Perfect Emptiness
Do you have any idea how this looks from the outside? Alice spoke quietly, almost flat, and the absence of emotion in her voice made it all the more unsettling. I come to visit my friend, and instead I feel like Ive walked into a shop window.
Gillian Somers didnt have a response right away. She stood in the middle of her own living room, dressed in a brand-new loungewear set the colour of warm cream, still tinged with that shop-fresh scent, and looked at Alice as if shed just spoken in another language.
What do you mean?
I meanlook at it all. Alice gestured around the room. Those cushions were not allowed to touch. That coffee table nobodys permitted to put a mug on. And those she hesitated for a wordthose potted plants, all arranged in a straight line. Gill, do you actually live here, or is this a display?
Gillian felt something tighten inside, beneath her ribs, where it used to be warm. She wanted to joke back, dismiss the comment as she always had, but no words would come. Both women felt the silence descend between them at once.
Outside, October pressed against Londons pavementsraw, drizzly, the sky the colour of a well-worn pillowcase. The leaves on the horse-chestnut beneath the window were barely hanging on, waiting for the wind to decide their fate.
Alice lifted her tea carefully, both hands cradling the cup, and sipped. She said nothing more. Gillian sat down in the armchair opposite and suddenly realised she was sitting stiffly, spine straight, as though awaiting a headmasters verdict. In her own home. In her own favourite chair.
Theyd met thirty-two years ago, back at the biscuit factory in Reading, both as junior supervisors. Back then, Alice wore a bobbled woolly hat and was always late, while GillGillian Somers now, just Gill thenbrought homemade soup in a flask and shared it out to whoever fancied some. So much had changed since then. Gill had become Gillian Somers; the factory had closed down, children had grown and scattered, husbands had come and gone. But the two friends kept meeting, month in, sometimes more, reliable as the tides. This, at least, was an anchor.
I didnt mean to upset you, Alice said.
I know.
Its just you look tired. Deeply tired. I can see it.
Gillian looked down at her hands. Neatly painted nails in a muted blush, not a ragged cuticle in sight. She visited the nail bar every fortnight; it was on her schedule, just like seeing the doctor or paying the council tax.
Im not tired, she said. Im fine.
Alice didnt argue. She just looked. Gillian had to look away first.
A few more leaves let go outside; the October rain had settled in.
At fifty-eight, Gillian lived in a three-bedroom flat in Richmond, sixth floor of a new block with a concierge and CCTV. Shed bought it six years ago after her divorce from Anthony, combining the proceeds of their sold cottage and a sensible mortgage shed almost finished paying off. Shed hired a young designervoice smooth as a lecturerswho spoke of letting the space breathe and how it was vital to clear away the unnecessary. So Gillian had cleared things away. Then cleared more. Soon, nearly everything personal was gone; family photos hidden in a drawer, as frames disrupted the scheme. The beloved camel-hair throw was shut away because it spoiled the palette.
Her flat now looked like a page from an interiors magazine: pale grey walls, white shelving with identikit little pots, a sand-coloured sofa without a crease. First-time guests always said, Gosh, its beautiful! and Just like the pictures. Gillian accepted this as how things should be.
But sometimes, wide awake at 3 a.m., listening to the hush of her new building, shed feel as if shed misplaced something importantpacked away with the photos, now nowhere to be found.
She worked as a senior advisor at a large insurance company in the City, corporate clients only. It was steady, unremarkable, but respected and reliable pay. Even those older addressed her as Mrs. Somers. She liked that. It felt right, a recognition of her standing.
Standing. There was the word about which so much had circled in recent yearskeeping up standards, maintaining a certain level. Her coat was from Claire Montaguedistinctive enough to be correct, as explained by her friend Irene, whom shed met at evening classes. Her handbag was structured, sturdy leather, from DAronnot flashy, just quietly expensive. Shoes, always from the same Marylebone shop, so pricy that Gillian always pretended to inspect them coolly, despite her nerves.
