I didnt have the chance to warn my husband that the CCTV camera had been fixed.
I hadnt planned to leave the flat before eight that day. Everything was going according to plan: a mug of strong tea, cheese on toast, bag ready by the front door. Michael was still asleep hed worked the late shift, wasnt due up till one. I pulled on my coat, grabbed the bin bag, and stepped outside.
Down by the bins, I ran into Mrs. Cooper from the third floor. She was lugging a cardboard box and, as usual, clearly wanted a chat. Mrs. Cooper always wanted a chat it had become her full-time hobby since she retired six years ago.
Have you heard? she began grandly, before even saying good morning. The councils finally sorted out the CCTV! There was a notice up yesterday says its working now, everythings recorded, everything saved. Two weeks of footage, they say.
Thats good, I replied absent-mindedly. About time.
About time, yes! she echoed, quite pleased. You remember in October, when someone nicked that bike from the downstairs lobby? Nothing was done! Cameras broken, they said. Well, its working now. Just let them try something.
I smiled, dumped the rubbish, and made for the tube. My mind was on the client Id be meeting, the invoice I needed to send before lunchtime, and a mental note to grab vitamins at Boots. The CCTV slipped my mind straight away.
It wasnt till four oclock, at the checkout in Sainsburys, that it hit me. I was putting groceries on the belt, milk in hand, when suddenly I felt a twinge subtle, but real. I paused.
The camera.
Michael gets up at one. He always slips out to smoke on the stairs I made it clear: no smoking inside. Everyone in our building knows it. Hes out there by quarter past one, half one at the latest. Has been for the five years weve lived here; thats never changed.
But today was his day off.
I set the milk down, pulled out my phone.
No answer. Tried again just the ring, then voicemail. I packed up, paid, and called again outside. Still nothing.
Asleep, I told myself. Late shift, up late. Sleeping now.
Still, I found myself hurrying towards the station.
*
Our building was a blocky 1980s affair, nine storeys, patchy with faded red brick. The lift worked when it fancied, the stairwell smelt of paint and old wood. The camera sat above the front door small, black, easy to miss. Once it used to flash a red light; then it stopped. Wed grown used to it not working. Last summer, someone vandalised the post-boxes near the lobby the council told us, Cameras not working, nothing to see. The culprit was never found, and from then on, nobody counted on the CCTV.
I went in, glanced up and saw the little red light glowing steadily, no blinking, just on.
I took the stairs up to the fourth floor. It was quiet on the landing. I pulled out my keys and unlocked the door.
There were unfamiliar shoes in the hallway.
Not completely unfamiliar. Id seen them before tan suede, size eleven, lined up next to Michaels slippers, toe-to-toe, as if someone had set them there with care.
I stood in the doorway for ten seconds, just looking.
Then, taking a deep breath, I hung up my coat and placed my groceries carefully on the floor. Everything seemed slow, deliberate.
There was no sound from the bedroom.
I went into the kitchen. Boiled the kettle. Sat at the table and stared at my hands long fingers, silver ring with a small stone on the left. A third wedding anniversary present. He got it in Brighton, a last-minute trip, three days by the sea, a tiny guesthouse near the lanes. Id noticed the ring in a shop window and murmured something nice nothing more. Apparently, itd stuck with him.
The kettle clicked off. I made tea, quietly and gently, as if it mattered not to let the spoon hit the cup.
Mug in hand, I returned to the corridor.
Michael, I called softly.
Nothing.
Michael, its me. Im home.
There was a rustle behind the bedroom door, the bedsprings creaked. A pause, another ambiguous sound that I couldnt quite name but understood immediately.
The door opened.
Michael came out in an old t-shirt and joggers, hair all over the shop, looking past me, not at me. That not at me I noticed straight away. Hed always met my eyes first thing direct, steady that was what Id remembered about him even early on. Now, he looked away.
Youre back early, he said.
Yes, I replied. Got finished sooner.
I was asleep.
I can tell.
A silence. I sipped my tea, studied him. He lingered in the doorway, not moving.
Rob dropped by, he said at last. Called from his car, I let him in. We were just chatting, then he nodded off.
I see.
Is something wrong?
No.
He brushed past me, went into the kitchen, rummaged in the fridge for water.
Rob! he called toward the bedroom. Come and say hi, Kates home!
