The snow was gently flurrying to the ground as I stood on my tiptoes, staring out of the kitchen window onto the road where I had lived for the last twenty-three years. It was starting to look a lot like Christmas; the weather in the past couple of weeks had been rather on the chilly side – a bitter minus two degrees to be precise. I was no weather person, but looking at the bleak grey sky above, it seemed certain that the snow would continue to fall for the next few hours. The morning news, which I’d watched at breakfast, had been predictable – images of motorways at a complete standstill, cars stranded, trains delayed and gritters out in full force.
I watched the hive of activity outside. A removal van was parked up on the snowy verge. There were a number of burly men hauling cardboard boxes from the rear of the van and traipsing up and down a garden path. Snowflakes swirled all around them. They stamped their snowy boots on the makeshift cardboard mat and manoeuvred their way through the neighbouring door. Sarah and Lloyd Baldwin, our former neighbours, had emigrated three weeks ago to the warmer climates of Australia. They had been our neighbours for over twenty years, and I’d been quite taken aback when they suddenly dropped the bombshell they were leaving. Their two boys were all grown up and had long since flown the nest. From as far back as I could remember, Sarah had always talked about moving to Australia. Her sister had emigrated there years ago and I knew she missed her dreadfully. This was their time now, and I couldn’t blame them for wanting to feel the warm sun on their skin, day in and day out. They were truly the best neighbours anyone could ever wish for and they would be sadly missed.
They hadn’t sold their house; they’d opted for the safe option and decided to rent it out just on the off-chance that they didn’t like their new life in Oz – though according to their latest email they’d already settled well. I had never travelled abroad. I had suggested to Henry that we take a holiday somewhere hot on many occasions, but he just didn’t see the point in paying inflated prices for food and beer when you could purchase a ‘good old’ plate of egg and chips at a reasonable rate and enjoy the amusement arcades on the promenade of Blackpool.
Having new neighbours was the most exciting thing that had happened in this street for as long as I could remember. Henry and I had never moved house – this had always been our marital home.
We’d met during our last term at college. I’d admired him from a distance for nearly two whole years before he turned to me in the canteen queue one day and said hello. Everyone classed Henry as one of the cool students. Heads turned when he walked down the corridor. Girls acted all giggly around him, and he oozed charisma. His hair was immaculately groomed, his skin clear and his dress sense screamed rock star. He had the most handsome smile too. Henry was captain of the college football team and every Friday lunchtime, come rain or shine, there would be hordes of girls gathering on the side-lines watching him practise. I never in a million years thought he would ever look twice at me.
By the time our college days were over, Henry was a qualified electrician and I was a qualified dressmaker. That very summer my aspirations were put on hold when I fell pregnant with our first child. Abbie was born twenty-three years ago, and Freya followed her eighteen months later. We were married at Christmas when I was four months pregnant with Abbie. It wasn’t a huge wedding, very low-key, but absolutely perfect – the best day of my life.
Henry and the girls were my whole life. I was extremely proud of them all. The girls were currently away at university. Abbie was studying art and textiles while Freya was learning photography. Henry said they must take after me with their creative flair. These days they were only home during the holidays, and even then, were often out with their friends or catching up on sleep. I did miss them. The house was quiet without them both.
It was a modest detached house. My parents had loaned us money for the deposit. At the time, my dad had recently retired from the police force and had cashed in numerous bonds. Their generosity helped us tremendously, and Henry worked every hour God sent to pay them back.
We were situated right at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. Our bottle-green front door opened straight onto the oak-floored hallway, the stairs were straight in front, and a door to the right led onto the living room, while one to the left led directly to the kitchen. The living room was my favourite place in the house, especially at Christmas time. It came alive with the twinkling lights, red bows and pine cones draped across the mantelpiece – an old reclaimed railway sleeper – and the constant crackle of the wood burner kept me warm during the cold winter months. The furniture was minimal: a sofa, a coffee table and a bookcase, and Henry’s comfy, battered old armchair in the corner. This was just the way I liked it.
