Two Wives

Two Wives

Helen knocked on the door three times, then two more. Just as her mother had taught her as a child: three quick, two slow. But behind the door, all was quiet.

Mrs. Lydia Carter, would you mind opening up? I know youre home.

Something scraped behind the door. Once, then again. Helen stood in the hallway of this unfamiliar house on Shipwrights Avenue and felt as if the very floor shifted beneath her feet. Not really, of courseit only felt that way.

Who are you? The voice was flat, almost void of tone.

My names Helen Jane Parker. My maiden names Howard. Im Andrew Parkers wife. We need to talk.

A long pause. Then the sound of one lock, then another, finally a third. The door opened.

The woman in the doorway was about Helens age, perhaps just a bit younger. Forty-eight, maybe forty-nine. Soft blonde hair, neatly tied back, a flannel dressing gown with tiny flowers. Her eyes were completely calm, and that calmness was more frightening than any shouting could have been.

Im Lydia, she said. Please, come in.

Helen stepped inside.

The house smelled of pies and something else, something oddly familiar. It took her a moment to place itthen she realised: it was Northern Wind aftershave, the one Andrew had worn for the last fifteen years.

By the entrance stood a pair of mens shoes. Size nine. Andrew wore size nine.

Helen paused by those shoes, staring at them. She then raised her eyes.

Does he come here often? she asked.

Well be celebrating our twentieth anniversary next Friday, Lydia replied, in a voice composed yet heavy. Of married life. Take a seat, Ill put the kettle on.

Helen didnt know how to do thisjust sit down and have tea in a flat where her husband had lived for twenty years. But her legs carried her to the kitchen chair all the same. It had a blue cushion tied with a string. She had similar ones at home, only in green.

Lydia switched the kettle on, fetched two mugs, unhurried and preciseeach movement something shed clearly repeated a thousand times before. Helen watched her hands, thinking those same hands mustve boiled water for Andrew so many times, made him soup, pressed his shirts smooth.

How did you find out? Lydia asked, not turning around.

His mobile. He left it in my car. I drove back and he was in the shower. The phone was on the seat and a message came in. From you. Lucys waitingcoming tomorrow?

Lydia finally turned, her face almost expressionless.

I never knew about you, she said. If that matters.

I didnt know about you either, replied Helen.

They fell silent. The kettle began to boil. Lydia poured out the tea, and Helen noticed her hands shaking, just a fraction. Hardly visible. But Helen saw itshe knew what it was to hold yourself steady on the outside when everything inside had already fallen apart.

This was a story about two women and one man who decided the world was created for him. That realisation wouldnt come to Helen until later. On that first day, sat at the kitchen table with a blue cushion, she was just trying to grasp what came next after what shed learned.

Andrew Parker was a handsome man. Not the kind whose good looks are instant and dazzling, but the kind that grows on you. A nose with a slight bend, dark hair silvering at the temples, and a way of looking just above peoples eyes, as if pondering something more important but coming down to earth for your sake. Helen had fallen for him twenty-two years ago, at a Horizon Construction Company party, where shed worked as an accountant. Andrew, a guest architect, had redesigned their office. They danced a waltz and hed said, You move as if you know every next step. Thats rare. At the time, Helen thought, Hes right. She truly was good at anticipating things. Except, it seemed, the most important ones.

Lydia had met Andrew twenty years before Helen. Helen learned this a week later, at their second meeting.

Neither had planned to meet again. Helen had turned up and knocked with three quick, two slow; Lydia opened the door. Its as if both knew the first time hadnt sufficed.

Tell me about him, Helen asked, sitting once more on the blue-cushioned chair. From the beginning.

Lydia studied her for a moment.

Why?

I dont know. I just want to understand who he was, when he was young.

He was Lydia searched for the word. The sort of man you wanted to be near. Not just because you fancied him, though that was part of it. You felt important with him, like you were part of something far bigger than yourself. Even just an ordinary woman from town felt larger, next to him.