Why? The question never broke the surface. It was a shadow in those 3 a.m. moments, gone by sunrise when the lights and rhythm of routine overtook her.
Alice finished her tea and set the cup down straight on the tables polished wood. Gillian felt a jab but said nothinga tiny, private act of heroism.
Hows Katie? she asked, shifting the subject. Is she well?
Alice brightened, as she always did discussing her daughter. Katie lived in York, worked as a nursery teacher, raising two kids with her husband Dave, a mechanic who, according to Alice, was an absolute gem. Their place was a small ex-council flat with a battered apple tree outside.
She called last week, Alice recounted, face alive with warmth. Said Nik, the younger one, decided to build a pillow fort with Dave. Three hours it took them, then it all collapsed and everyone was in stitches. Shes just so happy. Alices tone softened. Properly happy, you know?
But doesnt she barely earn anything? Gillian asked, not unkindlyjust the fact.
She does. And shes happy. Alice let the words settle, needing no further explanation.
After seeing her friend off, Gillian cleared the cups to the kitchena display of white cabinetry, composite-stone counters, an integrated fridge with no external handles, no magnets, no notes. Once, her son Pauls childhood letterMum, I luv youhad been tacked there, all wobbly letters, but it had gone during the renovation (clean surfaces, always, said the designer).
Paul lived in Manchester now, working in IT, rarely calling, but always warm when he did. He had a girlfriend, Sophie, whom Gillian had only seen in a photo: a woman in a simple jumper, beaming next to a large ginger dog.
Gillian poured herself a glass of water and stared out at the street-lit drizzle, lamp posts blazing by half-four as English autumns go. Below, a woman in a raincoat dragged her child past a puddle before giving in. The boy leapt with a splashpeals of laughter.
Gillian found herself smiling, for nobodys benefit but her own, watching a strangers child enjoy a puddle.
What are you daydreaming about? Alice called from the sitting room.
Coming! Gillian wiped away the smile. Why, she couldnt say.
Alice left around seven. At the door, already zipped into her navy mac, she turned unexpectedly. Do you remember that hike in 94, up in the Lake District?
I do, Gillian smiled. She truly did. Two backpacks, four days of rain, somehow managing a campfire they sang around into the night, then sharing a crammed tent, damp but content.
You were different then, Alice said without criticism. Not better or worse. Just different.
The door closed. Gillian stood in the hallway, opposite her full-length mirror and the neat oak shelf for keys. Her coat on the peg, milk-coloured set, perfect nails and hair all exact.
So why did she feel something was missing?
Returning to the lounge, she picked up Alices cup. A faint ring from the hot tea marked the polished surface. Gillian ran her finger over it, then wiped it away.
She couldnt sleep that night, thinking of the hike, of singing beside the firesinging, not caring that her voice was off, not caring at all. When had that gone? Not the hikingsomething else. That lightness. Not carelessness, for money was tight then, life was tough. But there was an ease with herself she had misplaced.
She overslept her alarm for the first time in years.
At work, a lunchtime gathering marked the retirement of their colleague, Susanturning sixty. The team crowded the conference room, eating cake from Sainsburys and clinking fruit juice. Susan was a bit disheveled, lipstick escaping her lips, but radiant with a joy that made Gillian feel an unexpected pangno, not envy. A yearning for something lost.
How do you plan to spend your time? Gillian asked as they stood side by side.
Oh! Susan chuckled, waving her fork. The allotment, grandkids, and finally sit down and read. Got three novels queued up. I want to learn to make jam, actually. Silly, isnt it? Sixty, and I want to learn jam making.
Its not silly at all, Gillian replied.
All afternoon, Gillian thought about the jam. Not the jam itself, but how Susan had said it so unguardedlywanting, simply because she wanted, unburdened by what others might think.
That evening, Gillian walked home. Usually, shed take a taxithree stops, easy, no fuss. But that evening she walked, soaked by the damp chill, leaves squelching underfoot, streetlights glowing on the puddles. She went slow, like she hadnt properly seen her own street in ages.