We had a small separate dining room that seated six people comfortably, and eight at a push, but we only tended to use it on special occasions; the rest of the time I used it as my sewing room. My mum’s antique sewing machine sat proudly on the dining-room table. It had been passed down to her from my Granny Mary, who was also a seamstress. When I was a child I wanted to be just like my mum and my granny. I couldn’t wait to follow in their footsteps and train to be a dressmaker. I was always mesmerised by how effortlessly my mum ran the material through the sewing machine and transformed it into such beautiful garments. Each week she would sit with me for hours teaching me numerous stitches that I’d practise on scraps of material from her sewing box. Those were fond memories I’d never forget.
Upstairs we had three bedrooms, one main bathroom and one en-suite, and that suited us. For the most part, I loved our home.
I smiled to myself, remembering the day we moved in. It was just like today, snowing and freezing outside. Henry had insisted he’d carry me over the threshold. I don’t know how he managed it with my baby bump, but he swept me off my feet and we’d both giggled as he’d swayed from side to side, trying to keep his balance. Once my feet were firmly back on the ground we’d both stood in the hallway beaming from ear to ear, not quite believing the house was ours.
Everything came together that Christmas. I was bursting not only with a baby but delight. My sewing skills were a blessing in disguise, and for the rest of my pregnancy I set to work making all the soft furnishings for our new home. Those times were the best, and Henry and I had so much fun decorating the house together. By the time I went into labour our home was just perfect.
I sighed, my breath fogging up the glass as I recognised Henry’s van snaking slowly along the freshly fallen snow towards the house. In front of his bright headlamps the snowflakes danced fast and furious. I smiled at the house on the corner. Every year the Pillingers went over the top with their Christmas decorations. Currently their six-foot inflatable Santa and life-size reindeer were both battling the blizzard outside. Their living-room curtains were open, revealing the largest tree I had ever seen. I wasn’t sure how they’d even transported the tree to the house, never mind how they’d manoeuvred the huge branches through the front door. However, there was no denying it looked truly stunning swathed in its glittery baubles and sparkling fairy lights.
Quickly I moved away from the window and glanced up at the clock. Sure enough it was half past five. I heard the crunch of tyres as Henry’s van manoeuvred its way through the fresh snow, the van door slamming and then the clunk of the key turning in the lock of the front door, the thud of Henry’s rucksack as it was tossed onto the wooden floor.
I turned around and looked at my reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall in the kitchen. Right on cue, as it was every day, I mouthed Henry’s first words to me: ‘Is tea ready yet?’ I sighed again. I could bet my life he would immediately slump down in his battered armchair, and the TV would be switched on to his favourite programme – darts. I tutted and shook my head as the commentary from the telly rung out: ‘One hundred and eighty.’
For the past year, every evening had had more or less the same routine. Last Christmas I had sworn to myself that things would change, and yet here we were again, at the beginning of the festive season, and everything was exactly the same as it had been last year.
I shouted to Henry his tea would be a matter of minutes. There was no response – there never was. Opening the door to the pantry I smiled. There, hidden away amongst the pots and the pans and my secret stash of mince pies, was my ever-faithful Gary Barlow calendar. We had enjoyed numerous chats over the year – granted it was all one-sided, but it was comforting to know what went on in the pantry stayed in the pantry. Quickly I struck off another date from the calendar; it was only another week or so until the girls were home for Christmas.