Helen nodded. She understood. That was exactly it.

We married when I was twenty-eight, he was twenty-nine. Weve a daughter, Susan. Shes nineteen now, studying at a teaching college. Shes always thought her father works away. Ive kept that belief alive.

Helen looked at Lydia and felt a pain, not for herself, but for this womanher neat hair, her unwavering eyeswhod lived twenty years with a half-truth and hadnt realised.

We never had children, Helen said. He told me it was too soon. Then, he said it was too late. Im fifty-one. Too late, long ago.

How many years have you been together? Lydia asked.

Twenty-two. Married for twenty.

Lydia placed her mug on the table, slow and deliberate.

So he began seeing you two years after we married.

It would seem so.

They both fell silent again. Rain streaked the window in angular lines. Helen thoughtif youd asked her a year ago what shed do if she discovered her husbands infidelity, shed have said, immediately, shed leave. But here she was, sipping tea in another womans kitchen, stuck.

In relationships, the biggest truths appear not in anger, but after you lose your fear of truth. Helen was angrydeeply. Yet the anger was a spring, tight and controlled, not yet driving any action.

How did he explain his absences? Helen asked.

Work trips. Architecthe always had projects all over the country. I got used to it. Sometimes, weeks, sometimes months. I waited.

I waited too.

Lydia looked at her, with something softer than pity.

You know what bothers me the most she hesitated, what I cant get over ishow did he manage it? Two lives, two diaries, two women, two stories. Surely, he must have slipped up at some point?

Apparently, he didnt, said Helen.

So, it was easy for him, Lydia finished. For her, that was most bewildering.

Andrew returned to Helens flat that same evening, as usual, around eight. He took off his shoes in the hallway, hung up his coat, wandered into the kitchen. Helen stood by the window.

Something happened? he asked.

I was on Shipwrights Avenue today, Helen said.

She watched him very closely as she spoke. Later, shed relive that moment, trying to decode the flicker on his face. There was something there, yes, before he straightened and sat at the table as calm as ever.

And how is it there?

A woman called Lydia lives thereshes got blue cushions on her kitchen chairs and a daughter, Susan, at teacher training college. And theres a pair of mens shoesyour size.

Andrew kept silenta different kind of silence than usual. Helen sensed he was working out what to say, weighing options.

Will you explain? Helen asked.

Helen, this is he began, then stopped.

Dont, she said, softly, almost wearily, not pleading or demanding. Dont start with I couldnt help it. You could. You chose, every time. That matters.

He watched her, and she saw something in his eyesnot confusion, which would mean sincerity, but instead, looking for escape. Hed always found a way out. For twenty years.

What do you want from me? he finally asked.

I dont know, Helen answered truthfully. Not yet.

She went to the spare room to sleep. By morning, hed left.

Helen worked as deputy chief accountant at the citys Office of Education. Her office was small, with a skinny window looking out onto the buildings courtyard. She liked it there because she could think without distraction. Numbers made sensethey always added up or didnt. People, in contrast, were more complicated.

The morning after her talk with Andrew, Helen sat at her desk, watching her screen, not absorbing a single figure. She thought about those twenty years spent with someone, never truly knowing them. It wasnt just a lie; it was a whole life built on a quiet, patient construction, balanced on her shouldersand she had never known.

Sophie, a young colleague, knocked at the door.

Helen Jane, she said, Dont forget, weve a meeting at three.

I wont forget. Go ahead, Ill be along.

Sophie left. Helen opened a drawer and took out a small notebook shed kept for ten years. She sometimes jotted down thoughts there, when there was nowhere else for them. She opened a fresh page and wrote, Who was I all this time?

She read the question. Then below it she wrote: A wife. But whose?

She closed the notebook and went to the meeting.