Outside the bakery on the corner was a small queue, scent of hot, fresh bread filling the air. Gillian lingered, then went in. She bought a round rye loaf and a small cabbage pasty, which she ate leaning over the display window, using the paper napkin. It was buttery, hot, heavy with pepper. The best shed eaten in ages; she couldnt have said why.
At home, she left the loaf right on the counternot hidden away.
Three days later, Irene phoned. Irene only rang with important news, this time about a dinner at a new Chelsea restaurant, hosted by Victor Leonard, a renowned businessman launching his next project. Are you coming? Irenes tone brooked no refusal.
When?
Friday. Gill, everyone will be there. Martha Preston! Shes on the Atlas Group board now. Boris is in property in Dubaifabulous connections.
I dont need contacts in Dubai, Gillian said.
Dont be literal! Its all about being in the right circles. Spaces shape us. You know that.
Gillian did. She knew the script. Right circles, right events, right visibility.
Ill think about it.
No time for that. I need to confirm the reservation.
All right. Yes, Ill come.
She hung up and sat with her phone a long time, then opened her wardrobe, looking over three evening dresses: a smart navy, a classic black, and the deep red backless one shed bought on a whim and never worn.
She tried on the red, studied herself in the mirror, put it away. Then took out the black.
On Friday, walking into The Atrium in the black, with the DAron bag and her hair freshly done by Roman the stylist, she felt that clickthat sense of fitting in a place. She understood that click well, happening in select restaurants, company boardrooms, at events like these. The place accepted her; she fit.
Irene was there, silver earrings swinging, hugging her. You look amazing!part of the ritual.
Victor Leonard gave a speech, confident, golden-skinned, talking of growth, teams, building not just a business but the future. Applause at all the prescribed moments.
Gillian sipped white wine, picked at artful canapés, and chatted with Martha Preston, who really was on the board now and spoke about it with the seriousness most reserve for medical diagnoses: sober, slightly weary.
How do you keep the balance? Gillian asked quietly.
Martha paused. What balance? she replied, honestly puzzled. There isnt any. Just the schedule.
Later the talk drifted to property. Gillian nodded in places, said, Interesting, yes, I understand, all the while feeling none of it appliedshe didnt want a Dubai flat. So why was she here?
There was cake, photos, a group shot. Gillian posed, put on the right smile. The photographer said, Perfect.
She left at eleven-thirty.
The taxi smelt of pine air-freshener, city lights smudged on the windows. Gillian slid off her shoes, sighing with reliefso real she nearly laughed, sitting barefoot with the expensive bag nestling on her knees. She watched London slide by: bridges, yellow-lit windows, embankments. All of it beautiful, but all outside the glass. And Gillian, looking out, felt as transparentapart.
The next day, she scrolled through Irenes photos from the dinnerherself, neat, composed, all at once appropriate and controlled. Not a step out of place.
For some reason, she found this deeply disturbing.
She turned it over in her mind all of Saturday, cleaning the flat. Pushing the vacuum across grey rugs, wiping the pristine shelves, aligning the cushions. She did everything mechanically, mind elsewhere.
On those old hiking photosher, windblown, in a loony jumper, sleeves stretched, laughing. Looking at that face was to see a living person. In the dinner snaps: a woman doing everything right.
Monday, she dug out an envelope of old photos from her dresser drawer. Her Paul as a child, on a sledge. Mum in the garden, apron covered in cherries. Her wedding to Anthonyboth of them young, dazed by happiness. The hiking trip: Alice with the pompom hat, Gillian clutching a guitar shed never really learned to play.
She put that photo up on the shelfskewed among the identical flowerpots, breaking the concept.
She waited for something to happen. The sky did not fall. The little pots didnt take offence.
Mid-October, the unexpected happened: Paul called.
Mum, Sophie and I are coming next weeka few days, if thats all right.
Of course it is! she answered, heat and nerves stirring inside.
We dont want a hotel, he said, seeking permission. Wed rather stay at yours. Sophies, um, lively. Shell leave cups everywhere and laugh loudly.
