My dear, I think weve become strangers to each other. Life has worn us down. Ive been thinking… we need a bit of space apart.
Peter said it as casually as if he were suggesting having brown bread instead of white with supper. He didnt even look up from his bowl of stew, soaking the last bit of meat with a thick wedge of bread. Margaret stood frozen, ladle mid-air, feeling a trickle of hot broth scald her wrist. But she hardly noticed the pain. There was a ringing in her ears, like the sound of a hoover gone mad.
What do you mean, apart? she asked, willing her voice not to tremble as she gently set the ladle back in the pot, afraid it might slip from her suddenly weak fingers. Are you being sent to Liverpool again on business?
No, no trip, Peter replied with a grimace, finally meeting her gaze for the first time. His eyes looked weary, even irked, like a man forced to explain something simple to a persistently obtuse schoolchild. I mean a pause. A chance to re-examine our feelings. The sparks gone. I come home and it feels… stifling. Its always work, dinner, telly, bed. I want to see if Im truly drawn to you, or if it’s simply become our routine.
Margaret slumped into a chair opposite. Twenty years married. Two grown children at university in other cities. The mortgage paid off three years ago. Shed papered every inch of their little semi in Surrey herself, picking out paint and furniture at the weekend. And nowstifling?
And where are you planning to stay, while you… reflect? she asked quietly.
Ive let a little flat. Just for a couple of months. Not far from my officeought to save me the hassle of the train in the mornings. He answered too swiftly, as if rehearsed. Ive nearly finished packingmy things are in the bedroom.
Hed arranged everything in advance. While she had been picking bulbs for the garden and finding him a new jumper in the January sales, hed been estate-hunting. Signing a contract. Paying a deposit. Keeping his plans from her.
And what about me? Do my feelings not matter? Margaret searched his face, longing to spot the boy she married. But before her sat a man with thinning hair and shifty eyes.
Lets not make a drama, Margaret, Peter sighed, putting his spoon aside at last. His appetite was clearly finished. Im not asking for a divorce. Not yet, anyway. Just a bit of time apart, like everyone does these days. The experts advise it. Maybe well realise we cant be without each other, and itll be like a second honeymoon. Or… at least well know things for what they are.
He rose, tossed his serviette onto the table and strode towards the bedroom. Margaret listened to the wardrobe doors swinging open and carrier bags rustling. She sat in the quiet kitchen, staring at the cooling stewhis favourite, with beans, just as he likedand felt a hard, glacial emptiness grow inside.
The evening passed in a fog. Peter paced the house with brisk determination, lugging suitcases to the hallway. He took his laptop, the coffee machine (a birthday gift to Margaret from her co-workers, though hed used it most), and all his winter jumpers.
Well, Im off, he said at the door, zipped up in his coat, looking half-proud, half-sheepish. Dont call me for a while. Lets do a months silence. Keep the experiment clean.
What if the pipes burst? Margaret blurted, realising how feeble she sounded.
Ring a plumber. Youre a grown woman, youll manage. Ill keep my keys, just in case I need to pick up anything urgent. Thats everything, then. Take care.
The door slammed. The lock clicked. Margaret was alone in a house that suddenly felt enormous and eerily still.
The first three days, she barely left bedonly rising for water or the lavatory. She felt as if life had ended. She relived the months gone by, searching for her failings. Was she too quick to grumble about dirty socks? Had she let herself go? Or simply become boring?
On the fourth day, her younger sister Charlotte arrived, storming in with a flurry of Waitrose bags and a bottle of Sainsburys red. Margaret, huddled in a robe, hair unwashed and eyes red, was met with a brisk shake of the head.
No, love. This wont do at all. Hop in the shower. Ill slice the cheese.
An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand, Margaret recounted Peters words. Charlotte listened sharply, her eyes narrowed.
A pause for the sake of your feelings, is it? Says he feels stifled? My clever sister, who can balance anyones books and spot an error at fifty paces, cant add this up? Hes seeing another woman.
Oh, dont be silly, Margaret protested weakly. At his age? Fifty-two and always complaining of his back… whod want him?
Oh, youd be surprised! His back wont stop him if hes got a fancy for someone new. Studio flat, dont call meas old as the hills. Hes trialling life with her, but keeping his hand on the door in case she doesnt do laundry or cook a decent stew. If it works out hell file for divorce. If not, hell be back with flowers, telling you it was you all along.
Charlotte’s words hit Margaret like weights. She wanted to protest, to defend Peter, but a corner of her knew it was true. The changed phone password, the late nights, the new shirt hed, for once, bought himself.
What should I do? Margarets voice shook, rage sprouting in place of sorrow.
What do you do? You live, thats what. Dress up, get your hair done, and stop waiting on him like a saint. Who owns this place, anyway?
My parents left it to me. Peter never updated the paperworkall our focus was on the kids and work.
Right, so legally its all yours. Chin up, love. He expects you to pine and wilt. Surprise him.
With Charlottes words echoing in her head that night, Margaret walked the darkened house, switching on every light. She found his old shaving cream on the bathroom shelf, grabbed the tube, and hurled it into the kitchen bin. The dull thump sounded like the opening shot of some long-overdue battle.
The next two weeks were peculiar. Margaret made herself go in to the office. Her colleagues noticed her weight loss and tired hollow eyes, blaming it on the lingering winter. But Margaret began to see things anew. Without Peter, there was less messno muddy boots carelessly dropped, no empty crisp packets on the coffee table. The fridge stayed full, a simple salad would do for dinner. Her evenings belonged to her again. She even retrieved her knitting and started a scarf, enjoying the soothing click of needles while an old film played.
The silence healed. She realised she preferred it to Peters drone about politics or his insistence on switching the channel.
