I remember that New Years Eve as if it were yesterday, though many years have passed since. The anticipation was thick in the air, as it always was in our little flat in Cambridge. I placed the last bowl of saladmy famous prawn cocktailon the lace-covered dining table, making room for the dish of smoked salmon. Everything just so, the table gleaming with crystal glasses and the best silverware, untouched since our last anniversary.
Did you pop the champagne in the freezer? I called over my shoulder to my husband, George, I asked you to put it in the fridge, not the freezer, or itll turn slushy and ruin the taste.
George, sprawled comfortably on the chesterfield before the telly, didn’t look away from his phone. His thumbs danced across the screen, his lips curved in a faint smile that flitted and faded.
Oh, dont fuss, Mary, he replied, barely glancing at me. Itll be fine in twenty minutes. Well have it out and poured before Big Ben chimes, itll warm up a bit on the table.
I sighed, wiping my hands on my apron. There was still the roast duck in need of basting, my hair a shambles, and an hour and a half to midnight. Every New Years was the same: I dashed about preparing, striving for perfection, while George considered himself a guest rather than a partner in celebration.
Your blue shirt, he prompted, eyes still glued to the screen, The one you ironed last weekwheres it gone?
In the wardrobe, second shelf, like always, I responded, then checked on the duck. The aroma of baked apples and cinnamon filled the kitchen, the very scent of comfort.
Could you help lay the table? I asked, setting out napkins and champagne flutes. Just the little things.
Work message, its urgent, just a sec, he muttered, barely listening.
I hesitated. Work? At half eleven, on New Years Eve? George managed logistics, and by now everything was shut for the holidays. Still, I trusted himtwenty-five years of marriage teaches you not to leap at shadows, or so I thought.
I returned to slicing the Cheddar. It would be just the two of us this year. Our children, Henry and Sophie, both grown, were off in the world: Henry skiing with his fiancée in Switzerland, Sophie soaking up the sun in Barbados. Alone at first felt hollow, but I decided there was something romantic about a quiet dinner for two. I even bought a new midnight-blue velvet dress and booked a manicure, splashed out on gifts: for George, a fine wristwatchSwiss, no less. Hed wanted one for ages, but always said it was far too dear.
Found it! came Georges voice from the bedroom. He buttoned up his shirt, the material pulling a little more than last year, but to my eye he still looked handsomefifty-two and distinguished, his hair greying at the temples, the hint of crows feet when he smiled.
Dashing as ever, I told him warmly. Come on, lets see the old year off.
We sat at the festive table. The television blared with jovial music and ancient pop stars, coloured lights twinkled on our little artificial tree. I ladled him some potato salad, poured the elderberry cordial. George placed his phone upside down beside his plate.
To leaving all troubles behind, I toasted, raising my sherry.
Hear, hear, he replied, clinking glasses and drinking quickly before turning back for his phone. Just checking for a reply…
George, put it away, I asked gently. It’s just us tonight. Enjoy the moment.
Oh, Mary, dont start. The kids might send photos or ring.
I relented. They could indeed call at any moment.
Time slipped by. We chatted about the weather, January plansGeorge suggested a trip to the old cottage in Devon, perhaps sledging and a barbecue in the snowy woods. It all sounded idyllic. The duck was perfect, the meat fell away tenderly and the apples simply melted.
Five to midnight, George reached for the champagne.
Well, my dear, shall we open it? Time for Big Ben!
The cork popped and the fizz rose in glass flutes. I felt a childlike thrilltheres something magical about seeing one year out and another in. Id prepared a slip of note to burn and drop into my glassa silly tradition, my wish the same every year: May we all be healthy and happy.
Big Ben appeared on the TV, the chimes resounding.
Happy New Year, sweetheart! George beamed, raising his glass.
And to you, George! I replied, smiling.
At that moment, just as Big Ben began its first chime, his phone buzzed sharply. It lay within reach, screen lighting up bright. George, distracted by his champagne, failed to cover it.
Against my will, my eyes drifted to the messagethe words leapt out in bold:
From Ian Peterson Garage.
HNY, my lion! Cant wait for you to escape your old hag. Bubblys chilling, lingerie is off. Love, your Kitty.
Time seemed to freeze. Big Bens bells rang through cotton wool. The phrase burned itself into my mind: my lion, old hag, your Kittyand from Ian Peterson, the mechanic whose garage George had frequented lately, always some issue with the car.
