it. He got up, stood by the window. You were always… around. Now youre everywhere.
Im not everywhere. Im right here.
Here, but different.
Nina looked at his back broad, stooped now. Sixty-one. He too had grown older, while she hadnt noticed.
When did we last have a proper conversation, Graham? Not about dinner or the car. A real one.
He turned.
Well, we talk, dont we?
About what?
He didnt answer, glancing away.
Exactly, Nina murmured.
November arrived with autumn winds and the main library event on the horizon. Nina spent weeks preparing, recruited eight women, arranged for a local artist to hang paintings. Sarah helped with everything. They now met almost every day, in the café, the library, or walking along the river Thames when weather allowed.
One rainy day, by the riverside, Nina blurted:
I dont know how I lived before all this.
You lived, said Sarah.
No, I mean… I was deep inside myself, hardly ever surfacing. Why did I do that?
Its not why, Sarah replied. Its what happened.
But I could have done it differently.
Could you? Sarah looked out over the water. The river ran cold and grey, beautiful in its bleakness. Differently comes when it comes never before.
But Im fifty-eight.
So?
Its late.
Nina. Sarahs voice was gentle but firm. I know women who gave up at thirty-five, boxed themselves up under glass. Youre only starting now, and at fifty-eight. That isnt late its exactly the right time.
Nina watched a slow barge crawl upriver.
You know, she said. Ive painted nearly every week now for nine months.
I know.
And this morning, I actually wrote my own text for Fridays event. Properly, in my own words.
You showed me.
Its good, isnt it?
Its not just good. Its real.
The event was packed, more than seventy people, standing room only. Nina opened with her own text, hands mostly steady, voice clear. She spoke of every woman carrying something quietly her own, sometimes years unnoticed. Of how age doesnt close doors sometimes it opens secret ones you never saw. Not a lecture, just the truth shed only figured out herself.
Afterwards, an elderly lady Elsie the one brought by her daughter, came up.
Dear, she said. Were you speaking to me?
To all of us, Nina answered.
No, to me, I think. I used to embroider stopped years ago, said it was silly. Tonight I wondered if maybe, at eighty-three, I could try again. Daft, isnt it?
Not at all.
Really?
Really.
Elsie left, moving slowly on her daughters arm, but brighter than before.
December settled quietly. Nina now led a small literature circle at the library every Wednesday; a regular six or seven came along, debates sometimes so lively she barely got a word in edgeways.
At home, things felt tense, not rowdy or explosive just tense. Graham was unusually silent. Nina sensed he was thinking, but he never said.
One Sunday evening she went into his study.
Graham, we need to talk.
Go on then.
No properly. She closed the door, drew a chair up next to him.
He put his book down, guarded.
Whats wrong?
Nothings wrong. She folded her hands. I just want to say something I never have not truly.
Graham said nothing, face wary.
Ive lived for years as if I hardly exist, she started. I cooked, went to work, did whatever was needed but inside, I simply wasnt there. Partly my fault I let it happen. But partly its us. How weve existed side by side, not together.
Graham stared at the floor.
Do you want a divorce?
I dont know what I want. I do know we need to really talk. I need you to notice me not just dinner or shirts me.
The silence grew long, the snow tapping at the windows.
I dont know how, Nina, he said at last. No-one ever taught me.
I know. She glanced at his hands. Im not blaming you. Im asking: can we try, together? I need to know if you want that too.
He didnt answer at once. He stared out at the snowy garden, then back at her. Again, she recognised real, naked bewilderment.
Youve changed so much, he said quietly.
Yes.
I dont always understand.
I know.
But I dont want… He struggled I dont want you to go. Not from here. Or at all.
Nina looked at him an older man, slumped shoulders, lost intention.
Then lets try, she said. I wont pretend itll be easy. But lets try.
January brought icy days and new light. Nina filled her weeks library, reading group, painting every Saturday. Her house was full of paintings; some with Sarah, some pinned above the kitchen table. The geranium bloomed, Nina finally re-potted it properly.
She saw less of Sarah now, as she was busy with work, but they still chatted on the phone.