But still, she wonderedwhat if Charlotte was wrong? What if Peter truly was soul-searching, thinking always of Margaret?
All doubt vanished one Friday evening. Stopping at the shops after work for new yarn, Margaret spied them halfway up the escalator: Peter by the goldsmith, next to a much younger womanbarely thirty. He wore the smile Margaret remembered; he was helping her choose a bracelet and laughing in that easy, cocky way shed once found irresistible. They radiated happiness.
Margaret withdrew behind a large man, heart booming in her ears. She watched Peter, whose spark had vanished, guiding another woman by the waist. She didnt confront them. She didnt even watch them leave. She turned on her heel and walked straight to her parked car.
That night, she unearthed all the property deedsher name, her mothers signature, proof of address. Peters name, of course, was missing, lax as hed always been with the paperwork. She found the number for a locksmith.
Hello, I need all the locks changed, urgently. Yes, I have proof of ownership. When can you come? In an hour? Brilliant.
The locksmitha short, kindly man in blue overallsarrived promptly and, after a few questions, set to replacing the heavy doors lock.
The best you have, please, said Margaret. No one should be able to walk in, even with an old key.
You got it, missus. Thisll give any burglar a run for his money, let alone a cheeky husband.
The whirring of his drill was like music. Brass shavings sprinkled down onto the mat; the old lock thudded to the floor. Each click of installation felt like old hurts and habits being swept away.
When he left, handing her a new set of gleaming keys, Margaret turned the lock four times. Four solid turns; four walls of her newfound fortress.
She gathered Peters remaining thingswinter coat, shoes, fishing rods, tools. All of it went into heavy black rubbish sacks, which she left outside the flat door.
Another week passed with no word. Margaret felt calm. Shed filed for divorce onlinea surprisingly straightforward business.
Then, on Saturday morning, the doorbell rang loud and demanding.
She peered through the spyhole. There was Peter, looking a little worse for wear, clutching a bag of groceries and a rather sad bunch of carnations.
Margaret did not open the door. She leaned her brow against the chill of the metal and waited.
Peter scrabbled futilely with his keyit ground against the new lock. He tried again and again, finally pulling the key out and peering at it in disbelief.
Margaret! he called. Margaret, are you in? Whats happened to the door?
Margaret remained silent.
Margaret, answer me! I know youre thereyour cars in the drive!
He began pounding the door.
This isnt funny! Ive come backwith flowers! We said a month, but I decided early. I missed you!
Margaret took a deep breath and said firmly through the door, Your things are in the black bags to your left. Take them and go.
There was a long silence, then the sound of rustlinghed spotted the bags.
Have you lost your mind? came his voice, shrill now. What are all these? Open the door! Im your husband! Ive every right to this house!
This is not your house, Peter, Margaret replied calmly. Its mine. You insisted on time apartso have it. Forever.
You… you actually changed the bloody locks? It dawned on him. How dare you? Ill call the police! The council! Ill have this door off its hinges!
Feel free, said Margaret. Tell them you left to find yourself with your new lady friend. The constable might have a chuckle.
What friend? RubbishI was alone!
I saw you, Peter. At the jewellers, with the woman in the red coat. The experiments over. The result is negative.
There was a stream of curses from outside. He kicked the door, shouted again for her to let him in, called her names. Margaret sat on the hall carpet, legs trembling. She heard the scrape of bags, his angry muttering.
Youll regret this! Wholl have you at your age, you silly old bat? I was going to forgive youtake you backand this is the thanks I get! Half the house is mine, you know! The car, the holiday place!
Well split the rest in court, as we should, said Margaret. But the flat is mine. Good day, Peter. If you dont leave, Ill call the police to report an intruder.
He stormed and raged a little longer, then she heard the clatter of the lift and the thump of the bags. Peace fell.
Margaret wept, but it was not the weeping of grief; it was the bitter sea of stress finally pouring out. She sat there for ten minutes, then stood, washed her face. The woman in her mirror looked worn yet proud.
Her phone beepeda message from Charlotte: So, hows our Casanova? Saw his car outside.
She typed back, Gone. With his things. The locks are sound.
Well done! Im proud. Ill bring cake tonightwell toast your new life.
Margaret put the kettle on. Through the spyhole, she watched as Peters carnationsthrown in tempergathered dust on the doormat. Hed never noticed that shed hated carnationsshe loved tulips.
A month later, the divorce was through. With the house hers, and the cottage and car splitwith Peter forced to sell one and compensate her with poundsMargaret booked her first solo holiday in years. She returned from Spain tanned, in a bright new dress, having flirted harmlessly with a charming German at the hotel. For the first time in years, she remembered she could be beautiful.
One evening, as she walked home from work, Peter appeared on a bench outside.
Margaret?
He looked thinner, wearing a crumpled jacket, browbeaten.
Hello, she said, barely slowing her stride.
Margaret, please. Can we talk? I was foolish. I made a mess of things. I miss home. I miss your stew. Cant we try again? After twenty years, surely
Margaret looked at himand realised she felt nothing. No anger, no grief, not even pity. Only emptiness, like when a stranger asks for spare change.
Twenty years arent forgotten, she agreed softly. But the past is in the past. Im living a new life now, Peter. And theres no room for old mistakes, or for you.
But Ive changed! I see it all now!
So have I. She smiled. Ive learnt I breathe just fine on my own. I feel free.
She took out her new, gleaming keys, and walked to the front door. The buzzer granted her entry, the door shutting out Peter and all his too-late regrets.
In the lift, she pondered painting the hallway peach, maybe treating herself to a cosy new chair for her knitting. Life was beginning again, and the keys to it were in her own hands.