Lydia worked in the Carter Childrens Library. Shed worked there for eighteen yearsbefore that, shed been a nursery school teacher, but grew tired of the racket and left for the quiet, book-heavy library she loved. Andrew used to tease her about her habit of writing favourite quotations in a notebook. Lucy, youre just like a professor, hed say. Shed always found it sweet. Now, she wasnt so sure.

When Helen left her flat the first time, Lydia sat at the table, looking at the two cups. Then she washed them up, dried them with the tea towel, put them away, took out her notebook. The last entry read, Truth can be uncomfortable, but lies always weigh more. She couldnt recall which book shed taken it from. She crossed the line out, then stared at the scribble for a while.

Susan called.

Mum, is Dad coming on Friday?

I dont know, said Lydia.

Are you all right? You sound funny.

Im fine. How are things with you?

All rightI passed my teaching exam. Mum, youre not having a row with Dad, are you?

No.

Promise? You sound strange.

Im just tired, love.

After the call, Lydia spent ages at the window, thinking about how Susan had grown up with a father who appeared rarelyalways with presents and a smile. A special-occasion dad. A timetable dad. Susan loved him just like that. What would she say now?

That was the hardest questionnot what to do with Andrew. That was almost clear. The knot was how to talk to a daughter whod spent her whole life looking up to her father, unreliable though he was.

Helen herself rang four days after their second meeting. Lydia answered after two rings.

Do you mind if I come by again? Helen asked.

Please do.

I need to talk with someone who actually understands.

I do too, Lydia said. Exactly that.

Helen arrived on Saturday, after lunch, this time bringing shortbread from Hearth Bakery, crisp, with poppy seeds. They drank tea and talked for hoursnot just about Andrew but soon, about themselves.

Tell me about you, Lydia asked. Not him. You.

Helen was surprised. She hadnt thought of herself separate from Andrew in well, decades. The line between me and us had been erased by twenty years together.

Im from the city, but moved here twenty years ago, after we married. I have a younger sister, Alicestill lives near town. I like Helen paused, uncertain.

What do you like? prompted Lydia.

I like early mornings. When its quiet and no ones about. I enjoy long walks, though I rarely have time. I love making borscht, despite him always saying I use too little cabbage. I use the right amountits him who never liked cabbage.

I adore storms, Lydia said. Odd, right? Most people dont. I love thunder and rainit shuts out the world, theres just that moment. Been that way since I was little.

Its not odd, said Helen. We all love our own things.

He was afraid of storms, said Lydiaunexpectedly. Andrew, I mean. He never admitted it, but he grew restless when thunder rolled. Paced the house. I used to think it was sweet, his little vulnerability.

Helen said nothing. Shed never noticed that in Andrew, not once in twenty years. Or perhaps hed been someone else in her presence.

You know what troubles me? Helen said, after a while. Im trying to work out if anything in our life was real. Or was it all just built for convenience?

Whats real? asked Lydia. No philosophy, only tired honesty behind it.

I suppose, when the person matters for their own sake, not as a prop in your story.

Then no, said Lydia. We were both just parts of his picture. Different parts. He needed a family. Stability. Two families, to feel doubly important. Ive read about people like that. They always want more, to feel alive.

Did you ever tell him how you felt?

No. I was silent, Lydia placed her mug down. Always silent. Thought it properthat a wife shouldnt push, that if he was happy, hed come to me. I was quiet for twenty years.

Me too, Helen said softly.

There was something in thatjust a little lighter, not happy, but lighter.

Andrew had this quality Helen once called breadth. He could walk into any group and become its centre, not by force but naturally. Spoke rarely, but when he did, everyone fell silent. He was skilled in picking out what people wanted admiredwit, reliability, wisdom. He gave everyone what they wanted. He offered Helen a sense of uniqueness. Lydia, evidently, too.

Now, Helen understood: he didnt love peoplehe used them. Not with malice. Just that, for him, the world was divided into those who did something for him, and those who didnt yet. Not kindnesscompetence.

She shared that thought with Lydia the third time they met, in a café called Autumn Leaf on Park Streeta quiet place, inexpensive apple tart.