Gillian laughed, surprising herself. Shes free to put cups wherever she likes.
She prepared for the visit differentlynot checking for absolute perfection, but thinking what to cook, laying out the camel-hair throw, retrieving an old board game from her sons teenage years. Not sure whyjust did.
Paul arrived with a backpack and a paper-wrapped bundle. Sophie was even more vibrant than her photo: petite, short hair, a reindeer jumper, a direct and open gaze that startled Gillian.
Can I give you a hug? Sophie asked at the door. Pauls told me so much, I feel like Ive known you ages.
Of course, said Gillian.
The package held a plantbroad, glossy leaves in a terracotta pot, unruly, exuberant.
Its a monstera, Sophie explained. Easy to care for. Once a week, thats all.
Where shall we put it? asked Gillian.
There, by the window, said Paul. Itll love the light.
So the monstera sat in the corner, breaking up the symmetry, partly blocking the view, completing the room in some way nothing else had.
For three days, they simply lived. Meals at the big table (dragged out to the window), Sophie cooking fragrant dishes, the scent of caraway and lemon filling every room so much that Gillian found herself wandering into the kitchen for no reason. They played board gamesPaul won, his childlike delight making Gillian think: this is my son, living, laughing, leaving mugs everywhere.
One evening, with Paul asleep, Sophie came into the kitchen to find Gillian staring into the dark.
Restless? Sophie asked.
Thinking, Gillian admitted.
About what?
She meant to make something upwork, plansbut instead found herself saying, That I lost myself somewhere, and didnt notice for the longest time.
Sophie didnt blink. She poured two glasses of water, put one down for Gillian.
Paul says you used to singplayed guitar?
Badly.
So? Does it have to be good to enjoy it?
Gillian considered. I suppose not.
Do you still have it?
Think its at the cottage or maybe Mums old place. No idea, really.
Buy a new one.
So simply said, so free of advice or judgement, Gillian, for once, felt no resistance.
When they left on Sunday, the flat felt different. Table still under the window. Monstera in its corner. A pale, nearly invisible scorch mark on the worktop from a panGillian ran her finger over it, and left it be.
In November, she bumped into Mrs. Newton.
Mrs. Newton was her third-floor neighbour: a petite old lady with a snowy bun, always in sensible jumpers, comfortable shoes, a big canvas bag with onions or a book sticking out. Theyd shared a lift in passing for yearsnames, nothing more.
That day, at the letterboxes, Mrs. Newton said to the air, Its good the papers still come. I like touching the print.
So do I, Gillian repliedthough shed never thought about it before.
Would you care for some tea? Mrs. Newton asked matter-of-factly. Baked an apple tart today. Too much for one.
Gillian nearly refused. She had planswell, not plans, just an evening reserved for a TV boxset and a perfect dinner from a healthy-eating magazine. But something stopped her.
Id love to.
Mrs. Newtons flat was normal: old furniture, lived-in. A settee with a faded throw, books piled to the ceiling, no order, just abundance. Cacti on the windowsill. Photos in mismatched frames: children, grandchildren, mountains, seaside, faces alive with stories.
The tart was warm, apples sharp and yielding, tea served in ordinary mugs, no ceremony.
How long have you lived here? Gillian asked.
Twenty-three years, since my husband passedwell, since I moved closer to my daughter. She was nearby then.
And now?
She emigrated. Canada. Ages ago. It was odd at first, now Im used to it. Were on video callsshe shows me the grandkids, who speak English but with a funny accent. Mrs. Newton smiled, not sadly but with the calm of someone who accepts lifes turns. Life never unfolds as planned. It just unfolds.
Are you ever lonely?
Sometimes. But Ive learnt to tell the difference between loneliness and peace. Loneliness aches, peace is good.
Gillian thought about that for days: telling apart loneliness from peace. For years, shed filled silence with events, acquaintances, a full diary, perfect interiorsall in the name of living.
