Im leaving for someone else.
Lucy, I need to tell you something.
Lucy Matthews stood at the hob, stirring the stew, her mind partly on the beef and partly on her husbands voice. It was the tone he always had when hed had a bad day at work or needed to confess about spending more than he shouldtense, guilty, but determined.
Go on then, she said, not turning around, keeping an eye so nothing stuck to the pan.
Im leaving. Theres someone else.
She put the spoon in its rest and turned. Nigel was standing in the kitchen doorway, jacket on, in the evening, which was oddhe only ever wore a jacket for proper occasions, never at home. Hed obviously chosen it for this, as if giving their conversation the seriousness of a business meeting.
How long? she asked.
Eight months.
I see.
Nigel seemed to expect something elsetears, maybe raised voices or questions. He shuffled awkwardly.
Lucy, I dont want there to be bad blood. Youve always… youve always been my anchor. Ive always valued that.
Lucy looked at him for a long, searching moment, as if trying to work out why a strange object had been brought into her house.
Your anchor, she repeated quietly. Right. Are you staying for dinner?
What?
The stews done. Will you eat, or not?
Nigel was completely thrown.
No, I… No, I wont. Lucy, do you understand what Im saying?
I do. Youre leaving me for another woman. Eight months. Anchor. I understand. So, youre not staying for dinner. Fine.
She fetched a fresh plate, served herself some stew and sat at the table.
Nigel lingered for another five minutes, then left for the bedroom to start packing. He banged drawers and rustled bags. Lucy ate her stew calmly. It was just how he liked it, rich and with the right tang. Shed been making it for thirty years and had perfected it to Nigels precise tastes.
She thought of this and briefly set down her spoon. Then she picked it up again, and finished her meal.
***
Nigel Matthews was fifty-six, confident that most of his life was still ahead. He managed a construction branch in Oxford, kept fit, and discreetly used a special shampoo to hide greys, though he denied it to everyone, including his wife. He married at twenty-seven, and had spent twenty-eight years with Lucy, raising a son, Peter, now living in Manchester and ringing once a week.
Abigail Martin worked at his office as an assistant manager. She was twenty-nine, slender, with shiny brown hair, and a habit of saying Oh wow at anything unexpected. She was easily surprisedby a good restaurant, the latest mobile phone, or Nigels knack for getting things sorted with a single call. It was flattering.
Lucy Matthews, fifty-three, was chief accountant at the city hospital. Small, dark-haired, with the first greys at her temples, which she didnt bother hiding. She could add columns in her head quicker than a calculator, read three novels a month, and was known for making the best stew on the estate. For almost three decades, shed balanced work, family, and home without ever considered it a feat. It was just life.
Their town was Ashford. Not too big, not too small. The sort of place where people knew everyone in their neighbourhood, where there was one decent shopping centre and a handful of good cafés you could go for dinner without regretting it. They lived in a three-bedroom flat on the fourth floor of a nondescript blocknice, well set-up, with curtains Lucy had sewn herself because the shops hadnt had the right colour.
After Nigel left, Lucy sat at the kitchen table for a while. Outside, the October rain pattered grey against the windowpanes. She cleaned away the dishes, washed up, and went to bed.
The first three days, she hardly thought about it. She went to work, did her reports, answered her colleagues questions with a breezy All fine, so no one bothered to ask twice. In the evenings, she sat in the flat, which had gone oddly silent, staring into the middle distance. She didnt cry. Inside, it felt like a numbness, the kind you feel right after a hard knock, before pain sets in.
On the fourth day, her friend Gail called.
Lucy, is it true? I heard from Sally.
Its true.
Oh God. How are you holding up?
Im fine.
Lucy… dont say youre fine. Weve been friends thirty years. How are you really?
Lucy paused.
Gail, do you know whats strangest? Today I realised I havent properly known what he was thinking for years. We lived side by side, but I just didnt know. Thats probably the worst of it.
Gail was silent a while, then gently suggested, Maybe talk to him? It might not be too late
No, Lucy replied evenly. Theres no need. Im just thinking out loud.
She didnt tell Gail what she truly felt: when Nigel announced he was leaving, her first emotion wasnt pain. The first thing she felt was a sort of relief, like finally putting down a suitcase shed been carrying forever. She was ashamed to admit it, even to herself.