Youre talking about narcissism, Lydia replied. Ive read about it. There are psychology books at the library. I used to read them for work, for the children, but now, for myself.

It sounds a textbook word, Helen mused. Id say it simpler: he lived as if other people existed to fuel his confidence.

Yes. Exactly. Once I told him how lonely I was, how tired. He patted my hand, said, Lucy, youre strong, youll cope. Back then, it felt like a compliment. Now, I realise he just closed the subjectit didnt concern him.

To me, he said: Helen, youre smarter than all of themyoull sort it out. Same words, different name.

They exchanged a look.

He said the same things to us both, Lydia said.

Perhaps in different words, but yes, Helen agreed.

It was a painful realisation, not because it was new, but because it made them feel almost interchangeableplaying the same part. Important, but painful.

Andrew didnt disappear. He called Helen every few days, reserved, as if theyd only quarrelled and were giving things time. He visited once, unannounced.

Helen, we need to talk.

Were talking.

Properly. Without this wall.

What do you want to say?

He sat on the settee, she stood by the window. He looked tired. She noticedhed started rubbing the bridge of his nose when thinking. Had he always done that?

I want to explain how it happened. It wasnt it wasnt what you think.

And what do I think?

You think it was all deliberate, planned.

Wasnt it?

No! Lydia was before you. I was with her, then met you. I meant to leave but justcouldnt. Then you and it just went on.

So, you decided you could have both? Helen interrupted.

I didnt decide. It just happened.

Andrew. Twenty years. That doesnt just happen. Its a choice. Every single day.

He rubbed his nose. He paced the room. Helen watched and thought: this was the man shed known for twenty yearsor thought she had. His movements the same, but everythings different.

I love you, he said quietly. Thats the truth.

That explains nothing.

But it is true.

Perhaps. But you say the same to Lydia. If its true in both places at once, its not what I call love.

He fell silent. Helen turned to the window. Out there, October had its way with the trees and pale, low sky. An older woman, shopping bag in hand, crossed the courtyard. Life went on, as always.

Go, Helen said. Im not ready to talk.

He left. No dramatic exit, no slamming door. Just walked outa skill he had: always leaving the door just ajar.

Two weeks after Helen first appeared on Shipwrights, Susan called her mother. By then, Andrew was gone from both homes. Lydia didnt know where he was. Helen didnt ask.

Mum, Dads saying strange things. He rang, said he needs time. That lifes complicated. What does complicated mean? Whats going on?

Susan, Lydia closed her bedroom door, sat on the bed. Theres something you need to know. Ive been thinking how to tell you.

Is Dad ill?

No. Hes healthy. But hes not only been living with us. Its been a long time. Theres another woman. Another family.

Long silence. Then:

Did you know?

No. Ive just found out.

And you kept quiet for three weeks?!

I was trying to find the right words.

Mum! Susans voice was a mix of anger and panic. Howis that possible? All my life?

I didnt know, darling.

How could you not know? Youre his wife!

Thats why. It was easy for him to lie to me. I trusted him. Never questioned. I waitedand believed.

Susan began to cry, and Lydia could only listen.

Who is she? she finally asked.

Shes called Helen Jane. Shes a good person. She didnt know either.

You met her?

Yes.

And what did you do, just have tea?

Yes, said Lydia softly. We had tea.

Susan was silent a long time. I dont understand you, Mum.

I hardly understand myself sometimes, Lydia said.

Helen rang her younger sister, Alice, who lived in the city with her husband and two grown-up children. Shed always called her Alice, though her name was officially Alexandra Jane. The sisters hadnt met in two years, but they spoke every fortnight.

Helen, what is it? Alice asked. You sound

Alice, Andrews had another family. For twenty years.

Silence.

Oh, God.

Yes.

Kids?

A daughter. Nineteen.

Helen how are you?

I dont know. Thats what Im trying to work out.

Will you go back to him?

I dont know.