Now, Wednesdays became tea at Mrs. Newtons. Sometimes at Gillians place, sometimes at hers. Mrs. Newton talked about books and Gillian found herself wanting to read again. Once Gillian brought rye bread from the corner shop. Mrs. Newton praised it, good breadand Gillian felt oddly proud.
In December, change at workinevitable, yet unexpected. A new young manager from London, restructuring, redundancies. Gillian wasnt let go, instead offered a different rolesame pay, different remit, with rather less authority.
She accepted with outward calm. Irene would have called it an insult, urged her to fight. Maybe once, Gillian would have agreed.
But something had shifted. Slowly, like an iceberg in thaw.
She rang Alice.
You know that hike you mentioned? I want to go again. Next summer, Lake District. Interested?
Silence at the other end.
Are you serious?
Deadly.
Arent we a bit old for that?
So what?
Alice laughed. All right, Im inbut my old rucksacks had it.
Well buy new ones. Nothing pricey.
Not pricey? Alices voice twinkled. Is this really Gill Somers?
They both laughed.
Before Christmas, Gillian phoned a music shop about guitarsfor adult beginners. The clerk advised, recommended. She didnt buy right away, but thought a week, then went down and chose onenot the cheapest, not the most expensive, just one that felt right to her.
She brought it back in a taxi, balanced upright against the roof. The driver eyed her in the mirror. You play?
Im still learning, Gillian replied.
Nothing wrong with learning. Musics good for the soul, he said.
She stood the guitar next to the monsteranow thriving. The two of them, green and wood, brought life to the corner.
She called Paul to tell him about it. He was silent a moment, then said, Mum, Im genuinely happy for you.
I can hardly play anything.
Theres time. Practise.
New Year, she spent it with Mrs. Newton, just the two of them. Chicken, a salad, Prosecco and clementines, and a slab of chocolate just because. They watched telly, chatted about books, children, and tried to define happiness: if it existed as a steady state or only as glimmers.
Oh, it exists, all right, Mrs. Newton said as she peeled a clementine. Just not as advertised. Not a result, not a destination. More like this. She gestured at the humble supper, at the light in the kitchen window.
Gillian looked at the tableplates, mugs, a pile of peels, glow of the lamp. Nothing remarkable. And also, just right.
I think I knew this, once, she said. And then forgot.
Happens to most, Mrs. Newton replied without reproach. But you can remember.
Did she? Gillian wasnt sure. What she knew was movement withinslow, wobbly, change as real and unpredictable as life. She still fell into old habits: scanning other womens bags for price tags, eyeing coats in windows. Hearing of someones promotions and feeling that familiar twinge.
But she noticed now. She recognised the trigger. That alone was different than before.
In January, she signed up for guitar lessons with Mr. Evans, a retired music teacher. He was patient, rarely lavished praise, but when he did, it mattered. She botched her first chord, fingers clumsy. By lesson three, she struck it cleanly. Once.
See? Mr. Evans said. It comes.
In February, Irene rang with another inviteyet another investment launch.
Irene, I wont come.
Why not?
I just dont want to. No explanations, no feeble excuses.
A long pause.
Are you all right?
Im fine. I really am.
Youre changed, Gill. Not in a bad way. But youre different.
Maybe so.
Gillian made no attempt to explain. It was too hard for a sentence, and perhaps, not necessary. It was simply hers.
In March, Alice visited again. Gillian greeted her in the hallway, and Alice paused in the lounge.
The table was still by the window; the monstera had outgrown its pot. On the shelf, amid regular little pots, now stood the old hiking photoand another of her mum in the garden. The camel-hair throw lay draped over the sofa. The guitar leaned against the wall.
A tea mugno coastersat on the coffee table.
Blimey, Alice remarked.
Come in, Gillian said.
She brought out teanot in fine china but oversized stoneware mugs, blue with white speckles, bought simply because Gillian liked them.
Go on, tell me, Alice prompted.