George saw my face blanch. He snatched the phone away, stuffing it into his pocket.
Come on, Marymake your wish, he stammered, his voice wobbling.
I met his gazeno tears, just utter clarity. Twenty-five years. A quarter century. And old hag.
Ian Peterson? I asked, my voice thin, unfamiliar.
George choked on air.
Its nothingjust the mechanic, a bulk messagejoke between the lads
A mechanic calls you his lion and waits for you in lingerie? I stood suddenly, my chair scraping the oak floor.
His face flooded crimson. He tried to laugh it off but it came out hollow.
Peeking at someones messages, Mary? Thats improper! Youre overreactingits their banter in the garage.
Show me, I held out my hand. Lets see. If its a joke, Ill laugh too.
He shrank back, protecting his pocket. I dont need to show you anything! Everyone deserves some privacy, even at New Year. Why the jealousy?
Music erupted from the TV, fireworks flashed on screen. In our flat, a heavy silence descended.
Old hag… so Im old now, and youve got a Kitty waiting? I murmured.
I never said! George squeaked. Youre blowing this out of proportion. Lets just have the champagne and forget it.
I looked around at the table, the duck, the salads, the crystal. All things Id tended and cherished. Suddenly, it felt like the props of a lousy stage play, and I the fool in the lead role.
I left the room without a word.
Mary? Mary, where are you going? George called, but stayed rooted by the table.
I flicked the bedroom light on, its harsh beam illuminating everythinga marriage bed, coordinated cushions, a neatly folded throw. I opened the wardrobe with a crash.
High up sat a battered suitcase, the one from our last holiday in the Lake District. Even then George had seemed elsewhere, glued to his phone between swims. I yanked it down, unzipped it, and began stuffing his clothes insidejumpers, jeans, shirts, all crammed in with no regard.
What are you doing? George stared, aghast. Are you mad? Its New Years!
Exactly, I shot back, emptying his drawer of socks and underwear into the case, New year, new life. Yourswith your Kitty. Minewithout a liar.
Mary, stop this! It’s just a message, nothings happened! He came forward, grabbing at my arms.
I pushed him away, stronger than I thought I could be.
Don’t touch me! I snapped, and he fell back. Nothing happened? Cant wait for you to escape? Thats why you rushed me with the meal? Why you were fidgeting? Plan was to tick the boxes here and dash to her for the real party, wasnt it?
He was silent, eyes darting. I knew Id hit the mark.
Out, George. Now.
Its midnight! The streets deserted! January first! Youve lost your mindthis is my home as well!
This is my flat, from my parents. Your names only on the register. Thatll change come Monday. But tonightout. To Ian Peterson. Let him warm you up.
I zipped the suitcase, wrestling with the bulging seams.
Mary, let’s talk tomorrow, love. Weve both had a drink
I havent had a drop, I interrupted, And theres nothing left to say. Twenty-five years… I trusted you. You were my world. Now Im just the old hag.’
I dragged the suitcase into the hallway, the wheels rumbling on the laminate. George followed, clutching his head.
Youre tearing this family apart over nothing! Think of the kids! What will Henry say?
Ill tell him myself. And show him your messages, unless you leave now. Hes old enough to know what his exemplary father is really like.
He paled. Henrys good opinion had always mattered most to him.
I flung open the front door. The corridor was cool and smelled faintly of burnt toast and fireworks. Shouts of Happy New Year! echoed from neighbours.
Heres your coat, I said. He pulled it on slowly, hoping for reprievehoping for tears, for a tantrum, for forgiveness.
Mary, please, where can I go? Come on, dont be ridiculous. I strayeda moments madness. Kittys nothing serious. I love you.
That last love was the final insult.
Out! I shoved the suitcase onto the landing, where it thudded into the rail. The shirt cuff dangled, forlorn as a surrender flag.
George exited, coat half-on, in his slippers.
Boots! I hollered, throwing them onto the tiles. And leave your keys!
Youll regret this, Mary! Whos going to want a fifty-year-old nag? I put up with your bland cooking and your dullness for years! Kittys young and lively. Youre a worn record!
Splendid, I replied, surprised at my calm. Now the pretenses were gone; before me stood not a husband but a mean little man. Hope Kitty likes roast duck.
I slammed the door, locking it twice, then securing the chain.
Leaned against it, feeling the chill, I listened. There was cursing, the shuffle of boots, the suitcase trundling away, the lift doors opening and closing. Silence.