You must

Alice, please. Dont tell me what I must do. You know it doesnt help.

Alice paused. She knew. Helen had never liked being told what to do. She always decided in her own time.

Are you alone now?

Yes.

Shall I come over?

Helen hesitated. Alice would come in a heartbeat, always did. But Helen needed solitude, not to be helped, but to let something inside her settlea process anothers company could break.

Not now. Later, perhaps. Ill call.

Any time, love.

Thank you.

Helen hung up. Outside, rain had started again. She watched it a long while, not turning the lights on. Dusk crept in as the rain drummed against the sill. She thought: the next twenty years will be differenteven if she didnt yet know how.

Helen had a little ritual. When Andrew went away on business, shed cook borscht. A big pot, lasting three days. It helped her gather herself. Chopping cabbage, boiling meat, simmering beetroota meditative process.

On the Sunday after her call with Alice, she made borscht again. As she cooked, she thought about the marriage, who shed really been. Not just Helen Parker, deputy chief accountant, not just a grown woman with views and habits. A wife. A waitress. Keeper of a home Andrew visited. Did she choose the role herself, or had it been slipped upon her?

A hard questionbecause the truest answer wasnt flattering. It had felt good to be needed, to be part of something. Andrew was good at making her feel essential. He said, I couldnt do it without you. He said, Youre my rock. She believed him. A rock feels soliduntil you realise its just been holding up a building you didnt build.

The borscht came out well. Helen served herself a bowl, salted it, ate. Then rang Lydia.

Do you cook borscht? she asked, for no special reason.

No, Ive made pea soup today. Why?

No reason. Just wanted to call.

Helen Jane, Lydia used her full name, perhaps for the first time. Mind if I call you Helen?

Of course.

Helen, I spoke to Susan today. She knows.

How is she?

Not well. Shes angry. Wants answers I dont have.

What does she say?

That she wants to confront her father. That I shouldve known. That I wasnt attentive.

Thats unfair.

Perhaps. I understand, though. She needs someone to blame. Andrew, it seems, has too much on his plate to answer her calls. He knows how to disappear when things get sticky.

Helen remembered Andrew telling her once: as a child, when his parents rowed, hed go to his room, close the door, and pretend nothing happened. Hed called it maturity, but now, she saw it as avoidance.

Where is he now? Helen asked.

No idea. Not a word from him in days.

Same here.

Hell have found a third place, said Lydia. Her voice was dry, not harsh, just tired.

Or hes waiting to see who breaks first, said Helen.

Hell wait in vain.

No, Helen said. Not this time.

It was the first time their voices sounded not like two wronged women, but like two whod decided something. Not fully, not out loudbut the shift was there.

Family drama, lived quietly and without witnesses, is often heavier than any noisy scene. Because in silence, theres nowhere to put whats gathered. Helen knewshe worked with paperwork and numbers, but behind them were people, quietly altering their lives with careful penmanship.

Andrew reappeared a week later, ringing Helens bell. She opened the door.

Ive come for a few things, he said.

All right. Come in.

He collected a small bag from the bedroom. As he left, he asked, Helen, have you decided?

Im in the process.

I need to know.

You do? She looked at him, calm now. For twenty years, Andrew, you needed my patience, my waiting, my faith in you. Now you need a decision. Always something you need. What about me?

He looked blank.

What do you need? he asked.

Im working that out. For the first time in ages.

That sounds like an answer.

Perhaps.

He hesitated, then asked, Do you still see Lydia?

Yes.

He seemed bemusedsurprised they werent enemies, or puzzled that Helen even knew Lydias name.

So whats it like? He didnt finish.

We talk, Helen said. Two reasonable adults, figuring things out.

About what?

Things beyond your comprehension, Andrew. Go. When I have something to tell you, I will.

He left. This time, the door closed softly, but with finality.

Helen went to put the kettle on in the kitchen. She noticed she was performing the same routine as Lydia had, the first time Helen knocked on her door. The simplicity of putting the kettle on, keeping hands busythat helped.

