Dear Diary,
Since I tied the knot, Ive found myself pressing the button on my front door the very same door Ive been unlocking with a key ever since I first moved into the flat on Highgate Road. There was a doorbell, of course, but it was hardly ever used. Mum kept a spare set of keys, yet hardly anyone else ever came by.
I would usually get home late. The neighbours were convinced I worked as a call girl. Id arrive in the small hours, and various blokes would be waiting. Those blokes turned out to be nothing more than taxi drivers. In reality I was a freelance copyeditor, dragging myself home exhausted, collapsing facefirst onto the bed. As for clients, Id rather call them visitors.
I grew used to the fact that nobody was waiting for me at the flat. No one was there to open the door for me.
Only the cat knew, and she was no help either. I wont pretend it hurt my feelings I simply got used to the quiet, the lack of surprises, the peace. What more could a woman ask for?
Then I got married, and among the other joys I discovered a new one: ringing the doorbell. My husband works from home, so when I return I press the button. Sometimes I do it several times a day.
Dingdong, dingdong, dingdong.
Mum, why are you disturbing people at work? she would say. You have a spare key, you know!
You dont get it, Id reply. Theres a special pleasure in having someone pull the door open for you. I was lying. It wasnt just pleasure; it was pure happiness to know that someone was waiting behind that door.
Dingdong, dingdong.
To hear footsteps, to see the lock turn, to feel the handle click
Dingdong, dingdong.
To catch the sparkle in his eyes, the smile, to realize that even if Im only out for a loaf of bread, he has missed me.
Dingdong, dingdong.
If youve never lived alone for a long spell, you wont understand. Sometimes my husband would open the door calmly, take my bag, help me shed my coat, pull me into a hug and let his stubble brush my cheek. Other times hed be in a rush, stuck on a video call, flashing exaggerated hand gestures, giving me a quick peck on the nose before dashing back to work.
None of that mattered. I felt as thrilled as a chronic tonsillitis sufferer finally reaching the icecream van. The best part? He never once snapped, never grew angry, never asked, Did you forget your keys? as if the problem lay in the metal rather than the moment.
And it still is, and it always will be.
For the coming year I wish you only two things: good health and someone waiting for you at home. The rest is up to you to dream about and achieve. Im certain of it.
