I didnt get the chance to warn my husband that the entryway camera was finally fixed.
That morning, I hadnt planned to leave the house before eight. The usual routine: a mug of tea, a cheese and pickle sandwich, bag ready at the door. David was still asleephis shift at the factory didnt start until late afternoon, so hed only get up around one. I pulled on my coat, grabbed the bin bag, and headed out.
By the bins, I bumped into Mrs Thomson from flat 13, on the third floor. She was lugging a stack of cardboard and, unsurprisingly, in the mood to chat. Thats been her main pastime since retiring six years ago.
Did you hear? she announced with a flourish, not bothering with hello. Theyve finally got that camera working again. The building manager put up a note yesterdayits recording everything now, and they keep the footage for two weeks.
Thats good, I replied absent-mindedly, keen to get moving. About time.
About time, she said, as if relishing the words. Remember when that bike got nicked from the lobby last October? Useless, wasnt it? Said the camera wasnt working. Well, its working now. Let them try again if they dare.
I nodded, dumped the rubbish, and hurried off towards the tube. My mind was already elsewheremy client meeting, an invoice that needed emailing before lunch, and remembering to pick up some vitamins from Boots. The camera slipped out of my mind instantly.
I didnt think about it again until about four oclock, standing at the Sainsburys till, stacking groceries on the belt. Suddenly, it struck methis odd, sharp feeling, quiet but persistent. I froze, a carton of milk in my hand.
The camera.
David always gets up around one, then pops out for a smokenever in the flat; Ive banned it. Everyone in our block knows about his staircase habit. Hes out by quarter past one, half one at the very latest, every single day. Weve been here five years; thats never changed.
But todays his day off.
I plonked the milk down and fished out my phone.
He didnt answer. I rang againmore ringing, then voicemail. I put the phone away, paid, and hurried outside before calling again. Nothing.
Hes asleep, I told myself. Late shift, bedded late, probably fast asleep.
But I walked to the tube much faster than usual.
*
Our building is one of those good old nine-storey jobs from the ’80s. The lift works when it feels like it, and the stairwell always smells faintly of gloss paint and ancient timber. The camera is above the front doortiny, black, almost invisible. Used to have a red light blinking, but that stopped ages ago. We all got used to it being broken. Last summer, someone bashed in the postboxes on the ground floor. The police wanted camera footage, but there was nothing. Eventually, everyone just stopped expecting anything from it.
I stepped into the lobby and, out of habit, looked up. The red light was on.
No blinking or dramajust on.
I climbed the stairs to the fourth floordidnt even bother with the lift. It was quiet on our landing. I got my keys, pushed the door open.
There were mens shoes in the entryway.
Not exactly a strangers. Id seen them before. Light tan suede, a hefty size elevenlined up neatly next to Davids slippers, toe to toe, as if someone had made an effort.
I just stood there, staring at the shoes for a good ten seconds.
After a moment, I shrugged off my coat, hung it up, put the shopping on the floormoving very slowly, deliberately.
It was silent beyond the hallway.
I headed to the kitchen, put on the kettle and settled on a stool, just watching my hands on the tablelong fingers, wedding ring on my left, silver with a tiny stone. David gave it to me on our third anniversarythe trip to Bath, staying at that funny B&B, wandering along the river. Hed bought the ring in a little shop by the Abbey after Id glanced at it in the window and said it was lovely, thinking nothing more of it. But hed remembered.
The kettle boiled. I got up, poured the water, dropped in a teabag. Clumsy with nerves, but carefulas if, somehow, this cup of tea suddenly mattered so much.
Then, mug in hand, I went to the hall.
David? I called, not loud.
No answer.
David, Im home.
A tiny noise from behind the bedroom door. A bed creak. Then a shuffle, a silence, a sound I cant even describe, but one I recognised straight away.
The bedroom door opened.
David appeared in an old vest and tracksuit bottoms, his hair a scruffy mess, gaze fixed somewhere past me. I noticed instantlyhed always met my eyes, that had been one of the first things I loved about him. But now, he looked away.
Youre early, he said.
Yeah, I replied. Finished up sooner than expected.
I was asleep.
So I see.
We stared at each other. I sipped my tea, he stood unmoving in the doorway.
That was Mark, he finally said. He rang from the car, I let him in. We were just talking, he mustve dozed off.
Right, I said.
You alright?
Fine.
He brushed past me, straight to the fridge, got himself a glass of water.
Mark! he shouted over his shoulder. Come out, Kates home!