Another creak, a pause, then out came Rob Robert Wilkins, Michaels mate from work. I recognised him from parties and Michaels birthday last year. Tall, blondish, stoop-shouldered and right now, he looked recently awake, red-eyed, a cheek marked by the pillow.
Hi, Kate, he said. Sorry, just popped up, ended up crashing for a bit.
Its fine.
They both studied me. I kept my gaze on my mug.
Right, Ill shoot off then, Rob said. Things to do.
Sure, said Michael.
Rob gathered himself by the door, and moments later, the front door shut behind him.
That left just Michael and me.
He drank some water and set the glass down, a bit too hard.
Youre awfully quiet, he said.
Im thinking.
About?
I set my mug down.
Look, I said, did you know the building had the CCTV repaired?
He faltered. I watched some flicker cross his face quick, but unmistakable. He set the glass on the edge of the sink with a clunk.
No, he said. Didnt know.
Happened this morning. Mrs. Cooper told me.
A pause.
So? he asked.
Just letting you know.
*
I didnt make a scene. Not because I had nothing to say far from it. I had heaps to say, thoughts Id gathered over the last six months. Tiny strangenesses Id pushed aside. Phone screen always face down always, not just sometimes. Late shifts, suddenly more frequent. Slower replies to messages sometimes half an hour, sometimes an hour and I noticed. A faint smell, not cologne, something else, something unnameable I began to recognise.
Back in June, he came home late, said work had overrun. I didnt ask anything, just set his plate out and slipped into the other room. For a moment, I wondered if I was just paranoid. Tired, stressed, imagining it all.
I even checked his jacket pocket once. Nothing. But even that act it said enough. Normal people dont rifle through a partners coat.
There was no scene because I needed time. Time to weigh up what I really wanted to say.
That evening, Michael headed out for his shift. I sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, pretending to work. Around nine, I messaged my friend Hannah: You got a minute? She called in three.
Whats wrong?
I told her about the shoes. About Michael emerging from the bedroom, about I was asleep, and about the camera.
She listened without interruption one of the many reasons I valued her. She never responded with, Oh, let me tell you about what happened to me once
Are you sure? she finally asked when I fell silent.
No, I admitted. Im not.
Well then.
But the shoes they were lined up so precisely. Nobody does that just popping in for a chat.
She was quiet.
That isnt proof, though, she said.
I know.
You might be wrong.
I know, Hannah. I know. But I looked at those shoes and realised I already know. I dont need proof. I just do.
But knowing is not proof.
I know. But sometimes knowing is truer than proof.
What will you do?
Im not sure. Maybe talk to him.
When?
Not tonight.
We talked some more, about nothing much, just idle chat to prolong the conversation. She said, Just dont bottle it up. If youre struggling talk to me. I promised.
*
He came home at half eleven. I was already in bed with my book. He poked his head in, Youre awake? not a question, just a statement. Off to the shower, then back into bed, scrolling through his phone.
I read the same line four times, never taking it in.
Kate, he said in the darkness.
Yes?
Are you angry?
No.
A pause.
Really?
Yes.
He turned away. Five minutes later, his breathing steadied asleep or pretending.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling white, a small crack in the upper corner. That crack had appeared last autumn; Michael always said hed fix it but never did.
I was thirty-four. Married eight years. I remembered when we first viewed this place bare walls, striped wallpaper I insisted ought to be changed before any furniture. Him laughing, saying the wallpaper was nothing, what mattered was the sunlight.
I remembered painting the bedroom his temple splattered white. My laughter, his. Our first major row about money, about his mum. Three days of silence, intolerable. On the fourth, he left a box of my favourite tea on the kitchen table. Nothing said, we just drank our tea and slowly, resumed talking.
That was our history. It wasnt erased.
But the shoes had also been real.
*
The next day, I called the housing office.
Hello, I live at 22 Cromwell Road, fourth floor. The CCTV by the entrance you fixed it yesterday?
Thats right, said the voice on the end. Was there a problem?
No, just checking you keep the footage from the last day?
Yes. Footage is saved for fourteen days.
Thank you.
I hung up.
Then, steeling myself, I rang Michael.
He answered on the first ring.
Hi. Where are you?
At work. Something up?
No, nothing. Do you remember I mentioned the CCTV yesterday?
A pause. Just a beat but I heard it, like a gap under a magnifying glass.