So Gillian spokeabout Paul and Sophie, the monstera, Mrs. Newton, the guitar, the pastry at the window, the pleasure of walking home instead of taking taxis. About telling Irene no and surviving it.
Alice nodded. Thats good, Gill. Thats really good.
Do you think so?
You were living in she searched for the worda glass dome, maybe. Pretty, but sealed.
Gilded cage, Gillian admitted. I think that phrase fits.
Yes, but youre out now.
Halfway, Gillian was honest. Not totally. Sometimes, I spot a posh bag, hear of someones trip somewhere, and the old feelings stir.
Its not a problem. Noticing matters.
They sat quietly. The March light outside was differentLondons early spring refracted in, hesitant but real.
I wanted to ask, Gillian said. Have you ever regretted it? Your life, I mean? Did you want something else?
Alice thought deliberately. Sometimes, yes. Id see what I didnt havebut then I noticed, Im happy with where I am. Not convincing myselfjust, simply happy.
I wasnt happy, Gillian confessed aloud for the first time. It was all beautiful, but it wasnt good.
I know, Alice said softly. I saw it.
And you said nothing?
I talked about the shop window.
Gillian laughed. You did.
Later, another conversation unfolded silently within Gillianthe realisation that shed lived inside the illusion of success. Maybe it began when she took Pauls note off the fridge. Maybe earlier, when she bought clothes to signal to others, or simply when she stopped singing just because.
Theres no pinpointing change, like asking when summer becomes autumn. One day you look out and see the leaves are different.
Now the leaves changed in the other direction.
At the end of March, she called her son.
Paul, I want to put your letter back on the fridge.
What letter?
The one you wrote as a kid. Mum, I luv you.
A pause.
Mum, you still had it?
I kept it in an envelope. I took it down during the renovations.
And you kept it all this time?
Yes.
Another pause.
Put it up, Mum. Please.
She didfixed it with a cheap Brighton fridge magnet from the same enveloped drawer. The paper was fraying, letters faded and still reading luv. Gillian stood in the white kitchen, looking at the wonky note.
Then she phoned Irene.
Ireneis there anything happening in April? Where are you all off to?
Oh! Absolutely. Art gallery opening, then dinner at Aesthetica. Coming?
Gillian hesitated a moment.
I am. But Im wearing the red dress.
The red? Irenes tone shifted. Well bold.
Yes, Gillian said. Bold.
She put the phone down and looked out the windowMarch ending, snow nearly gone. Below, a small boy booted a football against a wall, just for the joy of it.
Gillian pondered whether or not to follow through with the gallery. It was silly, shed already said yes. But it wasnt really about the event; it was about being able to go as a different personnot fully transformed. Something had been gained, or perhaps reclaimed.
Freedom from other peoples opinions. Once it sounded pretty and abstract. Now she knewthis meant wearing red because it made her happy, eating a pastry at the window without worrying who saw, saying no without excuses.
Its the small things, she thought, that make a real life, not a portrait of one.
The monstera soaked up the first April sunlight and looked greener than it had yesterday. The guitar waited in the corner for a few chords.
The fridge note said, luv.
And in that moment, something there felt more right than anything shed constructed in recent years.
She still didnt know what this rightness was, nor where it would lead. But perhaps that was the truest feeling of all.
Her phone lay on the table, case-less, unallocated. Just there.
In April, Alice rang herself.
I looked up the walking routes in the Lake District, she said. Plenty for our age. Easy ones, overnight in a tent.
A tent?
A tent.
Gillian looked at her guitar, monstera, then the luv note.
Ill let you know tonight, she promised.
Dont delay forever, Alice laughed gently.
She put the phone down and sat in the quietnot lonely, just peaceful, as Mrs. Newton had said. Outside, April was working its magic, chestnut buds stirring on the bough.
And Gillian stood, hand on the wide windowsill, looking out at a tree still bare, but already alive.
Sometimes, the greatest lesson is that its not about looking perfect, but about truly living. Lifes richness comes from being present, from the small, authentic actsat last letting in the good kind of silence, and the possibility of starting anew.