Another creak, another pause. Then out shuffled MarkMark Smith, Davids mate from work for six years running. Tall, pale, bit of a slouch to him. I knew him from Christmas dos and Davids birthday last year. Now, looking sheepish, he mumbled, Alright, Katesorry, just popped by, ended up napping.
No worries, I said.
They both watched me. I stared down at my tea.
Ill be off then, Mark said, awkwardly wiping at his rumpled shirt. Things to get on with.
Yeah, cheers mate, David replied.
Mark disappeared down the hallway, the door shut behind him.
Just me and David again.
He downed his water and set the glass none too gently in the sink.
Youre quiet, he said.
Im thinking.
What about?
I set down my mug.
Did you know theyve finally fixed the lobby camera? I asked.
He went dead silent. I saw something flicker across his facegone so quickly I could have imagined it. He set his glass on the edge of the sink, louder than necessary.
No, didnt know, he said.
Mrs Thomson told me this morning.
A pause.
So?
Nothing, really. Just thought youd want to know.
*
I didnt kick off. Not because I had nothing to sayon the contrary, I had a mountain of words I’d gathered over the last half a year. Weird little things I’d noticed and then tried to ignore. The way he now laid his phone face down. His late shifts, suddenly more often. Taking longer to text backnot much, maybe half an hour, an hour, but I saw it. A subtle scentnot aftershave, something else, faint and unfamiliar, but recognisable.
One night in June, he came home late and said hed got caught up at work. I didnt grill him, just set his plate on the table and left the room. Lay on the sofa and wondered if I was just being paranoidmaybe it was the job, maybe stress, maybe my own imagination.
Id even checked his coat pockets once. Found nothing, which didnt reassure meif anything, it revealed more. Checking at all meant something had shifted; people in a healthy relationship dont do that, do they?
I hadnt started an argument because, honestly, I needed time to think.
That evening, David went off to his shift. I sat in the kitchen, laptop open, pretending to work. Eventually, around nine, I sent a text to my best friend Sarah: You got a minute?
She rang me almost straight away.
Whats wrong?
I told her everythingabout the shoes, about David coming out the bedroom, the I was asleep and the camera.
Sarah just listened. Thats what I loved most about hershes really good at letting you talk, not jumping in with stories of her own.
Are you sure? she asked gently, when I finished.
No, I admitted. Im not.
Well, there you go.
But the way those shoes were lined up. Properly, toe to toe. Who does that, just popping in to see a mate?
Sarah was silent for a bit.
That doesnt prove anything, she said at last.
I know.
You could be wrong.
I know, Sarah. But when I looked at those shoes, I just knew. I didnt need evidence. I just knew.
A feeling isnt fact.
I know. I paused. But sometimes, the feeling is sharper than proof.
So, what are you going to do?
Im not sure yet. Talk to him, I suppose.
When?
Not today.
We carried on chattingsmall talk, just the background music of life. Before we hung up, Sarah said, Dont bottle it up, okay? If youre struggling, you call me. I promised.
*
He came in around half eleven. I was already in bed with a book. He popped his head round the door: Still awake?not a question, more an observation. Went for a shower, came back, slid into bed, phone in hand.
I kept readingor pretending to. The words blurred and refused to turn into meaning. I must have read the same line five times.
Kate, he said in the dark.
What?
You cross?
No.
Pause.
Really?
Really.
He turned onto his side. In a few minutes, his breathing grew deepereither genuinely asleep or just pretending.
I lay there and stared at the ceiling. It was white, with a tiny crack in the corner above the windowit had been there since last autumn; David kept saying hed fill it in, but never got round to it.
I was thirty-four. Wed been married eight years. I remembered when we first came to view this flatstripped bare, faded stripy wallpaper. How Id insisted wed have to change the wallpaper before the furniture arrived. How hed laughed that wallpaper was irrelevant, what mattered was the flat faced the sun.
I remembered painting the bedroom, him splashing paint onto himself and ending up with a white line in his hair. The way Id laughed, how hed laughed back.
Our first real rowover his mum, over money. Not speaking for three days, that terrible silence. On day four, he left my favourite tea on the kitchen table, said nothing. Neither did I. We just had our tea and, gradually, started talking again.
All of that hadnt gone anywhere.
But the shoes were real too.
*
Next day, I rang the building manager.
Hello, I said. I live at 12 Highfield Crescent, fourth floor. I heard the camera in the entryway was fixed yesterday?
Yes, came the cheerful reply. Everything alright?
All fine, just wanted to checkdoes it keep the footage?
Yepkept for two weeks.
Great, thanks.
I put the phone down.