On the fifth day, she took down the big wedding photo from the loungeher in white, him in a dark suit, both young and grinning. She placed it quietly in a cupboardnot thrown away, not broken, just put away.
A pale square remained on the wall.
She looked at that square a while, then picked up the phone to call Home & Heart, the furnishings shop.
***
She did the decorating herself as much as she could; when she couldnt, she hired someone. New wallpaper for the living roomcream, instead of the old, rather ghastly green stripes. Bought new ready-made curtains with bold leafy patterns, which Nigel would never have approved of. She rearranged the furniture as she fancied, not as theyd agreed years ago. The sofa now stood right under the window.
Peter phoned two weeks laterclearly after hearing from his father.
Mum, how are you?
Im fine, pet. Im redecorating.
Decorating? Really?
Redone the living room wallpaper. Might do the bedroom too.
Mum… are you sure youre alright?
I am, love. Really. Have you called Dad?
Peter hesitated.
Yes.
Thats good. Hes your dadkeep in touch, it matters. Will you come home for Christmas?
Of course, Mum. But you… are you okay on your own?
Lucy glanced around at her brightened loungethe cream walls, the leafy curtains, the sofa nestled beneath daylight.
Surprisingly, Im quite alright. Im amazed myself.
Peter circled the topic a while longer, then calmed down. He was a good lad, but like most grown-up children, he quietly hoped his parents would muddle through without any real disasters.
In November, clearing out the cupboard for winter things, Lucy found a large box shed stashed away fifteen years ago: crochet hooks, knitting needles, bags of leftover wool, unfinished projects. Nigel had once complained about balls of yarn cluttering up the house, so she put them away without protest.
She pulled the box into the middle of the room, gazed inside for a while.
Then reached in for the needles, sat on her sofa by the window, and as the first snow of the year fell, gentle and playful, her fingers remembered how to knit all by themselves.
***
Irene Sharp from work noticed the scarf around Lucys neck in early December.
You knitted that, didnt you? Its gorgeous!
I did. Just getting my hands back into it.
Will you knit one for me? Happy to pay, honestly.
Oh, go on with you.
No, really. Ill buy any wool you like and paycould do with one of those chunky hats, with a turn-up…
That was her first commission. It happened almost by accident, as important things often do.
In December and January, Lucy knitted eight pieces: three hats, two scarves, mittens, and two jumpers. She didnt charge much, more a token, but it was her moneyextra to her wage, earned with her hands and that secret contentment that came from an evening by the window, working the wool into new shapes.
When Gail visited and took in the redecorated lounge, the new curtains and the bag of wool on the shelf, she looked at Lucy and smiled.
Youre a different woman now.
How do you mean?
I dont know… Calmer. I thought youd end up in a right state, but you
I didnt, Lucy agreed. Not sure why. Maybe I just kept busy.
Has Nig called?
Once. In November. Wanted to know where the car documents were. Told him, said goodbye, that was that.
Called about the car, then, Gail snorted.
About the car.
They sat quietly. Gail cradled her mug in both hands, the way she always did when deep in thought.
Do you hate him?
Lucy thought honestly.
No. Thats the odd thing. I was hurta lot. Now, less. But I cant say I hate him. He just… did what he did. Now hes got his life, and Ive got mine.
How to survive a husbands affair and not lose your mind… said Gail, with dry humour. You should write a book.
Theres time yet, Lucy laughed.
It was the first time in months shed truly laughed.
***
Abigail was a lovely girl in many ways, but running a home was not one of her skills.
Nigel didnt notice at first. Life was fun for those first monthsrestaurants, weekend trips, the giddy feeling of being young again. Abigail looked at him with genuine admiration, and it warmed him. Shed tell him he looked nothing like his age, and hed straighten his back just a bit more.
Then they moved in together, in his rented flat across town, and a few things became clear.
Abigail didnt cook. Not badlyshe simply didnt see the sense in it, what with takeaways and cafés on every corner. It was expensive, and soon grew old.
She didnt believe in housework, either. There were things everywhere: chair, bath, floor. Not dirty, just her idea of a personal space. Nigel, used to neatness and order, started gritting his teeth by week three.
Abigail didnt see the point of paying rent early, or saving when there was still money in the account. Nigel would explain, shed nod, and do the same next month.
She brought her friends around constantly. Theyd stay until midnight, laughing, drinking wine from ever-present glasses, leaving them dirty. Nigel would retire to the spare room, listening to that laughter, but it wasnt laughter he enjoyed.