Having these conversations with Gary only confirmed what I already knew – I was a middle-aged woman in a crisis. Unlike Henry, I would bet my house that Gary didn’t slouch in the chair watching darts while fiddling with his body parts underneath elasticated jogging pants that had most definitely seen better days. I’m sure Gary’s attire would at least be designer. Whilst Gary was an international superstar, jet-setting here, there and everywhere, my only weekly outing was escaping to bingo with my best friend Ann Sandeman. Casting my mind back, I couldn’t even remember the last time Henry and I had enjoyed an evening together or had shared any physical contact – unless you counted the unfortunate incident a couple of Christmases ago. I’d spent an enjoyable day Christmas shopping with Ann, and after a rather extravagant pink-champagne lunch in Selfridges, the alcohol must have addled my brain, because it was at that very moment I’d talked myself into investing in some new sexy lingerie – in fact it was bright red satin and I had been convinced I would give Mrs Sexy Santa Claus a run for her money. As I’d swung my carrier bag, delighted with my purchase, I’d squirted myself with a new perfume that Ann and I had discovered in the bargain basement of the pharmacy, and I’d truly believed that I would secure my husband’s attention once again. It had been a while.
When I’d arrived back home, I’d been filled with trepidation mixed with excitement. I’d never done anything like this before. In the past it was rare I’d ever have to fight for Henry’s attention. He’d always been the one who would instigate sex.
I’d eagerly dressed in the eye-catching underwear, and after grabbing the remote control from the arm of his battered old armchair, I’d muted the telly. Bending down on my knees in front of him I’d run my hands up and down his thighs. Henry had groaned.
I’d leant forward for a kiss – and absolutely nothing. He’d moved his head and gazed at the telly. I can still remember his words like it was yesterday: ‘You go upstairs, love, and make yourself comfy. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Phil Taylor only needs to throw a treble twenty to win the championship.’ He’d kissed my head lightly before I’d stood up and climbed the stairs towards the bedroom.
I’d waited.
And waited.
Eventually, after twenty minutes I’d wrapped my dressing gown around my body and trudged back down the stairs only to find Henry had fallen fast asleep in the chair clutching his beer can.
This had been rejection at its best. Was he serious? Did he really prefer watching an overweight middle-aged man throw an arrow at a board than taking his wife to bed? The days of floating on cloud nine had seemed well and truly over. After the humiliation of that incident, Henry and I drifted further apart.
The summer I’d become a qualified dressmaker I’d fallen pregnant with Abbie. Since then I’d always been a stay-at-home mum. At first I enjoyed the routine – I’d lounge around in my scruffs and never had to worry about looking respectable. My friends were envious of my situation; while they juggled childcare arrangements and struggled with the daily household chores, I appeared to have it all under control. As Abbie and Freya grew up and tootled off to school, I was the first to admit loneliness had started to creep in. This was when I decided it was time to put my skills into action and set up shop on the dining-room table. I began to make soft furnishings, and although my customers were mainly the mums from school, before I knew it, I was making a little bit of extra cash doing what I loved best.
Hearing the buzzing of the oven timer I grabbed the oven gloves from the drawer and pulled down on the door to discover the cottage pie bubbling away perfectly. Every Monday was cottage-pie Monday, just like every Wednesday was egg-and-chip Wednesday. Henry liked his routine. Once upon a time, Henry would insist that he cooked for me on a Friday night to give me a rest, or we’d treat ourselves to a takeaway with a bottle of red from the local Co-op. However, over the years this treat had dwindled away, and it was now left to me to prepare every meal. I suppose in one way I was fed up with cooking the same old, same old every day of the week, but in another, I never had to think about preparing anything new.
Switching off the timer I transferred the pie to the top of the hob and dished it up onto the plates. There was always enough to feed a small army – even though the girls were no longer at home I would always cook for everyone, a habit I didn’t seem to be able to break.
‘Tea is served, Henry,’ I shouted across the hallway, my voice competing with the dart commentary. I just didn’t understand the fascination of watching a grown man throw an arrow at a board, and what was the point in always watching reruns of the game? Surely, then, it was no surprise to Henry who the winner was.
The sudden silence told me Henry had paused the telly. Heaven forbid he missed a moment while he collected his tea from the kitchen. A few seconds later he appeared at the kitchen door, and without making any eye contact or muttering a word, he placed his food on a tray alongside his knife and fork and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
I sat down at the table alone. I swallowed down my disappointment and shook my head. I didn’t know why I was expecting tonight to be any different. Henry hadn’t managed to remember our wedding anniversary for as long as I could recall.