Then I rang David.
Hello? He picked up immediately.
Hi, where are you?
At work, why?
Nothing, just wondered. Remember yesterday when I mentioned the entryway camera?
A pausetiny, barely even there, but to me it may as well have been highlighted in neon.
Yeah, I remember.
They keep the recordings for two weeksI just found out.
Long silencemore than enough time to just say okay.
Right, he said eventually.
Yes, I replied. Right.
I heard his breathing over the line. Too measured, too careful.
Kate, he began.
Not now, I interrupted. Well talk tonight. At home.
And hung up.
I just sat there for a few minutes, phone in hand, listening to that drizzly English raina sort that doesnt really fall, just hangs in the air. I knew then I didnt need the footage. What mattered was that pause, drawn out longer than normal. That deliberate breathing.
*
He got home earlier than usual, about quarter to sevenI hadnt even made dinner. He put his bag down, kicked his shoes off, came straight into the kitchen where I sat, mug of tea in front of me.
He sat across the table, no chit-chat, nothing routine, just looked at me.
We sat in silence for what felt like three minuteslong minutes. I counted them by how his face shifted. At first, it was locked up; then tired; then something unfamiliar.
Its been going on for a while, he said finally.
How long?
Seven months.
I nodded. Seven monthssince February then. I tried to remember February. We went to his parents for the half-term holiday. He got me flowers for Mothers Daya big bunch of yellow tulips. Id put them out on the windowsill, stared at them for daysso bright and alive. Seven months.
Who is she?
He told me a name. Didnt ring a bell.
Someone from work?
No. Met randomly.
Randomly, I echoed.
He didnt try to explain, didnt search for wordsjust silent, in a way that was almost more honest than speaking.
Were you ever going to tell me? I asked.
I dont know. I kept thinking about it. Didnt know how.
What about now?
No choice, really.
Because of the camera.
He looked up at me.
No, he said. Not just because of the camera. I couldnt keep doing this, Kate. Living with you, knowing he faltered.
But you did. For seven months.
I know.
The silence pressed inI could hear distant plumbing dripping in the bathroom. Wed meant to get that sorted for weeks.
Do you want to be with her?
He didnt answer straight away. And sitting there, watching his face, I realised I knew it like my own. Every line, every crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Those little wrinkles that had appeared three years backI remembered him laughing about getting old, me laughing with him. Now, seeing those lines, it felt like the first time.
I dont know what I want, he said quietly. Thats the truth. Im not trying to dodge itI genuinely dont know.
Thats not a good answer.
I know.
David. I said his name slowly, tasting it almost. Dont you see this isnt just an I dont know? You have to answer.
I do. I get that.
And?
He stared at the table.
I dont want her, he said. It wasnt not the same as us. It wasnt something I could compare. It was just different.
But you kept going back for seven months.
I know.
So what was it about her, then?
He thought for a long time.
It was easy, he said, almost a whisper. No responsibilities, no weight. We met, we left, nothing to expect from each other. It was likehe struggled with the wordslike breathing somewhere else.
And here, you feel suffocated?
No. Here, its real. And thats always heavier. I didnt know how to carry it, thats on menot you.
I stood up, went to the window, stood, then came back to the table. He watched me.
So, I said finally, tonight youre going to stay at Toms. Take what you need for a few days, and go. I need some space.
Kate
Im not saying forever. I just need space, on my own. Can you give me that?
He nodded.
Alright, he said.
He disappeared into the bedroom, and I heard him quietly packingmaking as little fuss as possible. He re-emerged with a holdall.
Kate.
Yes?
I am sorry.
And, looking at him, I believed itit wasnt an excuse. He meant it.
I know, I said. Go on.
*
For three days, I had the place to myself.
I didnt ring him, or Sarah, or even Mum. I went to work, came home, cooked dinner for one. Which was oddI hadnt cooked just for me in ages and had no idea how much pasta was enough. Always made it for two. Now, half went into the Tupperware.
The first day, I blitzed the flatcleaned, dusted, chucked out everything that shouldve gone ages ago. Not furious, or as some angry erasing ritualjust because I needed to do something with my hands.
That night I rang my mum. Just to chat, not to reveal anything. She babbled about her allotment, neighbours, some silly telly programme. She sounded the same as everwarm, a bit weary. Some things dont change.
On the second day, I rang the building manager again.
Can I get the footage from the camera?
What for?
Well, personal reasons. Yesterdays footage.
They explained it was only available for official stuffburglaries, damage, police reports, that sort of thing. Not just to have a look.