I remember.
They save footage for two weeks. I asked today.
Long silence. Longer than it wouldve taken to say Right.
Right, he said at last.
Yes. Right.
His breathing, wary, controlled the kind you hear when someones trying not to give anything away.
Kate, he started.
Not now, I cut in. Well talk this evening. At home.
I hung up.
For a while, I sat holding my phone. Outside, a lazy drizzle hung in the air. I watched it, realising I didnt need the footage. All I needed was that pause that too-long silence on the phone.
*
He got home early quarter to seven, before Id finished dinner. Put down his bag, slipped off his shoes, joined me in the kitchen. No idle chit-chat, just straight to the table.
We sat in silence, three full minutes by my count long minutes, measured not by the clock, but by the shifting lines of his face: tense, then resigned, then something new I couldnt quite pin down.
Its been a while, he finally said.
How long?
Seven months.
Seven months backtracked to February. I searched my memory for February. Wed visited his parents for New Year. On Mothers Day, hed brought me tulips sunny yellow, fresh and vibrant in a vase. Seven months.
Who is she?
He said a name I didnt know.
Work with you?
No. Met by accident.
By accident, I echoed.
He said nothing, didnt try to explain or excuse just silence, more honest than any words.
Were you going to tell me? I asked.
I dont know. I thought about it. I just didnt know how.
But now you do?
I dont have a choice.
Because of the camera.
He looked me in the eye.
No. Not just because of the camera. Even without it Kate, I couldnt go on like that. I just couldnt. It became impossible living like this, with you, and knowing
But you managed for seven months.
Yes.
The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the tap drip in the bathroom. It needed fixing wed put it off for weeks. Drip, pause, drip.
Do you want to be with her?
He hesitated. I studied his face, every crease Id memorised over the years. Crows feet that had appeared three years ago. I remembered him joking about ageing; now I saw those lines anew.
I dont know what I want, he whispered. Thats the truth. Im not dodging it. I really dont know.
Thats a rubbish answer.
I know.
Michael. I said his name slowly, testing how it sounded. You do understand this isnt just I dont know. It needs a decision.
I know.
So?
He looked at the table.
I dont want her, he said. It was something else. Something I couldnt compare to you. Not really. It was completely different.
But you kept going back seven months.
Yes.
What was it?
He took a long breath.
It was easy, he admitted. No obligations. No expectations. Wed meet, then part ways. Nobody expecting anything of the other. It was like He paused, grasping for words. Like air in a different place.
Couldnt breathe here?
No. Here this is real. And real is always heavier. Thats on me, not you. I didnt know how to handle it.
I got up, stood by the window, came back.
Heres whats going to happen, I said. Youre going to stay at Dans for a few days and take what you need. I need time on my own.
Kate
Im not saying forever. I just want a few days. Alone. Can you do that for me?
He nodded.
Alright, he said.
He went quietly to the bedroom. I heard him packing, careful not to make noise. Then he reappeared with a small overnight bag.
Kate.
Yes?
I am sorry.
I looked at him. He did look sorry. It wasnt just words, I could see it.
I know, I said. Go on.
*
For three days, I was alone.
I rang no one not Michael, not Hannah, not my mum. Went to work, came home, cooked for one. Strange, after so many years. I overcooked the pasta out of habit there was always enough for two, even three on weekends. Now most of it went into Tupperware.
On the first day, I cleaned the flat top to bottom hoovered, dusted, threw away all the stuff Id meant to chuck out. Not out of anger, just needing something to do with my hands.
That first evening, I rang my mum. Not to spill everything just to talk. She chatted about her garden, the neighbours, some TV show. I listened and realised her voice was just as warm as always. Some things dont change.
On day two, I called the housing office again.
Could I get a copy of the CCTV? Just for yesterday?
Whats the reason? they asked.
Just a personal matter.
They explained that footage was for official use only, and only in special circumstances like theft or property damage. Not just for a look.
I thanked them and hung up.
Truthfully, I didnt need the footage anymore. I got what I needed from Michaels reaction the day I first asked about the camera the too-long pause, the carefully measured breath. The footage wasnt the answer.
I needed the truth and I got it.
On the third day, I realised it was my own decision, not his, that mattered. Not what he did or how it happened but what I wanted now.