Walking over to the fridge I retrieved the chilled bottle of fizz that was sitting in the door. Usually I liked a glass of wine when preparing the evening meal, but tonight I was hoping to share one with Henry. Popping the cork, I poured myself a very large glass and muttered ‘cheers’ to myself. I took a huge gulp and then refilled the glass to the brim. Remembering the card I had written to Henry earlier that day, I took the red envelope out of my handbag and ripped it open with some force. My words in the card seemed to mock me: ‘To my darling husband Henry.’ I had no idea why I had even written that; maybe it was habit. ‘I love you more each day. All my love, Lizzie xx.’ I had no idea why I’d written that either.
Striding over to the bin, I pressed my foot down on the pedal and tossed the card amongst the potato and carrot peelings. There didn’t seem anything ‘darling’ about Henry any more.
Sitting back down at the table, I pushed the cottage pie around my plate with the fork. My appetite seemed to have diminished in seconds, and within a matter of minutes I heard the telly being paused again. Henry appeared for a second time, his plate spotless, and in his usual routine abandoned his tray by the kitchen sink, ready and waiting for me to clear it away. However, on his way back towards the door, he paused in front of the table and turned to face me.
‘Lizzie,’ he said, scratching his head then pulling his elasticated jogging pants up around his belly. I looked up and met his gaze. My heart was thumping; I couldn’t quite believe it. Had he actually remembered what day it was? Had he remembered it was our anniversary? I waited in anticipation to hear the rest of the words he was about to speak.
‘Isn’t it too early to be drinking wine like it’s going out of fashion? Anyone would think you had a drinking problem,’ he said testily before turning round and walking out of the kitchen, back towards his beloved darts.
My jaw dropped to the floor. Fuming, I grasped the bottle and, once again, filled my glass to the brim.
‘No bloody wonder living with you,’ I muttered angrily, struggling to control my voice. He was lucky I wasn’t guzzling gin straight from the bottle – being married to Henry would drive anyone to drink.
This was a far cry from our very first ‘paper’ anniversary. Henry had woken me up by kissing me softly on the lips. At the side of the bed had lain a tray of warm croissants with strawberry jam and a glass of champagne. Abbie had been fast asleep in her cot in the nursery next door, which allowed Henry and I an hour of uninterrupted lovemaking. It had been perfect. When Abbie had finally murmured, Henry had taken care of all her needs. He had given her a bottle then washed and changed her, leaving me to grab a shower. To my amazement I’d followed a scattered paper trail all the way to the bathroom. Each piece of paper had been cut into a heart shape and Henry had written on each of them a reason why he loved me. My heart had soared with love for him.
Scooping up the cottage pie with my fork, I heard the doorbell ring. I sat quietly back on my chair and listened for any sort of movement from the living room, but alas there was nothing. The bell rang again. Slamming my knife and fork down onto the table I stood up and stomped towards the front door.
‘I’ll get the door then, shall I? Don’t you trouble yourself. You just sit there and watch the damn darts,’ I shouted angrily towards the open living-room door. Henry didn’t even retaliate; he never moved a muscle, and it seemed he was completely oblivious to my outburst. He just carried on watching the telly.
I forced a smile on my face before yanking open the front door. I shivered at the cold blast of air and could see that the snow was falling thicker and faster than ever before.
‘Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ spoke a soft Scottish accent.
I gawped and it took a minute before I could answer. There was something about a Scottish accent I quite liked. I blinked and looked at the pair of hazel eyes that were staring back at me. Taken by surprise, I lost myself for a moment. This was a welcome change. Standing on my doorstep was man, a stranger, and there was no denying he was a handsome one. His features were soft, and his smile was warm and friendly. My pulse quickened and I felt myself blush. He stretched out his hand towards me. Remembering my manners, I wiped my hand on my apron and shook his hand. His grip was firm.