I slid to the floor, trembling. My heart thudded at my throat. I sat on the rug, alone in my best velvet dress, staring at the hook where his coat had hung.
No tears. Just shock. Like an accident scene, before the pain hits but the wreckage is clear.
After ten minutes, I stood, straightened my dress, returned to the kitchen.
Nothing had changed. The TV still played a musical, the champagne had lost its fizz, and the duck was cooling, no longer gleaming. I took my glass.
Well, Happy New Year, Mary, I said aloud to the empty flat. Heres to new beginnings.
I knocked back the champagne. It tasted of nothing.
My eyes found the gift Id bought George: a fine box containing that Swiss watch. Id put aside Christmas bonuses for months.
I opened the box. The watch glinted.
No matter, I whispered. Ill give it to Henry. Or Ill sell it and treat myself to a weekend in Bath.
I sat where George had sat. Tasted the potato salad. It was delicious. Id always made good food. The flat had always been spotless. I kept myself well, too. Old hagthe phrase echoed. Yet, with George gone, it started to lose its poison. An old hag would have let it lie, turned away, cried herself to sleep, tried even harder to please.
But I didnt. So I must not be an old hagI was a woman with pride.
My phone chirpeda message from Sophie.
A photo: Sophie and her husband on a sunlit beach, Santa hats, holding coconuts. Caption: Mumsy and Dad! Happy New Year! We love you! Hope youre stuffing yourselves with mums duck! Hugs!
I gazed at my daughters radiant smile. She looked just as I did at twenty-five.
At last, the tears camenot of despair, but of cleansing. For myself, for the wasted years, for trusting too blindly. I sobbed, and shamelessly ate salad straight from the bowlno etiquette tonight.
Then I wiped my cheeks, replied to Sophie: Happy New Year, darlings! Alls well here. Dad stepped out for some air. Love you lots.
No sense spoiling their holiday; Id tell them later. Tonight was my fight, and my victory.
I stood by the windowninth floor, overlooking the snowy streets. Fireworks burst below, lighting the rooftops.
Somewhere among the drifts, George was trudging, suitcase in tow. I wondered how his Kitty would welcome himwith his heap of wrinkled clothes, no money (all the cards were tied to my account except his salary one, always empty), and plenty of baggage.
I laughed. The romance of the garage would burn out sooner than these fireworks.
I returned to the table, grabbed a duck drumstick and devoured it. My appetite was ferocious, a sign my strength was returning.
Suddenly, the doorbell ranga long, determined chime.
My nerves tightened. Could he be back, ready to pound on the door?
I peered through the peep holethank heavens, it was my neighbour, Mrs. Violet, in a flowery gown, clutching a plate of steaming pies.
I opened the door.
Mary, Happy New Year! she chirped, slightly tipsy. Baked cabbage pies here, thought Id share a few. Its eerily quiet in here. Was George off, suitcase and all, at the lift earlier? Gone away for work?
Hes off, Mrs. Violet, I answered calmly. Long work trip. For good.
She blinked, stunned.
On New Years? Oh, love fallen out?
No, I smiled, sincerely, We cleared things up. Come in, Violet. Ive duck cooling and opened champagneI cant finish it alone.
She hesitated, then shrugged.
Ill join you! Mines snoring, drunk as a lord. Lets celebrate together.
We stayed up till three, sharing pies, duck, and drinks. I didnt confess the details of Kitty and old hag, just that Id discovered an affair. Violet, wise in lifes ways, didn’t pry. You did right, dear. Chuck em out if theyve no shame. Youre a fine womanplenty of men would queue for you.
For the first time in ages, I looked at the future with curiosity, not dread.
Morning camenot to snores, but to a shaft of sunlight. The flat, quiet and clean, felt full rather than empty.
I gathered up Georges scattered possessionsthe razor, slippers, phone charger, a few booksand packed them ready for disposal.
I brewed myself real coffee, not Georges quick granules, and sat by the window.
The phone chirped againa message from George.
Mary, sobered up yet? Staying at a mates. All a misunderstanding. Lets talk. I forgive you for last night.
I laughednot softly, but heartily. He forgives me. The cheek!
I blocked his number. Cancelled his spare bank card. Finished my coffee and eyed my reflection: swollen eyes but fresh skin, a healthy glow.
Well then, hello new life, I greeted myself. I think well get on.
I turned on some lively music and began tidying up. The year stretched before me, mine alone at last.