I sat by the window with a mug of coffee the same familiar view as always: street, trees, a bit of the playground. I thought, if tomorrow meant losing all this our routines, the Friday film nights, the easy silences, the odd domestic quirks what would be left? What exactly would I lose?
Eight years. Not just eight years living together, but eight years thatd built something real. The flat, the bus routes, knowing he cant face a conversation first thing, that he gets lost in big supermarkets and gets cross about it. All those small things that become the foundations of a life.
Can you patch over a crack like this, or is it just papered over, always there beneath?
I didnt know. But I realised I wanted to try.
*
On the fourth day, he texted: Can I come round?
Yes, I replied.
He arrived in the evening, bread and milk in hand, like hed just popped to Tesco, not moved out. I didnt mention it. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, and I realised so many of our big conversations happened right here.
Have you decided? he asked.
Almost.
And?
I looked at my hands. The ring caught the lamplight.
I need to know one thing, I said. Was she ever something real for you? Or just something you cant put your finger on?
He was silent for a while, properly thinking, not just searching for words.
No, not real, he replied at last. Not that. It was a kind of escape. I dont even know from what maybe from myself. It was just simple. No consequences.
And here its difficult?
Here, he said, this is real. And thats always harder. I should have learnt to handle it better. It wasnt your fault.
I poured myself more tea. My hands didnt tremble which somehow surprised me.
Is it over with her?
Yes.
When?
Two days ago.
So before I told you to come back?
Yes.
That mattered. I didnt know why but it did. He hadnt ended it because I asked him back. He did it himself, first.
Alright, I said.
So that means?
It means we can try. Not as if nothing happened because it did. I want you to understand that. But we can try.
He looked at me. There was something on his face not relief, something more complicated, as if only now did he really realise what hed nearly lost. Not some past thing, but only just now.
I need one thing from you, I said.
Anything.
Not anything. Specifically: I want us to go to a counsellor. A proper marriage counsellor. Not just once, several sessions. Will you do that?
Yes.
That was quick. No hesitation.
Im ready, Kate. I really am. Ive been thinking for three days straight. Ive realised a lot.
Like what?
He looked down at his hands, then up.
That it wasnt about missing something in you, but something missing in me. I never learnt how to handle the difficult bits, to face up to reality. I ran away to where everything felt easy. Its cowardice, calling it what it is.
I stayed quiet. He went on:
I have to deal with that. Not to show you, but for myself. Because if I dont, Ill just do the same thing all over again. Maybe not the same way, but Ill repeat the same mistake.
That was the most honest hed been all evening.
Alright, I said.
We sat a while longer. The conversation shifted not easy, but different. He shared some work story, I told him about my client. Small talk, as if feeling our way forward after the silence.
One last thing, I said, as he began to stand.
Yes?
The tap in the bathroom. Its been dripping for two weeks. Fix it tomorrow.
He looked at me for a second. Something twitched at the corner of his mouth not a smile, but nearly.
Alright, he said. Tomorrow.
*
On Friday, Mrs. Cooper caught me by the lift.
Did you hear? she announced, same ceremonial tone as always. The cameras down again! Apparently a technical glitch. Second time this month. Ive written to the council they say theyll mend it by weeks end, but we all know how that goes.
Yes, I agreed. Terrible.
The lift arrived. I stepped inside and pressed 4.
Oh! By the way did you jot down the caretakers number? Mrs. Cooper called through the closing doors. Ive got it, if you need it!
The doors slid shut.
I caught sight of myself in the old, smeary lift panel an indistinct reflection. Thirty-four, silver ring, coat from the top shelf. Tired face, a little careworn from the past few days. An ordinary face.
The camera had worked for one day.
One day out of eight years. One day out of nearly three thousand wed lived together in this flat, in this building, under this roof.
One day and it was enough.
The lift reached my floor. I stepped onto the landing.
The flat was quiet Michael wasnt back from shift yet. I hung up my coat, put the kettle on, checked the fridge: bread, milk, leftovers. A normal fridge. A normal kitchen. A normal flat.
A normal life with a visible crack through it now, not new just seen for what it was.
I poured my tea and thought: this is how it usually goes. Not everythings fine, not its all over but something in the middle, a space where you have to stand and figure things out. Where there arent straightforward answers, but there are honest questions.
And sometimes, honest answers.
No more dripping in the bathroom. Michael had fixed the tap that morning, just as he promised.
That meant something too.