‘No, you aren’t disturbing me, no, not at all,’ I lied, remembering my cottage pie, which would be rapidly going cold.
‘I’m Marcus, Marcus Bowman. I’ve just moved in next door.’ He nodded towards the Baldwins’ house.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Lizzie, Lizzie Stevens. That makes you our new neighbour then.’
‘I didn’t pick the best day to move in, did I?’ he said, looking up at the sky and then wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to keep warm.
‘That snow is coming down thick and fast now. It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon.’
Marcus nodded.
I was beginning to feel chilly, standing on the step; the cold was already biting at my fingers. ‘Where are my manners? Please come in.’
Before Marcus had a chance to answer, Henry’s voice boomed from the living room. ‘If they’re selling something, we don’t need it and shut that door – you’re letting all the warm air escape.’
My husband had a long, long way to go before he won any awards for his manners. My heart sank and I flushed with embarrassment, hoping Marcus hadn’t heard Henry. I closed the living-room door firmly.
‘I’d better not.’ Marcus had clearly heard what Henry had said.
‘I’m sorry about him,’ I hissed.
‘It’s OK, it’s my fault. I’ve disturbed you both. I won’t keep you, but could you possibly direct me to the nearest chip shop? Unfortunately, I’m disorganised and haven’t had time to get to the supermarket.’
‘I’d be more than happy to, except there’s a slight problem with that – it’s shut on a Monday.’
Marcus sighed. ‘Bad timing on my part, even though it’s cheaper to move on a Monday. What about a local shop? It looks like beans on toast will be the chef’s special tonight.’
I smiled. ‘Beans on toast won’t satisfy your hunger – you need a good wholesome meal inside you to keep your strength up unpacking those boxes. Wait there.’ I hurried into the kitchen.
I threw some cling film over the leftover cottage pie still sitting on the hob and headed straight back to him. By now his cheeks were rosy with the cold night air and the tip of his nose was turning red.
‘Here, take this. It may just need heating up for a few minutes. I’ve made way too much as usual. Is it just for you?’ I smiled, thrusting the dish towards him.
The grateful beam on Marcus’s face said it all. ‘Yes, it’s just me. Are you sure?’ he asked before taking the dish from my hand.
‘Certainly. It’ll go to waste if you don’t have it. Just pop the dish back when you’re settled in.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘No need.’
He touched my arm affectionately before turning round and walking back down the path towards his new home. A warm flush surged through my body, a feeling I didn’t instantly recognise. I was hoping this wasn’t the beginning of signs of the menopause. Perhaps I just wasn’t used to human touch – it had been so long since Henry and I had so much as held hands, and the girls were hardly at home. Closing the front door behind him, I knew there was a huge smile plastered all over my face. I didn’t know why I was smiling, but somehow I just had a warm fuzzy feeling about Marcus Bowman, whoever he was.
The early morning alarm began to buzz. I opened my eyes and automatically reached over to the clock radio. Grappling for the button, I switched it off and glanced over at Henry who was lying beside me, snoring and as per usual hadn’t moved a muscle. Sometimes it felt like I had three children. Every morning I shook Henry in an attempt to wake him for his 6 a.m. start. He had recently secured a rather lucrative electrical contract for a retail park they were erecting on the edge of town.
Scrambling out of bed, I slipped my arms into my dressing gown then pulled it tightly around my body. This morning the air felt chillier than normal. Padding softly down the stairs, I walked into the kitchen and flicked on the light, then the kettle. While waiting for the water to boil I prepared Henry’s sandwiches, ham on white bread, and left them on the worktop next to his van keys. Five minutes later I climbed back up the stairs with two mugs of tea in my hand. Henry had already stirred – the duvet was thrown back and his side of the bed lay empty. Hearing the sound of running water swirling around the sink I threw a withering look towards the bathroom door while placing a mug of tea on his bedside table. I was tired – tired of the early mornings, tired of the same routine. I took a sip of my hot tea then placed it on my bedside table. I sighed and bent down, hooking a pair of Henry’s dirty underpants from the floor with my forefinger and tossing them into the laundry basket. I could never quite understand why he had to leave them on the floor when the laundry basket was a stone’s throw away. But I was past arguing about it now; I didn’t have the strength any more.