They met again at Autumn Leaf. This time, not really about Andrewalmost not about him at all.

Ive signed up for a course, Lydia said, appearing changednot happier, just as if shed accepted something and was slowly moving on.

What sort?

Library project management. Im starting a reading group for older women. Book a month, discussions. Wanted to for years, but kept postponing. I always said, once life settles. But it never settles. Just unsettles more.

Good idea, said Helen.

And you? Any decisions?

Ive decided to file for divorce. Not todaysoon, though.

How do you feel about it?

Strangely calm. I thought it would be worse. But here I am, eating apple tart with you, and its all right.

Lydia smiled, genuinely, for the first time.

I dont want to lose you, she said. It sounds odd, I know.

No, it doesnt.

We met because of well, these circumstances.

But honestly, said Helen. More honestly than most meetings in my life.

They paused. Helen glanced outside, people with umbrellas braving the continuing October rain.

Tell me one thing, she said. Honestly.

Ill try.

Do you think about what youve lost? Or what you might find?

A pause, thenThe second. Im scared to admit it, but I do.

Me too.

That kind of truth is rarely said aloud: betrayal had left a void. Not an emptinessa space not yet filled.

Andrew eventually turned up at Lydias, flowers in handcarnations, though shed never liked them, and hed always known.

May I come in? he asked.

No, Lydia replied, simply.

He looked at her.

Lucy

Andrew. I opened this door to you for twenty years, thinking I knew who you were. I was wrong.

Let me explain.

I dont need explanations. Susan does. Call her. Shes waiting.

Can we talk?

No. Not now.

When?

I dont knowmaybe never. I havent decided.

She closed the door. Stood in the hall and waited until her pulse calmed. Then went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank.

A storm rumbled outside, growing in strength. Lydia didnt draw the curtains. She had always loved storms. For the first time in weeks, she simply watched lightning on the sky.

Susan came home two weeks after finding out the truthher visit arranged ahead. She brought a cake, which was both touching and faintly comic.

Mumshe said, the moment she came inIm furious. At Dad. At you. At myself, for not seeing. But above all, I want to understand, not just shout.

Come in, put the cake on the table.

They spent hours in the kitchen. Susan asked questions, Lydia did her best to answer. Some didnt have answerssometimes shed say, I dont know. Or, Then I thought one thing, now another.

And this Helen, Susan said, You really talk to her?

I do.

How can you? After what happened?

Its not her fault, Susan. She didnt know. She was deceived too.

But she lived with him.

And so did I. We both did. He never truly saw either of us, not for real.

Susan considered that.

Its so oddyoure not enemies.

Theres no need. We had one enemy, and hes gone off with carnations.

Susan looked at her mother, something changed in her eyes.

Youre joking.

A bit.

You never used to joke. Not like this.

You know, Lydia said, once theres nothing left to fake, its much easier to just be yourself.

Helen, meanwhile, was talking to a solicitor. Her name was Karen Roberts: a woman with perfect posture and an unwavering, unblinking gaze Helen immediately respected.

Your case is straightforward, Karen said. Only one legal marriage. Assets acquired jointly. Twenty years together. If you want a divorce, its entirely doable.

I want to know what Im losing, Helen said, Not legally. Personally.

Thats beyond my powers, Im afraid. Only you know.

Youre right.

If I mayyoure not the first Ive met with a story like yours. Women always ask: What do I lose? But soon after, they ask something else: Did I ever really have it?

Helen thought. Ive asked myself that. The answer isnt pleasant.

It seldom is. But at least its honest, Karen said. Thats rare.

By November, Helen and Lydia saw each other at Helens flat, not cafés. Lydia came by bus, bringing homemade blackcurrant jam from a neighbour; Helen had baked little pies that morning. There was unexpected warmth to the kitchena kind of easy, lived-in peace, as if they’d known each other thirty years.

Ive filed for divorce, Helen said, pouring the tea.

