“Shut it,” the husband snapped, slamming his suitcase onto the floor. “I’m leaving you and this bloody mire you call a life.”
“A mire?” Margaret turned slowly from the stove, where potatoes sizzled for dinner.
“This mire fed your mother for twenty years while she traipsed round doctors offices. Forgotten that?”
“Whats Mum got to do with it? Dont you dare bring her into this!”
“Everything, Victor. While you were off chasing your big deals in London, I was here looking after your bedridden mother. Changed her pads, did all the things you couldnt be bothered with.”
Victor stood in the doorway of their cramped two-bed flat, smart in his new suit, suitcase at his feet. Margaret hadnt seen him look so polished in yearstrim, tanned, reeking of expensive cologne. A far cry from the factory days when hed come home stinking of machine oil.
She remembered how theyd met. A dance at the works social club, him a young fitter, her from accounts. Hed spun her round to *Careless Whisper*, whispering nonsense in her ear. Then a modest weddingthirty guests, prawn cocktail, and cheap fizz. His mother had wept with joy, hugging Margaret: “Thank you, love, for taming my boy.”
Tamed him, alright. Twenty-two years theyd lasted. Raised their daughter, Lucy, now at med school on scholarships and Margarets extra tutoring shifts. Victor hadnt handed over a penny in three yearspoured everything into his “business ventures.” Garage start-ups, haulage schemesall went belly-up.
“You just dont get it,” Victor lit a fag right there in the hall. “Daves offered me a job up in London. Runs a chain of car washeswants me managing. Even sorted a flat to start.”
“Going alone?” Margaret wiped her hands on her apron. They trembled, but her voice stayed steady.
“Not alone.” Victor looked away. “With Emily. She… she believes in me.”
Emily. Margaret had known about her for months. Seen the texts when Victor was in the shower*”Sweetheart,” “miss you.”* Twenty-eight, worked at the dealership where Victor had eyed up a caron finance, which Margaret was still paying off from her teachers wages.
“What about Lucy?” Margaret asked. “Your daughter. Shes got finals next year.”
“Shell understand. I cant live like this anymore. Im forty-five, Marg. Still young. Still time to turn things round.”
Margaret walked to the window. Next door, Jean was hanging laundry. She spotted Margaret, gave a little wave. Jean knew everythingabout Emily, about Victor barely coming home these past six months. Brought round pies sometimes: “Chin up, love.”
“Remember,” Margaret said quietly, “when Lucy was five? Pneumonia, doctors werent hopeful. You worked double shifts for the medicine. I sat by her bed for days. You said, Were a family, Marg. Well get through anything.”
“That was years ago.”
“Fifteen. Or when your mum had her stroke? Who took her to every appointment? Who stayed up nights turning her so she wouldnt get sores? Me, Victor. You were always too busy. Busy with what? Your schemes?”
Victor stubbed his cigarette on the windowsill. Margaret wincednewly replaced, saved up for herself.
“You never forget, do you?” he sneered. “Only the bad stuff. What about the good? That week in Brighton?”
“Ten years ago. One week.”
“Nothings ever enough for you!”
Margaret turned. Tears pricked, but she wouldnt let them fall. Not for him.
“Know what, Victor? Go. Run off with Emily. But heres the thingI cared for your mum till the end. Two years, spoon-feeding, cleaning, meds. Where were you? Working? On what? Youve not held a proper job in five years.”
“I tried! For this family!”
“For us?” Margaret scoffed. “Lucys pulling night shifts as a care assistant to afford textbooks because Dads an entrepreneur. Im teaching double classes and tutoring evenings. Who exactly were you trying for?”
Victor gripped his suitcase handle, silent.
“And the funniest bit?” Margaret continued. “Your mum told me before she died: Forgive him, love. Hes weak. Always was. Thank you for putting up with him. Didnt understand then. I do now.”
“Dont you dare!” Victor exploded. “Im not weak! Im suffocating here! In this flat, this town, with you! Youll bury me with your bloody perfection!”
“My perfection?” Margaret laugheddry, bitter. “All Ive done is bite my tongue. When you stumbled in drunk. When our savings vanished for your projects. When you reeked of another womans perfume. Thought youd grow out of it. For family.”
She opened the cupboard, pulled out a folder. Victor stiffened.
“Whats that?”
“Divorce papers. Prepared a month ago. Waited to see if youd leave firstor if I would. You saved me the trouble. Sign them.”
Victor gaped at the documents.
“You… knew?”
“Im not stupid. Gave you a chance. Gave myself onemaybe I was wrong. I wasnt.”
“The flat” he started.
“Mine. Mum left it to me. Youre on the lease but own nothing. Try courtthough bit tricky with no payslips for three years. Oh, and Lucys maintenance? Shes still in full-time education. Section 15 of the Children Act, if youre wondering.”
Victor snatched the pen, scrawled his signature, flung the folder onto the sideboard.
“Happy now? Twenty-two years down the drain?”
Margaret studied him. Grey at the temples, lines round the eyes. Once, shed loved this man. Nowa stranger.
“Not down the drain. Weve got Lucy. Clever, kind, hardworking. Takes after me,” she smiled sadly. “And thank youfor the good years. You just… lost your way. Or maybe I never saw you clearly.”
Victor hoisted his suitcase. Lingered in the doorway.
“Youll regret this. Be lonely without me.”
“Wont be alone. Got Lucy. My job. Friends. Know what? Ill finally take those dance lessons. Always wanted to learn the tango. You said Id look daft. Well see.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood in the silence, then returned to the kitchen. The potatoes were burnt. She dumped the pan, opened the windowaired out the smoke.
Her phone rang. Lucy.
“Mum, you alright? Jean called, said Dad left with a suitcase.”
“Fine, love. Fancy dinner?”
“Mum… Are you crying?”
“No,” Margaret wasnt. “Chopping onions. Making salad.”
“Im coming over. Right after my shift.”
“Dont, Luce. Youve got exams.”
“Dont be daft. Already on my way. And Mum… I love you. Youre the strongest person I know.”
Margaret hung up. Fetched the winea Teachers Day gift, saved for a special occasion. Poured half a glass, raised it to the sunset-gilded rooftops.
“To new beginnings,” she murmured.
Below, a taxi door thudded shut. Victor loaded his case while a young blondeEmilywaved from the passenger seat. Margaret had seen her at the dealership. Nothing special. Just young.
Jean called up from the yard:
“Marg! Bringing you a pie! Cheese and onion, your favourite!”
Margaret smiledproperly, for the first time in months. The divorce papers lay on the table beside Victors abandoned keys. She picked them up, weighed them in her palm.
Tomorrow, shed change the locks. Sign up for dance class. Maybe even get that bob shed fancied.
Tonight, shed drink wine with Jean, eat pie, and not think beyond this moment. Because ahead? Her life. No looking back at the man whod walked out.
The phone rang again. Unknown number.
“Margaret? Med school here. Lucys been nominated for the Deans Scholarship. Congratulationsshes a credit to you!”
This time, Margaret did cry. But they were happy tears.