Which, in all honesty, I didnt need anymore. Id got what I wanted when I heard Davids voice on the phonehis weirdly long pause, that forced calm.
I didnt need film. I needed the truth. And I had it.
On the third day, I realised I needed to figure out the answer for myselfnot “who was she” or “why did it happen”, but what do I actually want?
I sat by the window with a coffeethe same view as always: street, trees, a bit of the playground. So familiar. I wondered: if everything we hadeight years, this flat, the small rituals like Friday movie nights, the comfort of silent companyif all that were gone, what would I lose?
All those tiny facts you collect about a personhe hates shopping at Tesco because it stresses him out, I need half an hour in the morning before anyone speaks to methose build up over years and become the bricks and mortar, dont they?
Can you patch that up after it cracks? Or is it like a hairline in the wallpaint over it, but you always know its just under the surface?
I didnt have the answer, but I wanted to try and find out.
*
On day four, David texted, Can I come over?
I wrote back, Yes.
He arrived in the evening, carrying bread and a bottle of milklike he was just popping in from the shops, not returning after leaving. I didnt comment. We sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea. I thought, everything important happens right here, at this table.
Have you decided anything? he asked.
Sort of, I said.
And?
I stared at my hands, the ring glinting in the light.
I need to know something. Is she real for yousomething serious, or was it all just a messy, undefined thing?
He thought for ages. This wasnt about finding polite words. He was trying to be honest.
No, he said finally. Not real. It was an escape, I think. From myself, really. With her, no expectations, nothing heavy. Just easy.
And with me its hard?
Here, things are real. Thats always harder. It was never about you not being enough. I just havent learnt to cope with the hard bits. Thats on me.
I poured myself more tea. My hands didnt shake, which surprised me.
Are you finished with her?
Yes.
When?
The day before yesterday.
So, before I messaged saying come back?
Yes.
That mattered more than I can explain. He hadnt ended it because I asked. Hed already decided.
Alright, I said.
So?
It means we can try again. Not straight away. Not as though nothing happenedbecause it did, and I wont pretend it didnt. But try.
He looked at mesomething passed over his face, not relief, exactly. Something else, like only now had he realised what he stood to lose.
I need one thing from you, I continued.
Anything.
Not anythingspecific. I want us to see a couples counsellor. Not just oncea proper go. Will you?
Yes.
Didnt hesitate.
I mean it, Kate. Ive been thinking these last three days. Ive figured some things out.
Like what?
He glanced at his hands, then back at me.
That I did this not because of something missing here, but in me. I dont know how to be with the difficult bits. I ran to something easy. Cowardly, really.
I said nothing. He carried on:
I need to face that. Not to convince youbut for myself. Because if I dont, Ill make the same mistake again. Maybe not with someone elsemaybe just another sort of running. But itll happen again.
That was the most honest thing he said all evening.
Okay, I said.
We sat a bit longer, the conversation gradually slipping back to normal thingshis work, my client meeting. Just small, gentle words, like people learning to speak after a long silence.
One more thing, I said when he started to stand.
Yeah?
The bathroom tap. Its been dripping for weeks. Fix it tomorrow.
He looked straight at me, the corner of his mouth twitching slightlynot quite a smile, but close.
Alright, he said. Tomorrow.
*
Mrs Thomson caught me by the lift on Friday.
Have you heard? she asked, with all the ceremony shed given the last camera announcement. Cameras on the blink again! Some technical faultthe second time this month. Ive written to the building manager, but we all know what that means.
Ridiculous, I agreed.
The lift arrived. I got in, pressed Four.
Do you want the managers number? Ive got it here somewhere! she yelled as the doors closed.
I looked at my blurred reflection in the scuffed metal panelthirty-four, silver ring, old coat from the top shelf, face a bit battered by the last week. An ordinary face.
The camera had only worked for one day.
One day out of eight yearsnearly three thousand days, under one roof, one set of stairs, one front door.
One dayand it turned out that was enough.
On the fourth floor, I stepped out into the corridor.
The flat was quietDavid wasnt back from work yet. I hung up my coat, put the kettle on, opened the fridge. Bread, milk, some leftovers. A normal fridge. A normal kitchen. A normal flat.
A normal life, but with that crack showingone that had always been there, just hidden.
I poured out the tea, thinking that maybe this is the way it is. Not everythings fine nor everythings overjust something in between, a place you have to stand and think. Where simple answers dont exist, but honest questions do.
And sometimeshonest answers.
The bathroom tap had stopped dripping. David fixed it this morning, just like he said.
That meant something too.