When?

Last week. Andrew signed with no fuss. I dont think he knows what to do, truthfully.

Has he spoken to you?

Phoned, a couple of times. Said we should hold onto things. I asked, what things? He couldnt say.

He called me too, Lydia replied. Said he loved me. Wanted to explain. I told him to try with Susan.

Did he?

They met. I dont know what was said. Susan doesnt talk about it. But at least they spoke.

Helen slid a pie over.

Have you made any plans for yourself?

For now, its the samelibrary, Susan, books. The reading group starts next month. Eight women want to join. I thought Id be lucky to get three.

How did you pick the name?

Page. Just Page. I like it. Books are made of pageseach one both an ending and a continuation.

I like it, Helen said.

And you?

I think Ill move. Not out of townjust a new flat. This ones too big. Andrew and I bought it together. I want my own space.

Arent you frightened?

No, said Helen. Oddly, not at all. I thought I would be. But Im calm. Calm suits me.

Maybe when youve waited so long, giving up waiting comes as a relief.

Waiting for what?

I dont know. I did the same. Waited for things to get better, for him to change, for us to begin living for real. Then I stopped waitingturns out, life had always been there, all along.

Helen smiled at her.

Youre wise, Lydia.

Im just well-read, Lydia corrected. Small difference.

They smiled, together.

Andrew appeared one last time at the end of November. He called first; Helen let him innot because she had to, but because she thought things should be ended neatly, not left unfinished.

He sat on the sofa, Helen by the window, just as in that very first eveningbut she was someone else now.

Helen, are you sure?

About what?

The divorce. That its right.

Yes. Im sure.

Maybe we could

No, Andrew. Its not fixable. Its not a crack, but a choice. Yours, for twenty years. Now its mine.

Are you angry with me?

Helen thought.

No. It would be easier if I were. Angers simple. I just feel a distance. You seem far away, even sitting here.

He stared at her, as if not following.

Youre still seeing Lydia, he said.

Yes.

Why?

Because I like her. Because she understands what most people dont. Because its honest, far more than pretending she doesnt exist.

You shouldnt find each other interesting. You share nothing in common.

You brought us together, Andrew. Not by intention, but thats how it happened.

He rubbed his nose.

Do you talk about me?

Sometimes. Not always. There are other topicslife, books, work, plans.

What are you both planning?

Our own futures, said Helen. Its a big deal. Dont you think?

He left, looking as lost as ever. She thought shed feel sorry for him. But nothere was no pity. Only a quiet realisation: he hadnt changed. Nor had he really thought to change. Hed lived the way he was able, and the world had bent for him. But it no longer bent.

It isnt really a victory or loss. Its just an ending, with no neat conclusion.

That year, December swept in, unexpectedly white. Helen never liked winter, but the first snow always felt like a fresh startthere was something about it, a blank page.

She called Lydia on the first snowy day.

Have you seen it?

I have. The whole gardens white, now.

I signed for the new flat today. Third floor, window looking into the garden. Buried in snow now, but Im told there are apple trees in spring.

Apple trees are good.

Lyd,Helen used the shorter form for the first timetell me honestly, do you regret I knocked on your door that day?

A long pause.

No. Not regret, though at first, I wished youd just go away.

I know.

And you? Do you regret it?

Helen watched the snow, steady and slow beyond the glass.

No. I dont. I think its the most honest conversation Ive had in years.

Me too, said Lydia.

Silencegood silence, not awkward.

First book group meeting is Friday, Lydia said. Letters from a Stranger Lady. If youd like, you can be our tenth member.

Helen hesitated just a second.

Put me down, she said.

Friday, then, said Lydia.

Friday.

Helen hung up. The kitchen still held the smell of morning borscht. Outside, snow fell smoothly and unhurried. She poured herself a bowl, added a dollop of crème fraîche, sat at the table. Ate and looked through the window. Not thinking of anything in particular. Just eating, just watching.