Before clambering back into the warmth of the bed, I moved the curtain to one side and peeked out at the grey early-morning sky. The snow had finally stopped falling. It was barely light except for the street light at the end of the cul-de-sac.
The houses looked picturesque with their undisturbed snowy roofs. The snow lay untouched on the pavements, cars and road gleamed and the branches of the trees that adorned the pavements were bowed under the heavy snow that balanced on them. Everywhere glistened with an air of magic. I breathed in the crisp early-morning air from the small open window. Outside was deserted and everything was still – there wasn’t a sound to be heard. All the houses were in darkness, their curtains drawn, and no doubt everyone was still tucked up in bed at this ungodly hour.
I stared across at Marcus’s house. I wondered how he’d slept last night. It must be strange to go to bed in a new home for the very first time. Unexpectedly, I saw a light shine onto Marcus’s step, and wiping the condensation off the windowpane with the sleeve of my dressing gown, I squinted to see him coming out of his front door. He plodded across the snowy path towards his car. He was bundled up in a thick black duffel coat and a woolly scarf that covered the lower half of his face. His bobble hat was firmly pulled down over his head, leaving only a small slit for his eyes.
He flicked the snow from the car door before climbing inside and starting the engine. Immediately a puff of smoke spluttered out of the exhaust pipe. I wondered where he was going at this ridiculously early hour. A couple of seconds later he was standing back on the path scraping the snow off the windscreen and crunching through the crisp layer on the ground around the car. Without any warning Marcus looked up towards my bedroom window and I gasped. Damn – he’d spotted me watching him. For a split second our eyes locked and he held my gaze. He turned away and began to write something in the snow on the rear window of the car. I narrowed my eyes watching him. When he’d finished he stepped to one side then glanced back up towards me. I squinted to see the words. It read, ‘Hi,’ followed by a smiley face. I chuckled quietly and immediately felt my cheeks flush.He bent down and scooped up some snow, and then rolled it into a ball. Looking back towards me with a wicked grin on his face he pretended to throw the ball at my window. I giggled then watched him walk back towards the driver’s door. He waved at me before climbing inside the car. Switching the headlamps on, he reversed slowly out of the drive and manoeuvred carefully along the icy road before he disappeared out of sight. I felt my heart leap, a feeling I had almost forgotten.
A familiar voice behind me made me jump out of my skin. Lost in the moment, I’d forgotten Henry was in the bathroom.
‘What are you doing?’
I twirled round to find him standing semi-naked by the side of the bed, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.
Moving away from the curtain, I took a quick sip of my drink.
‘I was checking to see if the snow had stopped falling,’ I answered before slipping off my dressing gown and clambering back underneath the warmth of my duvet.
Henry sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on his socks before taking a slurp of his tea. He climbed into his clean overalls – which I’d left hanging on the hook on the back of the door – and in his usual routine, wandered around to my side of the bed and kissed me lightly on the top of my head. ‘Have a good day,’ he said. I nodded like I usually did. I remembered the times when he used to kiss me properly on the lips and say, ‘I love you’ every morning before disappearing off to work. Somewhere along the line things changed. Somewhere along the line things had become habit wrapped up in a mundane routine.
Finally the bedroom door closed behind him.
I sat up in the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest, clamping my hands around my warm mug of tea. I closed my eyes momentarily and wondered where Marcus was going so early in the morning. He’d made me smile with his silly antics in the snow. Henry had made me smile like that once.
Feeling a tight ball of emotion in my throat, I quickly wiped away a lonely tear. I did love Henry, but was this it? Was this all I had to. . .
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