In February, he called Lucy.
How are you?
Im well, Nigel.
You… youre not cross I havent called?
No.
He paused.
Do you remember where the fridge warrantys kept? I need it for repair.
Green folder, third shelf in the cupboard.
You didnt move it?
No, I havent touched any of your things.
Right, thanks.
She hung up. Sat for a while, gazing at the window where the last of winters snow was melting, black patches showing on the roofs opposite. Spring would come soon.
She took up the knitting needles againa new soft blue-grey jumper, for herself.
***
In March, the hospital announced that the head of finance, Edward Mason, was retiring. The position was opening up. The chief, Dr. Helen Cooper, called Lucy in.
Lucy, Ill get straight to it. Youve been here years. Why havent you gone for promotion?
Lucy considered it.
Family, I suppose. Didnt want the extra stress.
And now?
She paused. Now, things are different.
Ive heard. Im sorry.
No need. Just tell me whats needed for the job.
Dr. Cooper smiled.
You know already. Write your application?
I will.
She did it that same day. She walked back from work on foot, even though the bus was waiting at the stop. She wanted the walk. March air was full of wet tarmac and something new, greena smell shed not noticed for years: the feeling of the season shifting, of trees swelling and buds nearly ready. A reminder, maybe, that life goes on. Its a cliché, but that doesnt make it less true.
***
In April, Nigel turned up on her doorstep unannounced.
She opened the door. There he was on the landing, in the jacket shed bought him from Marks & Spencer years ago, creased, with dark circles under his eyes.
Can I come in?
What for?
He looked down.
Lucy, I need to talk.
She stepped back. He came in and looked aroundthe new walls, the curtains, the moved furniture. He was silent for a moment.
Youve decorated.
I have.
It looks really good.
She said nothing. Went into the kitchen and put the kettle ona habit of the hands.
Nigel sat at the table, while Lucy looked at him, seeing him differently: not better, not worse, just different. Like seeing a place you used to know well, suddenly noticing details youd never seen.
How are you? he asked.
Fine. Got a promotion at work.
Congratulations. You deserved it.
I did. Long ago.
He heard that. A pause followed.
Lucy…
Nigel, get on with it. Whats the matter?
He pinched the bridge of his nosethe old sign of embarrassment.
Its not great with Abigail. Not terrible, just… complicated. Shes not who I imagined.
It happens.
I thought he paused, then admitted, I thought I could come back. You always… understood.
Lucy poured the tea, placed his mug in front of him, then sat down.
I did understand, she replied levelly. For twenty-eight years I understood. As long as you were here, I dont think you even noticed.
I noticed.
Not really. Otherwise, you wouldnt have called me an anchor.
He was silent.
I didnt mean to offend. Anchor, it means
It means you were never really here. The anchors whats left behind while everyone else moves forward. Convenient, steady, never changing.
Lucy…
No hard feelings, really. Her calm was genuineand she felt it. But it cant be as you want. Not now.
I want to come back.
I hear you.
Will you…?
She looked at him, at those familiar features clouded with confusion. Hed expected tears, blamemaybe rageand, after that, forgiveness. He was sure forgiveness would come, because she was always there. Because she was the anchor.
No, she said simply.
Why not?
Because I dont want to.
He stared, genuinely bewildered.
But youYoull be all by yourself.
Yes. And its fine.
Lucy, you cant really be happy alone. You just say that.
She picked up her mug and met his eyes.
You know what I found surprising these past months? I thought without you, my life would be empty. That frightened me. But it wasnt empty. Theres all this space, for myself.
Nigel was silent.
Youre probably a decent man, she went on, not as praise nor as insult, just a fact. You thought Id always be there, that the anchor never lifts. But Ive moved on.
What am I meant to do now? he asked, so childishly it was almost pitiful. Almost.
I dont know, Nigel. Thats your business.
He finished his tea, sat a little longer, then got up.
Are you filing for divorce?
Yes, soon. Ive spoken to a solicitor.
He nodded, took his jacket.
Alright. Well. Goodbye.
At the door, he turned.
Youve changed.
No, Im the same. You just never saw me.
He left.
Lucy sat at the table a while longer. Outside, the street was alivecars going by, voices laughing in the yard below; just another April evening in Ashford.
She got up, did the cups, and opened the window. Earth, grass and the scent of budding trees drifted into the room.