One afternoon, Sarah asked:
Thinking of doing events again this spring?
Yes. Something bigger this time a small festival, workshops, readings over a few days.
Thats an enormous task.
I know, Nina said. I like big tasks now.
Sarah laughed.
Who wouldve guessed last year?
Exactly.
With Graham, things werent simple. They talked more truly talked sometimes it was stilted, sometimes better. When Graham withdrew, Nina left him to it, working on her own things.
In February, during a quiet evening meal, he said:
I saw the doctor last week. A check-up.
Was something wrong?
Just routine. Blood pressures a bit up. They gave me tablets.
Im glad you checked.
Arent you going to ask why I didnt say?
Nina set her spoon down.
Why didnt you say?
Didnt want to worry you force of habit.
You make a habit of hiding things from me?
Yes. Youre always busy lately.
Nina looked at him. Something in his answer was important, but she couldnt quite explain why.
Graham, I want to know these things. About the doctor. About you. I want to know.
I get it, he nodded. Ill say next time.
And Ill do the same.
They sat quietly for a while. Through the window, Februarys snow swirled around. The kitchen was warm, scented with home-cooked soup. On the sill: the hand cream, and a new watercolour a white apple blossom.
Thats nice, Graham said, nodding at the picture. Did you paint it?
I did.
He stared a moment.
Youre good.
Im still learning.
Later in the month, Linda called, apologising for ringing at nine at night.
My daughters home, she said, clearly smiling. We made peace. She said sorry for calling me irrelevant.
Are you pleased?
Over the moon. And, Nina can I join your painting class Saturday?
Of course. Eleven, as always.
Ill make a hash of it, knowing me.
Linda, no ones good at first. Thats the point.
On Saturday, Linda appeared. She gripped her brush awkwardly, heavy-handed. The first splodge was too dark, the second, too watery.
Look, a mess, she moaned.
I think its lovely.
Its a blob, not a branch.
Its the first time.
Arent you embarrassed to flatter me?
Linda, next time itll be different.
Linda looked at her work and suddenly laughed.
Very well. Next time then.
March whispered in, the first hint of spring. Nina submitted a proposal for the spring festival, Margaret approved. Anthony wrote to say he was coming in April for the event.
One night, Graham already asleep, Nina sat at the kitchen table, notebook open, writing ideas. Water dripped from the porch roof, the last of the snow melting, spring feeling tentative but almost here. The geranium looked ready to burst, three bright clusters and a bud nearly open.
She looked at the empty hand cream tub. Shed long since finished it, yet left it on the sill. Bought a new one, the exact same kind three pounds eighty. Graham never said a word.
She opened her notebook, wrote at the top: What I know now that I didnt know last year. Then stopped. She didnt need to write it. She already knew.
Her phone rang, late nearly eleven. Sarah.
Everything alright? Nina asked.
More than alright, Sarahs voice was different lighter, a bit excited. Ive been offered a job back in Bristol. Really good, great salary. My daughter is there. Im thinking about it.
Nina paused.
You want to go?
Im not sure. Thats why I called. Say something.
What should I say?
Tell me what you think.
Nina looked out. April night, wet, brimming with life.
I think you already know the answer. Youve made the decision you just havent said it yet.
A pause, then:
Probably. Yes.
Then what are you afraid of?
Leaving this behind the painting group, Gladys, Janet and her poems… and you.
Well carry on.
Readings far from Bristol, Nina.
Sarah, Nina picked up a pen and twirled it, do you remember, by the river in November? You said, Change begins when it begins.
Sarah laughed gently.
I can be wise sometimes.
You can.
Nina, can I ask you honestly are you happy?
Nina looked at the geranium, the cream tub, the pictures on the wall, her blank-paged notebook.
Ive become myself, finally. Maybe thats more important.
Thats your answer then?
I suppose it is.
Sarah was silent a while.
Then Im glad for you.
And Im glad for you.
Nina…
Yes?
What will you do when I leave?
Nina looked at the open notebook, the white page.
Ill carry on, she said.