***
She first met Simon Harris at a residents meeting. Hed moved into their building over the winterrelocated to a flat on the sixth floor after selling his large place in the countryside. His grown-up children were living in London and Bristol now, and the big house was more trouble than it was worth.
He was fifty-eight, trim, with short greying hair and calm grey eyes. He worked as a bridge engineer, designing motorways and ring roads. A widower of three years.
At the meeting, he spoke sensibly and politely about the leak in the stairwell and what would fix it. No fuss, no self-importancejust clear explanations. The building manager listened.
Lucy noticed him because he carried himself the way people do when theyve nothing to prove.
They became acquainted by chance, in the lift, early in May. Lucy was struggling with an awkward shopping bag full of wool shed bought at the market.
Let me help, he offered.
Im alright, thanks.
I can see that. But itd be easier with two.
She laughed and gave him the bag.
They chatted in the lift and along the corridor. He walked her to her door.
You knit? he asked, nodding at the bag.
I do. Find it funny?
Why would it be funny? My late wife left loads of wool, really good qualitythat merino stuff. If you want it…?
She said yes. The wool was lovely, neatly wound and soft.
After that, sometimes they chatted when they met. Occasionally, hed come in for tea. They talked about work, books, and the city. He read a lot, sensibly, and never showed off. He was happy to listen and knew when to be silent.
In June, she knitted a scarf for him from the merino wool.
But its summer, he said, amused.
Itll be autumn soon, and I wanted to try the yarn.
How is it?
It knits beautifully.
He accepted the scarf without embarrassment or fuss. Just thanked her. She liked that.
***
In July, she filed for divorce. Nigel didnt challenge it. They met at the solicitors, signed the papers. He looked tired, a bit lost. She wore a bright summer dress shed bought in Maythe first thing shed bought in years that was cheerful, not dark and sensible.
How are you? he asked afterwards, outside.
Im fine, she replied. And it was true.
Abigails gone back to her mum. In Guildford.
I see.
Im on my own now.
She looked at him. Not with pity, nor with malice; she just looked.
Youll cope. You can manage.
Do you think so?
I do. Youll have to learnits not hard, if you make the effort.
They said goodbye, went their separate ways.
Lucy bought half a kilo of cherries from the market, ripe and glossy, and stood in the sun, eating them one by one, placing the pits tidily in a bag. The cherries were perfect.
***
In early August, Simon invited her to the pictures.
Heard theres a good film on. Want to go?
Id like that.
It was an old British comedy, showing in the open-air cinema at the local park. They sat on benches among families and older couples, laughed at the same jokes.
Afterwards, they walked through the park as the August dusk faded, Lucy telling him how shed started knitting for people, almost by chance. He listened.
Keep at it, he said seriously. Its got a soul to it. Not many things do.
You sound like you mean it about the scarf.
I do. The scarf is excellent.
Then, after a pause: Im in no hurry for anything. And I dont think you are, either.
No, she said.
Then thats good.
She didnt ask what exactly was good. She understood.
***
Come September, Gail visited and found Lucy knitting by her window. The flat smelt of coffee, balls of wool in three blue shades on the table, her laptop open to a page of orderssurprisingly numerous now.
You started a page online? Gail asked, peering at the screen.
The neighbours granddaughter set it up for me. Photos, prices, details. Im up to twenty-three orders already.
Lucy, really?
Really. Not big money, but mine. And oddly fun.
Gail shook her head in amazement.
A year ago, whod have thought…
No one. Least of all me.
And what about Simon, your neighbour…?
What about Simon?
Justwhen you talk about him, your face changes.
Lucy stayed quiet. Then, without looking up from her knitting: Its peaceful with him. Just peaceful. Hard to explain.
No need to explain, Gail said. I get it.
They drank coffee and chatted about all sorts: Gails grandkids, the new health clinic being refurbished, the news that Home & Heart was having an autumn saleit was the sort of comfortable conversation that settles easily between two friends in September.
Outside, Ashford continued its life. Leaves yellowed along the avenue. Someone walked a dog in the courtyard. A boy cycled past, watching every turn of his wheels.
Lucy picked up the next ball of wool, found the threads end. A new hat order, cabled pattern, due in a fortnight. Shed have it ready.
Her hands moved confidently, the needles working out the long-familiar rhythm. Outside, the first autumn rain fell, shaking the leaves on the treesso bright, so alive.
